THE

UNION:

OR,

SELECT
SCOTS and ENGLISH

POEMS.

THE SECOND EDITION.

----Dubiam facientia carmina palmam. Juv.

LONDON:

Printed for R. Baldwin, in Paternoster-Row.

M.DCC.LIX.

PREFACE.

As the mind of man is ever fond of variety, nothing seems better calculated to entertain, than a judicious collection of the smaller, though not on that account less laboured, productions of eminent poets: an entertainment, not unlike that which we receive from surveying a finished landschape, or well disposed piece of shell-work: where each particular object, tho' singly beautiful, and sufficiently striking by itself, receives an additional charm, thus, as Milton expresses it, sweetly interchanged.

The first miscellaneous collection of poems, that ever appeared in Great-Britain with any reputation, is that published by Dryden: which was afterwards continued by Tonson. There are many pieces of the highest merit in this collection, by Dryden, Denham, Creech, Drayton, Garth, Marvell, and many others; yet the compilers, it is evident, were not always sufficiently scrupulous and cautious in their choice, as several pieces are admitted, among the rest, which would otherwise utterly have perished, and which had no other recommendation, than that they served to swell the volume. Since this, many miscellanies have been published both in Scotland and England: to enumerate which would be no less tedious than useless. It will be sufficient to remark, that through want of care or judgment in their respective editors, they are all forgotten or neglected. From these the miscellany known by the name of Mr. Pope perhaps ought to be excepted; tho' that, indeed, cannot properly be styled a collection of poems by different hands, which is such a one as we are speaking of at present, the greater part consisting of pieces by Mr. Pope only. The best miscellany at this day extant in our language, and the first complete one of the kind which we have seen, is that lately published by R. Dodsley, which boasts the greatest names of the present age among its contributors.

As to the poetical collection here exhibited to the public, we apprehend it challenges no small degree of regard, as it was made under the immediate inspection and conduct of several very ingenious gentlemen, whose names it would do us the highest honour to mention; and as it contains a variety not to be found even in the admirable collection last spoken of; I mean the Intermixture of poems both Scotch and English. Nor is this variety less agreeable than useful; as from it we have an opportunity of forming a comparison and estimate of the taste and genius of the two different nations, in their poetical compositions.

It will be necessary to take notice, that our chief care has been to furnish out the following miscellany with those pieces, regard being first had to real merit, which have laid unknown and unobserved from their manner of publication; several of them having been printed by themselves, and so perished as it were for want of bulk, and others lost amid the rubbish of collections injudiciously made, and perhaps not easily to be met with. Nor will it be improper to mention, that in order to render our volume still more compleat, we have had the favour of some original poems, written by a late member of the university of Aberdeen, whose modesty would not permit us to prefix his name: one of which in this edition is printed with many improvements, from a corrected copy. And from these ingenious essays, the public may be enabled to form some judgment beforehand of a poem of a nobler and more important nature, which he is now preparing. Nor must we forget to return our public thanks to this gentleman, for the service he has been to us, not only in making this collection more excellent by his own contributions, but in selecting such pieces of others as were suitable to our design.

It is hoped that the ancient Scottish poems (amongst which the thistle and the rose, and hardyknute are more particularly distinguished) will make no disagreeable figure amongst those of modern date; and that they will produce the same effect here, as Mr. Pope observes a moderate use of old words may have in a poem; which, adds he, is like working old abbey-stones into a modern building, and which I have sometimes seen practised with good success.

Upon the whole, as we have been favoured with the best assistance in compiling this volume, no further apology is necessary; and as the approbation of the public has been already secured to these poems separately, we hope they have no less reason to claim it, when thus published together.

CONTENTS.

A POEM IN HONOUR OF
MARGARET

DAUGHTER TO

HENRY VII. OF ENGLAND,

QUEEN TO

JAMES IV. KING OF SCOTS.

BY WILLIAM DUNBAR.

The Thistle and the Rose,
O'er flowers and herbage green,
By Lady Nature chose,
Brave King and lovely Queen.

I.

When March with varying winds was overpast,
And sweet April had with his silver showers
Ta'n leave of Nature with an orient blast,
And lusty May, that mother is of flowers,
Had made the birds begin by tymous hours;
Among the tender odours red and white,
Whose harmony to her was great delight.

II.

In bed at morrow, sleeping as I lay,
Methought Aurora with her ruby ene,
In at my window looked by the day,
And halsit me with visage pale and green;
Upon her hand a lark sang frae the spleen,
"Lovers, awake out of your slumbering.
"See how the lusty morning does upspring."

III.

Methought fresh May before my bed upstood,
In weed depainted of ilk diverse hue,
Sober, benign, and full of mansuetude,
In bright attire of flowers, all forged new,
Of heavenly colour, white, red, brown and blue,
Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus' beams,
While all the house illumin'd with her leams.

IV.

Sluggard, she said, awake anon for shame,
And in mine honour something thou go write;
The lark has done, the merry day proclaim,
Lovers to raise with comfort and delight;
Will nought increase thy courage to indite,
Whose heart sometime has glad and blissful been,
Songs oft to make, under the branches green?

V.

Whereto, quoth I, shall I uprise at morrow,
For in thy month few birds have I heard sing,
They have mare cause to weep and plain their sorrow:
Thy air it is not wholsome nor benign,
Lord Eolus does in thy season ring,
So bousteous are the blasts of his shrill horn,
Among thy boughs to walk I have forborn.

VI.

With that the lady soberly did smile,
And said, uprise and do thy observance:
Thou did promise in May's lusty while,
Then to describe the ROSE of most pleasance
Go see the birdis how they sing and dance,
And how the skies illumined are bright,
Enamell'd richly with new azure light.

VII.

When this was said, away then went the Queen,
And enter'd in a lusty garden gent;
And then methought, full hastily beseen,
In sark and mantle after her I went
Into this garth most dulce and redolent,
Of herb and flower, and tender plants most sweet,
And the green leaves doing of dew down fleit.

VIII.

The purple sun, with tender rayis red,
In orient bright as angel did appear,
Through golden skies advancing up his head,
Whose gilded tresses shone so wondrous clear,
That all the world took comfort far and near,
To look upon his fresh and blissful face,
Doing all sable frae the Heavens chace.

IX.

And as the blissful sun drove up the sky,
All nature sang through comfort of the light,
The minstrels wing'd, with open voices cry,
"O Lovers now is fled the dully night,
"Come welcome day, that comforts ev'ry wight;
"Hail May! hail Flora! hail Aurora sheen,
"Hail Princess Nature! hail love's hartsome Queen!

X.

Dame Nature gave an inhibition there,
To Neptune fierce, and Eolus the bold,
Not to perturb the water or the air,
That neither blashy shower, nor blasts more cold
Should flowers affray nor fowls upon the fold.
She bade eke Juno, Goddess of the sky,
That she the heaven should keep amene and dry.

XI.

Also ordain'd that every bird and beast
Before her Highness should anon compear;
And every flower of virtue most and least,
And every herb of fair field far and near,
As they had wont in May from year to year;
To her their Queen to make obedience,
Full low inclining with due reverence.

XII.

With that anon she sent the swift foot Roe,
To bring in alkind beast from dale and down;
The restless swallow order'd she to go,
And fetch all fowl of great and small renown,
And to gar flowers appear of all fassoun:
Full craftily conjured she the Yarrow,
Which did forth swirk as swift as any arrow.

XIII.

All brought in were in twinkling of an eye,
Both beast and bird and flower before the Queen;
And first the Lion, greatest of degree,
Was summon'd there; and he, fair to be seen,
With a full hardy countenance and keen,
Before Dame Nature came, and did incline,
With visage bold, and courage leonine.

XIV.

This awful beast was terrible of chear,
Piercing of look, and stout of countenance,
Right strong of corps, of fashion fair, but fear,
Lusty of shape, light of deliverance,
Red of his colour, as the ruby glance:
In field of gold he stood full rampantly,
With flower-de-lyces circled pleasantly.

XV.

This Lady lifted up his claws so clear,
And lute him listly lean upon her knee,
And crowned him with diadem full dear,
Of radious stones most royal there to see,
Saying the King of all beasts make I thee;
And the protector chief in woods and shaws,
Go forth, and to thy lieges keep the laws.

XVI.

Justice exerce, with mercy and conscience,
And let no small beast suffer skaith or scorns
Of greater beasts, that been of more puissance;
Do law alike to Apes and Unicorns,
And let no Bugle with his bousteous horns
Oppress the meek plough Ox, for all his pride,
But in the yoke go quietly him beside.

XVII.

When this was said, with noise and sound of joy,
All kind of Quadrupeds in their degree,
At once cry'd laud, and then vive le roy,
Then at his feet fell with humility;
To him they all paid homage and fealty;
And he did them receive with princely laits,
Whose noble ire his greatness mitigates.

XVIII.

Then crowned she the Eagle King of fowls;
And sharp as darts of steel she made his pens,
And bade him be as just to Whawps and Owls,
As unto Peacocks, Papingoes, or Cranes,
And make one law for Wicht Fowls, and for Wrens,
And let no fowl of rapine do affray,
Nor birds devour, but his own proper prey.

XIX.

Then called she all flowers grew in the field,
Describing all their fashions and effeirs,
Upon the awful THISTLE she beheld.
And saw him guarded with a bush of spears,
Considering him so able for the wars,
A radiant crown of rubies she him gave,
And said, in field go forth, and fend the laif.

XX.

And since thou art a King, be thou discreet,
Herb without value hold not of such price,
As herb of virtue and of odour sweet;
And let no nettle vile, and full of vice,
Her fellow with the goodly Flower-de-lyce;
Nor let no wild weed full of churlishness,
Compare her to the Lilly's nobleness.

XXI.

Nor hold none other flower in such dainty
As the fresh ROSE, of colour red and white;
For if thou dost, hurt is thine honesty,
Considering that no flower is so perfyte,
So full of pleasaunce, virtue and delight;
So full of blissful angelic beauty,
Imperial birth, honour and dignity.

XXII.

Then to the ROSE she did her visage turn,
And said, O lusty daughter most benign,
Above the Lilly thou art illustrious born,
From royal lineage rising fresh and young,
But any spot, or macul doing sprung;
Come bloom of joy, with richest gems becrown'd,
For o'er the laif thy beauty is renown'd.

XXIII.

A costly crown with stones clarified bright,
This comely Queen did in her head inclose,
While all the land illumined of light;
Wherefore methought, the flowers did all rejoyce,
Crying at once, Hail to the fragrant ROSE!
Hail Empress of the herbs! fresh Queen of flowers!
To thee be glore and honour at all hours.

XXIV.

Then all the birds they sang with voice on height,
Whose mirthful sound was marvellous to hear:
The Mavys sang, Hail ROSE most rich and right,
That does upflourish under Phebus' sphere,
Hail plant of youth, hail Prince's daughter dear,
Hail blossom breaking out of blood royal,
Whose precious virtue is imperial.

XXV.

The Merle she sang, Hail ROSE of most delight,
Hail of all flowers the sweet and sovereign Queen:
The lark she sang, hail ROSE both red and white,
Most pleasant flower of mighty colours[1] twain:
Nightingals sang, hail Natures suffragan,
In beauty, nurture, and each nobleness,
In rich array, renown, and gentleness.

XXVI.

The common voice uprose of warblers small,
Upon this wise, "O blessed be the hour
"That thou wast chose to be our principal,
"Welcome to be our Princess crown'd with pow'r,
"Our pearl, our pleasance, and our paramour,
"Our peace, our play, our plain felicity:
"Christ thee conserve from all adversity."

XXVII.

Then all the concert sang with such a shout,
That I anon awaken'd where I lay,
And with a braid I turned me about
To see this court, but all were gone away;
Then up I lean'd me, halflings in affray,
Call'd to my Muse, and for my subject chose
To sing the royal THISTLE and the ROSE.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Alluding to the Houses of york and lancaster, which were distinguished by the white and red rose, and united in the person of Queen margaret.

VERSES ON THE DEATH

OF QUEEN

CAROLINE.

BY MR. SHIPLEY.

Oblivion wraps not in her silent shade
All human labours. Virtue blooms a flower,
That Time's rough hand shall never violate.
Still CAROLINE shall live in faithful verse,
Sweet nurse of Memory, and in the voice
Of grateful Britain. These shall testify
How well her calm impartial rule supplied
A monarch's absence; these commemorate
Her soul contemplative of peaceful Truth
And nature, mindful midst the pomp of Courts
Of wise retirement, and the silent grove.
She stretch'd thro' length'ning shades thy spacious walks,
Delightful Richmond, and the terrass rais'd
Of regal grandeur, whence the eye discerns
Fair Thames with copious waters winding slow
Midst pastures, spreading herds, and villages
Of aspect neat, and villas wrapt in shades:
Fair scene of chearful peace! the lovely sight
Frequent she view'd, and bless'd the honour'd reign
Of her great Consort, provident and mild.
Now wander'd musing thro' the darkening depth
Of thickest woods, friendly to solemn thought:
Now o'er broad lawns fair opening to the sun.
Nor midst her rural plans disdain'd to mix
The useful arable, and waving corn
With soft turf border'd, and the lowly cot,
That half appears, in branching elms obscur'd.
Here beauty dwells, assembled from the scenes
Of various nature; such as oft inflam'd
With rapture Grecian bards, in that fair vale,
Thessalian Tempe, or thy favorite soil,
Arcadia, erst by awe-struck fancy fill'd
With wand'ring forms, the woodland Deities,
Light Nymphs and wanton Satyrs, faintly seen
Quick glancing thro' the shade at close of eve,
Great Pan, and old Silenus. Hither led
By solitary grief shall GEORGE recall
Th' endearing manners, the soft speech, that flow'd
From his lov'd Consort, virtue mix'd with love,
Prudence, and mild insinuating sense:
But chief her thoughtful breast of counsels deep
Capacious, nor unequal to the weight
Of Government. Such was the royal mind
Of wise ELIZA, name of loveliest sound
To British ears, and pattern fair to Kings:
Or she who rules the Scepter of the North
Illustrious, spreading o'er a barbarous world
The light of arts and manners, and with arms
Infests th' astonish'd Sultan, hardly now
With scatter'd troops resisting; she drives on
The heavy war, and shakes th' Imperial Throne
Of old Byzantium. Latest time shall sound
The praise of female genius. Oft shall GEORGE
Pay the kind tear, and grief of tender words
To CAROLINE, thus oft lamenting sad.
"Hail sacred shade! by me with endless woe
"Still honour'd! ever in my Breast shall dwell
"Thy image, ever present to my soul
"Thy faithful love, in length of years mature:
"O skill'd t'enliven time, to soften care
"With looks and smiles and friendship's chearful voice!
"Anxious, of Thee bereft, a solitude
"I feel, that not the fond condoling cares
"Of our sad offspring can remove. Ev'n now
"With lonely steps I trace the gloomy groves,
"Thy lov'd recesses, studious to recall
"The vanish'd bliss, and cheat my wand'ring thoughts
"With sweet illusion. Yet I not accuse
"Heav'n's dispensation. Prosperous and long
"Have been my days, and not unknown to fame,
"That dwells with virtue. But 'tis hard to part
"The league of ancient friendship, to resign
"The home-felt fondness, the secure delight,
"That reason nourish'd, and fair fame approv'd."

THE GENEALOGY OF CHRIST,

AS IT IS REPRESENTED ON THE EAST WINDOW

OF WINCHESTER COLL. CHAPEL.

WRITTEN AT WINTON SCHOOL, BY DR. LOWTHE.

At once to raise our rev'rence and delight,
To elevate the mind, and please the sight,
To pour in virtue at th' attentive eye,
And waft the soul on wings of extacy;
For this the painter's art with nature vies,
And bids the visionary saint arise;
Who views the sacred forms in thought aspires,
Catches pure zeal, and as he gazes, fires;
Feels the same ardour to his breast convey'd,
Is what he sees, and emulates the shade.
Thy strokes, great Artist, so sublime appear,
They check our pleasure with an awful fear;
While, thro' the mortal line, the God you trace,
Author himself, and Heir of Jesse's race;
In raptures we admire thy bold design,
And, as the subject, own the hand divine.
While thro' thy work the rising day shall stream,
So long shall last thine honour, praise and name.
And may thy labours to the Muse impart
Some emanation from her sister art,
To animate the verse, and bid it shine
In colours easy, bright, and strong, as Thine.
Supine on earth an awful figure lies,
While softest slumbers seem to seal his eyes;
The hoary sire Heav'ns guardian care demands,
And at his feet the watchful angel stands.
The form august and large, the mien divine
Betray the [2]founder of Messiah's line.
Lo! from his loins the promis'd stem ascends,
And high to Heaven its sacred Boughs extends:
Each limb productive of some hero springs,
And blooms luxuriant with a race of kings.
Th' eternal plant wide spreads its arms around,
And with the mighty branch the mystic top is crown'd.
And lo! the glories of th' illustrious line
At their first dawn with ripen'd splendors shine,
In DAVID all express'd; the good, the great,
The king, the hero, and the man compleat.
Serene he sits, and sweeps the golden lyre,
And blends the prophet's with the poet's fire.
See! with what art he strikes the vocal strings,
The God, his theme, inspiring what he sings!
Hark—or our ears delude us—from his tongue
Sweet flows, or seems to flow, some heav'nly song.
Oh! could thine art arrest the flitting sound,
And paint the voice in magic numbers bound;
Could the warm sun, as erst when Memnon play'd
Wake with his rising beam the vocal shade:
Then might he draw th' attentive angels down,
Bending to hear the lay, so sweet, so like their own.
On either side the monarch's offspring shine,
And some adorn, and some disgrace their line.
Here Ammon glories; proud, incestuous lord!
This hand sustains the robe, and that the sword.
Frowning and fierce, with haughty strides he tow'rs,
And on his horrid brow defiance low'rs.
There Absalom the ravish'd sceptre sways,
And his stol'n honour all his shame displays:
The base usurper Youth! who joins in one
The rebel subject, and th' ungrateful son.
Amid the royal race, see Nathan stand:
Fervent he seems to speak, and lift his hand;
His looks th' emotion of his soul disclose,
And eloquence from every gesture flows.
Such, and so stern he came, ordain'd to bring
Th' ungrateful mandate to the guilty King:
When, at his dreadful voice, a sudden smart
Shot thro' the trembling monarch's conscious heart;
From his own lips condemn'd; severe decree!
Had his God prov'd so stern a Judge as He.
But man with frailty is allay'd by birth;
Consummate purity ne'er dwelt on earth:
Thro' all the soul tho' virtue holds the rein,
Beats at the heart, and springs in ev'ry vein:
Yet ever from the clearest source have ran
Some gross allay, some tincture of the man.
But who is he——deep-musing——in his mind,
He seems to weigh, in reason's scales, mankind;
Fix'd contemplation holds his steady eyes——
I know the sage[3]; the wisest of the wise.
Blest with all man could wish, or prince obtain,
Yet his great heart pronounc'd those blessings vain.
And lo! bright glitt'ring in his sacred hands,
In miniature the glorious temple stands.
Effulgent frame! stupendous to behold!
Gold the strong valves, the roof of burnish'd gold.
The wand'ring ark, in that bright dome enshrin'd,
Spreads the strong light, eternal, unconfin'd!

FOOTNOTES:

[2] JESSE.

[3] SOLOMON.

[4] JOSAPHAT.

[5] ELISHA.

[6] JOATHAM.

[7] HEZEKIAH.

[8] SENNACHERIB.

[9] ZOROBABEL.

A

FRAGMENT.

BY MR. MALLET.

Fair morn ascends: fresh zephyr's breath
Blows liberal o'er yon bloomy heath;
Where, sown profusely, herb and flower,
Of balmy smell, of healing power,
Their souls in fragrant dews exhale,
And breathe fresh life in ev'ry gale.
Here, spreads a green expanse of plains,
Where, sweetly-pensive, Silence reigns:
And there, at utmost stretch of eye,
A mountain fades into the sky;
While winding round, diffus'd and deep,
A river rolls with sounding sweep.
Of human art no traces near,
I seem alone with nature here!
Here are thy walks, O sacred HEALTH!
The Monarch's bliss, the Beggar's wealth;
The seasoning of all good below,
The sovereign friend in joy or woe.
O Thou, most courted, most despis'd:
And but in absence duly priz'd!
Power of the soft and rosy face!
The vivid Pulse, the vermil grace,
The spirits when they gayest shine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!
O sun of life! whole heavenly ray
Lights up, and chears our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The storm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till nature with thy parting light,
Reposes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophy'd roofs of state,
Abodes of splendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep,
Hot Riot would his anguish steep,
But tosses through the midnight shade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to shady cell,
Where Temperance, where the Muses dwell;
Thou oft art seen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn:
Or on the brow of mountain high,
In silence feasting ear and eye,
With song and prospect, which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.
But when the sun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat sits fervent on the plain,
With Thirst and Languor in his train;
(All nature sickening in the blaze)
Thou, in the wild and woody maze,
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighbouring sleep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolness has her seat.
There plung'd amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive in his airy mood,
To every murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quivering in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The distant woodman's echoing stroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vision led,
He holds high converse with the Dead;
Sages or Poets. See, they rise!
And shadowy skim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus strikes the lyre again,
That softened savages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlightening truth, adorning art.
Thus musing in the solemn shade;
At once the sounding breeze was laid:
And Nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe.
Dumb silence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bower:
When issuing from the inmost wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's genius good.
O Freedom! sovereign boon of Heav'n;
Great Charter, with our being given;
For which the patriot, and the sage,
Have plan'd, have bled thro' ev'ry age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace:
Who could not give, who cannot claim,
What but from God immediate came!

THE

EAGLE

A N D

ROBIN RED-BREAST.

A FABLE.[10]

BY MR. ARCHIBALD SCOTT.

The Prince of all the feather'd kind,
That with spread wings out-flies the wind,
And tow'rs far out of human sight
To view the shining orb of light:
This Royal Bird, tho' brave and great,
And armed strong for stern debate,
No tyrant is, but condescends
Oft-times to treat inferior friends.

One day at his command did flock
To his high palace on a rock,
The courtiers of ilk various size
That swiftly swim in chrystal skies;
Thither the valiant Tarsels doup,
And here rapacious Corbies croup,
With greedy Gleads, and sly Gormahs,
And dinsom Pyes, and chattering Dawes;
Proud Peacocks, and a hundred mae,
Brush'd up their pens that solemn day,
Bow'd first submissive to my Lord,
Then took their places at his board.
Meantime while feasting on a fawn,
And drinking blood from Lamies drawn,
A tuneful ROBIN trig and young,
Hard-by upon a burr-tree sung.
He sang the EAGLE's royal line,
His piercing eye, and right divine
To sway out-owre the feather'd thrang,
Who dread his martial bill and fang:
His flight sublime, and eild renew'd,
His mind with clemency endow'd;
In softer notes he sang his love,
More high, his bearing bolts for Jove.
The Monarch Bird with blitheness heard
The chaunting little silvan Bard,
Call'd up a Buzzard, who was then
His favourite, and chamberlain.
Swith to my treasury, quoth he,
And to yon canty ROBIN gie
As muckle of our current gear
As may maintain him thro' the year;
We can well spar't, and it's his due;
He bade, and forth the Judas flew,
Straight to the branch where ROBIN sung,
And with a wicked lying tongue,
Said ah! ye sing so dull and rough,
Ye've deaf'd our lugs more than enough,
His Majesty has a nice ear,
And no more of your stuff can bear;
Poke up your pipes, be no more seen
At court, I warn you as a frien.
He spake, while ROBIN's swelling breast,
And drooping wings his grief exprest;
The tears ran hopping down his cheek,
Great grew his heart, he could not speak,
No for the tinsel of reward,
But that his notes met no regard:
Strait to the shaw he spread his wing,
Resolv'd again no more to sing,
Where princely bounty is supprest
By such with whom They are opprest;
Who cannot bear (because they want it)
That ought should be to merit granted.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Written before the year 1600.

ODE

TO

FANCY.

BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON.

O Parent of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine;
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand;
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren snow;
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and sea:
While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale:
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water you reside:
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between:
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor;
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each ev'ning warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream;
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spencer thro' a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-soothing sound!
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead;
Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads:
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List'ning to the shepherd's song.
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy,
Can long my pensive mind employ;
Haste, FANCY, from the scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy!
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh;
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels, and the house of woe;
To gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek.
Or to some Abby's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles, lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear:
Give me another horse I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage?——what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where tumult and destruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed,
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield.
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-archt walks, and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun.
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou can'st place me near my love.
Can'st fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss;
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence.
When young-eyed spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At every season, let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to every line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallow'd strain;
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save, when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.
O hear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave.
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre,
Who with some new, unequall'd song,
May rise above the rhyming throng.
O'er all our list'ning passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain:
With terror shake, and pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t' attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottos talk;
Teach him to scorn, with frigid art,
Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart;
Like light'ning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critic's studied laws:
O let each Muse's fame encrease,
O bid Britannia rival Greece!

[ODE]

TO

EVENING.

BY THE SAME.

I.

Hail meek-ey'd Maiden, clad in sober grey,
Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves;
As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes,
Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.

II.

When Phæbus sinks behind the gilded hills;
You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk;
The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk.

III.

The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmost bow'rs, and cooling caverns ran;
Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance,
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.

IV.

To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene;
And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field,
Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.

V.

The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock,
His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies;
Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.

VI.

Now ev'ry Passion sleeps: desponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride;
An holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul,
Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside.

VII.

O modest EVENING! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy pensive train;
Listening to every wildly-warbling note,
That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain.

ODE

TO

EVENING.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear;
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with it's stillness suit,
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding star arising shews
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in flowers the day,
And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge,
And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,
The Pensive Pleasure's sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,
Or up-land fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport,
Beneath thy ling'ring light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, sure-found beneath thy sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav'rite name!

ISIS.

AN

ELEGY.

WRITTEN BY MR. MASON OF CAMBRIDGE, 1748.

Far from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright,
The pointed crystals shot their trembling light,
From dripping moss where sparkling dew-drops fell,
Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed shell,
Pale ISIS lay; a willow's lowly shade
Spread its thin foliage o'er the sleeping maid;
Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breast
In careless folds loose flow'd her zoneless vest;
While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow,
In all the awful negligence of woe;
Her urn sustain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vase
Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all its grace;
Here, full with life, was heav'n-taught Science seen,
Known by the laurel wreath, and musing mien:
There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace sedate and bland,
Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand;
While solemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas green,
At well-mark'd distance close the sacred scene.
On this the Goddess cast an anxious look,
Then dropt a tender tear, and thus she spoke:
Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vase;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes
View on yon plain the real glories rise.
Yes, ISIS! oft hast thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead;
Oft hast thou stopt thy pearly car to gaze,
While ev'ry Science nurs'd it's growing bays;
While ev'ry Youth with fame's strong impulse fir'd,
Prest to the goal, and at the goal untir'd,
Snatch'd each celestial wreath, to bind his brow,
The Muses, Graces, Virtues could bestow.
E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Mem'ry's ample plain;
See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! sidney, raleigh, hamden, somers shine.
See hough superior to a tyrant's doom
Smile at the menace of the slave of Rome,
Each soul whom truth could fire, or virtue move,
Each breast, strong panting with it's country's love,
All that to Albion gave the heart or head,
That wisely counsel'd, or that bravely bled,
All, all appear; on me they grateful smile,
The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toil
To me with filial reverence they bring,
And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd spring.
Ah! I remember well yon beachen spray,
There addison first tun'd his polish'd lay;
'Twas there great cato's form first met his eye,
In all the pomp of free-born majesty;
"My son, he cry'd, observe this mein with awe,
"In solemn lines the strong resemblance draw;
"The piercing notes shall strike each British ear;
"Each British eye shall drop the patriot tear!
"And rous'd to Glory by the nervous strain,
"Each Youth shall spurn at slav'ry's abject reign,
"Shall guard with cato's zeal Britannia's laws,
"And speak, and act, and bleed in freedom's cause."
The Hero spoke; the bard assenting bow'd
The lay to liberty and cato flow'd;
While Echo, as she rov'd the vale along,
Join'd the strong cadence of his Roman song.
But ah! how Stillness slept upon the ground,
How mute Attention check'd each rising sound;
Scarce stole a breeze to wave the leafy spray,
Scarce trill'd sweet Philomel her softest lay,
When locke walk'd musing forth; e'en now I view
Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow,
View Candor smile upon his modest cheek,
And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break.
'Twas here the sage his manly zeal exprest,
Here stript vain falshood of her gaudy vest;
Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind,
E'er long to burst in blessings on mankind;
E'er long to shew to reason's purged eye,
That "Nature's first best gift was liberty."
Proud of this wond'rous son, sublime I stood,
(While louder surges swell'd my rapid flood)
Then vain as Niobe, exulting cry'd,
Ilissus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;
Tho' Plato's steps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring glade,
Tho' fair Lycæum lent it's awful shade,
Tho' ev'ry Academic green imprest
It's image full on thy reflecting breast,
Yet my pure stream shall boast as proud a name,
And Britain's ISIS flow with Attic fame.
Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic boast?
See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast;
See! Hydra Faction spread it's impious reign,
Poison each breast, and madden ev'ry brain:
Hence frontless crouds, that not content to fright
The blushing Cynthia from her throne of night,
Blast the fair face of day; and madly bold,
To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;
To Freedom's foes, ah! see the goblet crown'd,
Hear plausive shouts to Freedom's foes resound;
The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,
The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt;
Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,
Now sheds, by stealth, a partial private gleam,
In some lone cloister's melancholy shade,
Where a firm few support her sickly head,
Despis'd, insulted by the barb'rous train,
Who scour like Thracia's moon-struck rout the plain,
Sworn foes like them to all the Muse approves,
All Phæbus favours, or Minerva loves.
Are these the sons my fost'ring breast must rear,
Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care?
Must these go forth from my maternal hand
To deal their insults thro' a peaceful land,
And boast while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue groans,
That "ISIS taught Rebellion to her Sons?"
Forbid it heaven! and let my rising waves
Indignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves!
In England's cause their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy.
Is this deny'd? then point some secret way
Where far far hence these guiltless streams may stray;
Some unknown channel lend, where Nature spreads
Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads,
There, where a hind scarce tunes his rustic strain,
Where scarce a pilgrim treads the pathless plain,
Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide
Saw yon majestic structures crown it's side;
Forget, that e'er my rapt attention hung
Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue;
Calm and resign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace.

THE

TRIUMPH

OF

ISIS.

OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING POEM.

BY MR. THOMAS WARTON, OF OXFORD.

Quid mihi nescio quam, proprio cum Tybride Romam,
Semper in ore geris? referunt si vera parentes,
Hanc urbem insano nullus qui marte petivit
Lætatus violasse redit. Nec numina sedem
Destituunt.—— Claudian.

On closing flow'rs when genial gales diffuse
The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews;
When chaunts the milk-maid at her balmy pail,
And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale;
Charm'd by the murmurs of the quiv'ring shade,
O'er ISIS' willow-fringed banks I stray'd:
And calmly musing thro' the twilight way,
In pensive mood I fram'd the Doric lay.
When lo! from op'ning clouds, a golden gleam
Pour'd sudden splendors o'er the shadowy stream;
And from the wave arose it's guardian queen,
Known by her sweeping stole of glossy green;
While in the coral crown that bound her brow,
Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough.
As the smooth surface of the dimply flood,
The silver-slipper'd ISIS lightly trod,
From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd,
And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd.
No more, my son, the rural reed employ,
Nor trill the trifling strain of empty joy;
No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit
To notes of pastoral pipe or oaten flute.
For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls,
To the dear Muse afflicted Freedom calls:
When Freedom calls, and oxford bids thee sing,
Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string?
While thus, in Freedom's and in Phœbus' spite,
The venal sons of slavish cam, unite;
To shake yon tow'rs, when Malice rears her crest,
Shall all my sons in silence idly rest?
Still sing, O cam, your fav'rite Freedom's cause;
Still boast of Freedom, while you break her laws:
To pow'r your songs of Gratulation pay,
To courts address soft flattery's soothing lay.
What tho' your gentle mason's plaintive verse
Has hung with sweetest wreaths musæus' hearse;
What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe,
Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow?
Yet strove his Muse, by same or envy led,
To tear the laurels from a sister's head?——
Misguided youth! with rude unclassic rage
To blot the beauties of thy whiter page;
A rage that sullies e'en thy guiltless lays,
And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.
Let granta boast the patrons of her name,
Each pompous fool of fortune and of fame:
Still of preferment let her shine the queen,
Prolific parent of each bowing dean:
Be her's each prelate of the pamper'd cheek,
Each courtly chaplain sanctify'd and sleek;
Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive,
On fat pluralities supinely thrive:
Still let her senates titled slaves revere,
Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;
For tinsel'd courts their laurel'd mount despise,
In stars and strings superlatively wise:
No longer charm'd by virtue's golden lyre,
Who sung of old amid th'Aonian choir,
Where cam, slow winding thro' the breezy reeds,
With kindly wave his groves of laurel seeds.
'Tis ours, my son, to deal the sacred bay,
Where Honour calls, and Justice points the way;
To wear the well-earn'd wreath which merit brings.
And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings.
Scorning, and scorn'd by courts, yon Muses' bow'r
Still nor enjoys, nor asks the smile of pow'r.
Tho' wakeful Vengeance watch my chrystal spring,
Tho' persecution wave her iron wing,
And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies,
"These destin'd feats be mine" exulting cries;
On ISIS still each gift of fortune waits,
Still peace and plenty deck my beauteous gates.
See Science walks with freshest chaplets crown'd;
With songs of joy my festal groves resound;
My muse divine, still keeps her wonted state,
The front erect, and high majestic gait:
Green as of old, each oliv'd portal smiles,
And still the graces build my Parian piles:
My Gothic spires in ancient grandeur rise,
And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies.
Ah should'st thou fall (forbid it heav'nly pow'rs!)
Dash'd into dust with all thy cloud-capt tow'rs;
Who but would mourn to British virtue dear,
What patriot could refuse the manly tear!
What British marius could refrain to weep
O'er mighty carthage fall'n, a prostrate heap!
E'en late when radcliffe's delegated train
Auspicious shone in ISIS' happy plain;
When yon proud [11]dome, fair Learning's amplest shrine,
Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine;
Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause,
To radcliffe due, and ISIS' honour'd cause?
What free-born crouds adorn'd the festive day,
Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay!
How each brave breast with honest ardors heav'd,
When sheldon's fane the patriot band receiv'd;
While, as we loudly hail'd the chosen few,
Rome's awful senate rush'd upon our view!
O may the day in latest annals shine,
That made a beaufort, and an harley mine:
Then bade them leave the loftier scene awhile,
The pomp of guiltless state, the patriot toil,
For bleeding Albion's aid the sage design,
To hold short dalliance with the tuneful Nine.
Then Music left her golden sphere on high,
And bore each strain of triumph from the sky;
Swell'd the full song, and to my chiefs around,
Pour'd the full Pæans of mellifluous sound.
My Naiads blythe the floating accents caught,
And list'ning danc'd beneath their pearly grot:
In gentler eddies play'd my wanton wave,
And all my reeds their softest whispers gave;
Each lay with brighter green adorn'd my bow'rs,
And breath'd a fresher fragrance on my flow'rs.
But lo! at once the swelling concerts cease,
And crouded theatres are hush'd in peace.
See, on yon sage how all attentive stand,
To catch his darting eye, and waving hand.
Hark! he begins, with all a tully's art
To pour the dictates of a cato's heart.
Skill'd to pronounce what noblest thoughts inspire,
He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire;
Bold to conceive, nor tim'rous to conceal,
What Britons dare to think, he dares to tell.
'Tis his alike the ear and eye to charm,
To win with action, and with sense to warm;
Untaught in flow'ry diction to dispense
The lulling sounds of sweet impertinence;
In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize,
Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rise;
Bids happier days to albion be restor'd,
Bids ancient Justice rear her radiant sword;
From me, as from my country, wins applause,
And makes an oxford's a britannia's cause.
While arms like these my steadfast sages wield,
While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield;
Say, shall the puny champion fondly dare
To wage with force like this, scholastic war?
Still vainly scribble on with pert pretence,
With all the rage of pedant impotence?
Say, shall I foster this domestic pest,
This parricide that wounds a mother's breast?
Thus in the stately ship that long has bore
Britain's victorious cross from shore to shore,
By chance, beneath her close sequester'd cells,
Some low-born worm, a lurking mischief dwells;
Eats his blind way, and saps with secret toil
The deep foundations of the watry pile.
In vain the forest lent its stateliest pride,
Rear'd her tall mast, and fram'd her knotty side;
In vain the thunder's martial rage she stood,
With each fierce conflict of the stormy flood;
More sure the reptile's little arts devour,
Than waves, or wars, or Eurus' wintry pow'r,
Ye venerable bow'rs, ye seats sublime,
Clad in the mossy vest of fleeting time;
Ye stately piles of old munificence,
At once the pride of Learning and defence,
Where ancient Piety, a matron hoar,
Still seems to keep the hospitable door;
Ye cloisters pale, that length'ning to the sight,
Still step by step to musings mild invite;
Ye high-archt walks where oft the bard has caught
The glowing sentiment, the lofty thought;
Ye temples dim, where pious duty pays
Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praise;
Lo! your lov'd ISIS, from the bord'ring vale,
With all a mother's fondness bids you hail!——
Hail, oxford, hail! of all that's good and great,
Of all that's fair, the guardian and the seat;
Nurse of each brave pursuit, each generous aim,
By truth exalted to the throne of fame!
Like Greece in science and in liberty,
As Athens learn'd, as Lacedæmon free!
Ev'n now, confess'd to my adoring eyes,
In awful ranks thy sacred sons arise;
With ev'ry various flower their temples wreath'd,
That in thy gardens green its fragrance breath'd,
Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds,
Thy crouding bards immortal chaucer leads:
His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing choir,
And beams on all around celestial fire:
With graceful step see addison advance,
The sweetest child of Attic Elegance:
To all, but his belov'd embrace deny'd,
See locke leads reason, his majestic bride:
See sacred hammond, as he treads the field,
With godlike arm uprears his heav'nly shield.
All who, beneath the shades of gentle peace,
Best plan'd the labours of domestic ease;
Who taught with truth, or with persuasion mov'd;
Who sooth'd with numbers, or with sense improv'd;
Who told the pow'rs of reason or refin'd,
All, all that strengthen'd or adorn'd the mind;
Each priest of health, who mix'd the balmy bowl,
To rear frail man, and stay the fleeting soul;
All croud around, and echoing to the sky,
Hail, oxford, hail! with filial transport cry.
And see yon solemn band! with virtuous aim,
'Twas theirs in thought the glorious deed to frame:
With pious plans each musing feature glows,
And well weigh'd counsels mark their meaning brows:
"Lo! these the leaders of thy patriot line,"
hamden, and hooker, hyde, and sidney shine.
These from thy source the fires of freedom caught:
How well thy sons by their example taught!
While in each breast th' hereditary flame
Still blazes, unextinguish'd and the same!
Nor all the toils of thoughtful peace engage,
'Tis thine to form the hero as the sage.
I see the sable-suited prince advance
With lillies crown'd, the spoils of bleeding France,
edward——the Muses in yon hallow'd shade
Bound on his tender thigh the martial blade:
Bade him the steel for British freedom draw,
And oxford taught the deeds that cressy saw.
And see, great father of the laureat band,
The [12]british king before me seems to stand.
He by my plenty-crowned scenes beguil'd,
And genial influence of my seasons mild,
Hither of yore (forlorn, forgotten maid)
The Muse in prattling infancy convey'd;
From Gothic rage the helpless virgin bore,
And fix'd her cradle on my friendly shore:
Soon grew the maid beneath his fost'ring hand,
Soon pour'd her blessings o'er th' enlighten'd land.
Tho rude the [13]dome, and humble the retreat,
Where first his pious care ordain'd her seat,
Lo! now on high she dwells in Attic bow'rs,
And proudly lifts to heav'n her hundred tow'rs.
He first fair Learning's and Britannia's cause
Adorn'd with manners, and advanc'd with laws;
He bade relent the Briton's savage heart,
And form'd his soul to social scenes of art,
Wisest and best of kings!—--with ravish'd gaze
Elate the long procession he surveys:
Joyful he smiles to find, that not in vain
He plan'd the rudiments of Learning's reign:
Himself he marks in each ingenuous breast,
With all the founder in the race exprest:
With rapture views, fair Freedom still survive
In yon bright domes (ill-fated fugitive)
(Such seen, as when the goddess pour'd the beam
Unsullied on his ancient diadem)
Well-pleas'd that in his own Pierian seat
She plumes her wings, and rests her weary feet;
That here at last she takes her fav'rite stand,
"Here deigns to linger, ere she leave the land."

FOOTNOTES:

[11] radcliffe's library.

[12] Alfred. Regis Romani. V. Virg. Æn. 6.

[13]

————————Ad Capitolia ducit
Aurea nunc, olim sylvestribus horrida dumis.
VIRG. ÆN.

LOVE ELEGY.

BY MR. HAMMOND.

I.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd,
Whom neigb'ring foes in constant terror hold,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never found.

II.

While calmly poor, I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my chearful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire.

III.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with it's master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range the sheaves along the sunny land.

IV.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home,
And not a little chide it's thoughtless dam.

V.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?
Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy sink at last to rest.

VI.

Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my delia walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.

VII.

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

VIII.

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for delia, and myself alone.

IX.

Ah foolish man! who thus of her possest,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind.

X.

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own,
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here, I know, that I am lov'd alone.

XI.

stanhope, in wisdom, as in wit divine,
May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws:

XII.

Let stanhope speak his list'ning country's wrong,
My humble voice shall please one partial maid,
For her alone, I pen my tender song,
Securely sitting in his friendly shade.

XIII.

stanhope shall come, and grace his rural friend,
delia shall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's Patron cull the best.

XIV.

Her's be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender Indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.

XV.

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock,
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock.

XVI.

Ah! what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep.

XVII.

delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight,
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows thro' every night.

XVIII.

Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind:
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

XIX.

On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er,
And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand——
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.

XX.

Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Tho' I am dead my soul shall love thee still.

XXI.

Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart!
O leave me, delia! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.

XXII.

Let them extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.

THE

TEARS

OF

SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

I.

Mourn, hapless caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more,
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoaky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

II.

The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

III.

What boots it then, in every clime,
Thro' the wide spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.

IV.

The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more shall chear the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains, but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

V.

Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons, against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

VI.

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.

VII.

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Resentment of my country's fate,
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow,
"Mourn, hapless caledonia, mourn
"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."

AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

The Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefather's of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joy, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory, lead but to the grave.
Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault,
If memory to these no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desart air.
Some village-hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood:
Some mute inglorious milton here may rest,
Some cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes
Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply,
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to dye.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Still in their ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
'Brushing with hasty dews away,
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
'His listless length at noontide wou'd he stretch,
'And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
'Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
'Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
'The next with dirges due in sad array,
'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
'Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
'There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,
'By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found;
'The red-breast loves to build and warble there,
'And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

THE EPITAPH.

"Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
"A youth to fortune and to fame unknown:
"Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
"And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
"Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
"Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:
"He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear;
"He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
"No farther seek his merits to disclose,
"Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
"(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
"The bosom of his father and his God.

ON THE DEATH OF

FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNT
STORMONT, OF CH. CH. OXON.

Little I whilom deem'd my artless zeal
Should woo the British Muse in foreign land
To strains of bitter argument, and teach
The mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding verge
And oozy current of Parisian Seine,
To syllable new sounds in accents strange.
But sad occasion calls: who now forbears
The last kind office? who but consecrates
His off'ring at the shrine of fair Renown
To gracious frederic rais'd; tho' but compos'd
Of the waste flourets, whose neglected hues
Chequer the lonely hedge, or mountain slope?
Where are those hopes, where fled th' illusive scenes
That forgeful fancy plan'd, what time the bark
Stem'd the salt wave from Albion's chalky bourn?
Then filial Piety and parting Love
Pour'd the fond pray'r; "Farewell, ye less'ning cliffs,
"Fairer to me, than ought in fabled song
"Or mystic record told of shores Atlantic!
"Favour'd of heav'n, farewell! imperial isle,
"Native to noblest wits, and best approv'd
"In manly science, and advent'rous deed!
"Celestial Freedom, by rude hand estrang'd
"From regions once frequented, with Thee takes
"Her stedfast station, fast beside the throne
"Of scepter'd Rule, and there her state maintains
"In social concord, and harmonious love.
"These blessings still be thine, nor meddling fiend
"Stir in your busy streets foul Faction's roar;
"Still thrive your growing works, and gales propitious
"Visit your sons who ride the watry waste;
"And still be heard from forth your gladsome bow'rs
"Shrill tabor-pipes, and ev'ry peaceful sound.
"Nor vain the wish, while george the golden scale
"With steady prudence holds, and temp'rate sway.
"And when his course of earthly honours run,
"With lenient hand shall frederic sooth your care,
"Rich in each princely quality, mature
"In years, and happiest in nuptial choice.
"Thence too arise new hopes, a playful troop
"Circles his hearth, sweet pledges of that bed,
"Which Faith, and Joy, and thousand Virtues guard.
"His be the care t' inform their ductile minds
"With worthiest thoughts, and point the ways of honour.
"How often shall he hear with fresh delight
"Their earnest tales, or watch their rising passions
"With timorous attention; then shall tell
"Of justice, fortitude and public weal,
"And oft the while each rigid precept smooth
"With winning tokens of parental love!"
Thus my o'erweening heart the secret stores
Of Britain's hope explor'd, while my strain'd sight
Pursued her fading hills, till wrapt in mist
They gently sunk beneath the swelling tide.
Nor slept those thoughts, whene'er in other climes
I mark'd the cruel waste of foul oppression,
Saw noblest spirits, and goodliest faculties,
To vassalage and loathsome service bound.
Then conscious preference rose; then northward turn'd
My eye, to gratulate my natal soil.
How have I chid with froward eagerness
Each veering blast, that from my hand witheld
The well known characters of some lov'd friend,
Tho' distant, not unmindful? Still I learn'd
Delighted, what each patriot plan devis'd
Of arts, or glory, or diffusive commerce.
Nor wanted its endearment every tale
Of lightest import. But oh! heavy change,
What notices come now? Distracted scenes
Of helpless sorrow, solemn sad accounts;
How fair augusta watch'd the weary night
Tending the bed of anguish; how great george
Wept with his infant progeny around;
How heav'd the orphan's and the widow's sigh,
That follow'd frederic to the silent tomb.
For well was frederic lov'd; and well deserv'd:
His voice was ever sweet, and on his steps
Attended ever the alluring grace
Of gentle lowliness and social zeal.
Him shall remember oft the labour'd hind,
Relating to his mates each casual act
Of courteous bounty. Him th' artificer,
Plying the varied woof in sullen sadness,
Tho' wont to carrol many a ditty sweet.
Soon too the mariner, who many moons
Has counted, beating still the foamy surge,
And treads at last the wish'd-for beach, shall stand
Appall'd at the sad tale, and soon shall steal
Down his rough cheek th' involuntary tear.
Be this our solace yet, all is not dead;
The bright memorial lives: for his example
Shall Hymen trim his torch, domestic praise
Be countenanc'd, and virtue fairer shew.
In age succeeding, when another george,
To ratify some weighty ordinance
Of Britain's peers conven'd, shall pass beside
Those hallowed spires, whose gloomy vaults enclose,
Shrouded in sleep, pale rows of scepter'd kings,
Oft to his sense the sweet paternal voice
And long-remember'd features shall return;
Then shall his generous breast be new inflam'd
To acts of highest worth, and highest fame.
These plaintive strains from albion far away,
I lonely meditate at even-tide;
Nor skill'd nor studious of the raptur'd lay;
But still remembring oft the magic sounds,
Well-measur'd to the chime of Dorian lute,
Or past'ral stop, which erst I lov'd to hear
On Isis' broider'd mead, where dips by fits
The stooping osier in her hasty stream.
Hail wolsey's spacious dome! hail, ever fam'd
For faithful nurture, and truth's sacred lore,
Much honour'd parent! You my duteous zeal
Accept, if haply in thy laureat wreath
You deign to interweave this humble song.

ON THE SAME.

BY MR. JAMES CLITHEROW OF ALL SOULS COLL.

I.

'Twas on the evening of that gloomy day,
When frederic, ever lov'd, and ever mourn'd,
(Such heav'n's high will, and who shall disobey?)
To earth's cold womb in holy pomp return'd:

II.

With sullen sounds, the death-denouncing bell
Proclaim'd aloud the dismal tale of woe,
The pealing organ join'd the solemn knell,
In mournful notes, majestically slow.

III.

The full-voic'd choir, in stoles of purest white,
With frequent pause, the soul-felt anthem raise;
While o'er the walls in darkest sable dight,
A thousand tapers pour'd their holy blaze.

IV.

In high devotion wrapt, the mitred sage,
With energy sublime, the rites began;
While tears from every sex, and every age,
Bewail'd the prince, the father, and the man.

V.

"Who, when our sov'reign liege to fate shall yield,
"Shall prop, like him, Britannia's falling state?
"Who now the vengeful sword of justice wield,
"Or ope, like him, sweet Mercy's golden gate?

VI.

"Who shall to Arts their pristine honours bring,
"Rear from the dust fair Learning's laurell'd head,
"Or bid rich commerce plume her daring wing?
"Arts, Learning, Commerce are in frederic dead.

VII.

"Who now shall tend, with fond, paternal care,
"The future guardians of our faith and laws?
"Who teach their breasts with patriot worth to dare,
"And die with ardour, in Britannia's cause?

VIII.

"And who, ah! who, with soft endearing lore,
"Shall sooth, like him, the royal mourner's breast?
"Her lord, her life, her frederic is no more."—
Deep groans and bitter wailings speak the rest.

IX.

Then, when at length the awful scene was clos'd,
And dust to dust in holy hope consign'd;
All to their silent homes their steps dispos'd,
To feed on solitary woe the mind;

X.

All but Lorenzo;—he with grief dismay'd;
Nor heeding ought but frederic's hapless fate,
Musing along the cloyster'd temple stray'd,
Till lonely midnight clos'd th' impervious gate.

XI.

But when each lamp by slow degrees expir'd,
And total night assumes her silent reign,
Sudden he starts, with wild amazement fir'd,
And big with horror traverses the fane.

XII.

The vaulted mansions of th' illustrious dead
Inspire his shudd'ring soul with ghastly fears,
Dire shapes, and beck'ning shades around him tread,
And hollow voices murmur in his ears.

XIII.

There, as around the monumental maze
Darkling he wanders, a resplendent gleam
Shoots o'er th' illumin'd isle a distant blaze,
Pale as the glow-worm's fire, or Cynthia's beam.

XIV.

With glory clad, th' imperial shrines among,
Four royal shapes on iv'ry thrones were plac'd,
High o'er their heads four airy diadems hung,
Which never yet their maiden brows had grac'd.

XV.

The first was he, whom cressy's glorious plain
Has fam'd for martial deeds and bold emprize;
Nor less his praise in Virtue's milder strain,
Just, humble, learned, merciful and wise.

XVI.

Next arthur sat, at whose auspicious birth
In one sweet flower the blended roses join'd;
And henry next, fair plant of Scottish earth,
The hope, the joy of albion and mankind.

XVII.

Yet green in death, the last majestic shade
Wore gracious frederic's mild, endearing look;
To him the rest obeysance courteous paid,
And edward thus the princely form bespoke:

XVIII.

"All hail! illustrious partner of our fate,
"For whom, as once for us, Britannia bleeds;
"Hail! to the mansions of the good and great,
"Where crowns immortal wait on virtuous deeds.