Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

Or Gothic turret, pride of ancient days!
Now but of use to grace a rural scene;
To bound our vistas, and to glad the sons
Of George's reign, reserv'd for fairer times!

LOVE AND HONOUR.

Sed neque Medorum sylvæ, ditissima terra,
Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Hæmus,
Laudibus Angligenûm certent: non Bactra, nec Indi,
Totaque thuriferis Panchaia pinguis arenis.

LET the green olive glad Hesperian shores ;
Her tawny citron, and her orange groves,
These let Iberia boast; but if in vain,
To win the stranger plant's diffusive sinile,
The Briton labours, yet our native minds,
Our constant bosoms-these, the dazzled world
May view with envy; these, Iberian dames
Survey with fixt esteem and fond desire.

Hapless Elvira! thy disastrous fate
May well this truth explain, nor ill adorn
The British lyre; then chiefly, if the Muse,
Nor vain, nor partial, from the simple guise
Of ancient record catch the pensive lay:
And in less grovelling accents give to fame.
Elvira loveliest maid! th' Iberian realm
Could boast no purer breast, no sprightlier mind,
No race more splendent, and no form so fair.
Such was the chance of war, this peerless maid
In life's luxuriant bloom enrich'd the spoil
Of British victors-victory's noblest pride!
She, she alone, amid the wailful train
Of captive maids, assign'd to Henry's care;
Lord of her life, her fortune, and her fame!

He, generous youth, with no penurious band,
The tedious moments that unjoyous roll
Where freedom's cheerful radiance shines no
more,

Essay'd to soften; conscious of the pang
That Beauty feels, to waste its fleeting hours
In some dim fort, by foreign rule restrain'd,
Far from the haunts of men, or eye of Day!
Sometimes, to cheat her bosom of its cares,
Her kind protector number'd o'er the toils
Himself had worn: the frowns of angry seas,
Or hostile rage, or faithless friend more fell
Than storm or foe: if haply she might find
Her cares diminish'd; fruitless fond essay !
Now to her lovely hand, with modest awe
The tender lute he gave: she, not averse
Nor destitute of skill, with willing hand
Call'd forth angelic strains; the sacred debt
Of gratitude, she said, whose just commands
Still might her hand with equal pride obey!
Nor to the melting sounds the nymph refus'd
Her vocal art; harmonious, as the strain
Of some imprison'd lark, who, daily cheer'd
By guardian cares, repays them with a song:
Nor droops, nor deems sweet liberty resign'd.
The song, not artless, had she fram❜d to paint
Disastrous passion; how by tyrant laws
Of idiot Custom sway'd, some soft-ey'd fair
Lov'd only one: nor dar'd that love reveal!
How the soft anguish banish'd from her cheek
The damask rose full-blown; a fever came;
And from her bosom forc'd the plaintive tale.

Then swift as light, he sought the love-lorn maid,
But vainly sought her; torn by swifter Fate
To join the tenants of the myrtle shade,
Love's mournful victims on the plains below.
Sometimes, as Fancy spoke the pleasing task,
She taught her artful needle to display
The various pride of Spring: then swift upsprung
Thickets of myrtle, eglantine, and rose:
There might you see, on gentle toils intent,
A train of busy Loves; some pluck the flower,
Some twine the garland, some with grave grimace
Around a vacant warrior cast the wreath.
'Twas paint, 't was life! and sure to piercing eyes
The warrior's face depictur'd Henry's mien.

Now had the generous chief with joy perus'd
The royal scroll, which to their native home,
Their ancient rights, uninjur'd, unredeem'd,
Restor'd the captives. Forth with rapid haste
To glad his fair Elvira's ear, he sprung;
Fir'd by the bliss he panted to convey;
But fir'd in vain! Ah! what was his amaze,
His fond distress, when o'er her pallid face
Dejection reign'd, and from her lifeless hand
Down dropp'd the myrtle's fair untinish'd flower!
Speechless she stood; at length with accents faint,
"Well may my native shore," she said, "resound
Thy monarch's praise; and ere Elvira prove
Of thine forgetful, flowers shall cease to feel
The fostering breeze, and Nature change her laws.”
And now the grateful edict wide alarm'd
The British host. Around the smiling youths,
Call'd to their native scenes, with willing haste
Their fleet unmoor'd; impatient of the love
That weds each bosom to its native soil.
The patriot passion, strong in every clime,
How justly theirs, who find no foreign sweets
To dissipate their loves, or match their own.
Not so Elvira: she, disastrous maid,
Was doubly captive! Power nor Chance could
loose

The subtle bands; she lov'd her generous foe.
She, where her Henry dwelt, her Henry smil'd,
Could term her native shore; her native shore,
By him deserted, some unfriendly strand,
Strange, bleak, forlorn! a desert waste and wild.

The fleet careen'd, the wind propitious fill'd
The swelling sails, the glittering transports war'd
Their pennants gay, and halcyon's azure wing
With flight auspicious skimm'd the placid main,
On her lone couch in tears Elvira lay,
And chid th' officious wind the tempting sea,
And wish'd a storm as merciless, as tore
Her labouring bosom. Fondly now she strove
To banish passion; now the vassal days,
The captive moments, that so smoothly pass'd,
By many an art recall'd; now from her lute
With trembling fingers call'd the favourite sounds
Which Henry deign'd to praise; and now essay'd
With mimic chains of silken fillets wove
To paint her captive state; if any fraud
Might to her love the pleasing scenes prolong,
And with the dear idea feast the soul.

But now the chief return'd; prepar'd to launch On Ocean's willing breast, and bid adieu To his fair prisoner. She, soon as she heard His hated errand, now no more conceal'd The raging flame; but, with a spreading blush And rising sigh, the latent pang disclos'd.

"Yes, generous youth! I see thy bosom glow With virtuous transport, that the task is thine

To solve my chains; and to my weeping friends,
And every longing relative, restore
A soft-ey'd maid, a mild offenceless prey!
But know, my soldier, never youthful mind,
Torn from the lavish joys of wild expense
By him he loath'd, and in a dungeon bound
To languish out his bloom, could catch the pains
This ill-starr'd freedom gives my tortur'd mind.
"What call I freedom? is it that these limbs,
From rigid bolts secure, may wander far
From him I love? Alas! ere I may boast
That sacred blessing, some superior power
To mortal kings, to sublunary thrones,
Must loose my passion, must unchain my soul.
E'en that I loath; all liberty 1 loath!
But most the joyless privilege to gaze
With cold indifference, where desert is love.
"True, I was born an alien to those eyes
I ask alone to please; my fortune's crime !
And ah! this flatter'd form by dress endear'd
To Spanish eyes, by dress may thine offend,
Whilst I, ill-fated maid! ordain'd to strive
With Custom's load, beneath its weight expire.
"Yet Henry's beauties knew in foreign garb
To vanquish me! his form, howe'er disguis'd,
To me were fatal! no fantastic robe
That e'er Caprice invented, Custom wore,
Or Folly smil❜d on, could eclipse thy charms.

[ocr errors]

Perhaps by Birth decreed, by Fortune plac'd
Thy country's foe, Elvira's warmest plea
Seems but the subtler accent Fraud inspires;
My tenderest glances, but the specious flowers
That shade the viper while she plots her wound.
And can the trembling candidate of Love
Awake thy fears? and can a female breast,
By ties of grateful duty bound, ensnare?
Is there no brighter mien, no softer smile
For Love to wear, to dark deceit unknown?

My sweet experience taught me to decide
Of English worth, the sound had pleas'd mine ear.
Is there that savage coast, that rude sojourn,
Stranger to British worth? the worth which forms
The kindest friends; the most tremendous foes;
First, best supports of liberty and love;
No; let subjected India, while she throws
O'er Spanish deeds the veil, your praise resound.
Long as I heard, or ere in story read

Of English fame, my bias'd partial breast
Wish'd them success, and, happiest she, I cried,
Of woman happiest she, who shares the love,
The fame, the virtues, of an English lord!
And now what shall I say? blest be the hour
Your fair-built vessels touch'd th' Iberian shore:
Blest did I say the time?-if I may bless
That lov'd event, let Henry's smiles declare.
Our hearts and cities won,-Will Henry's youth
Forego its nobler conquest? will he slight
The soft endearments of the lovelier spoil?
And yet Iberia's sons, with every vow

Of lasting faith, have sworn these humble charms
Were not excell'd; the source of all their pains,
And love her just desert, who sues for love;
But sues to thee, while natives sigh in vain.

"Perhaps in Henry's eye (for vulgar minds
Dissent from his) it spreads a hateful stain
On honest Fame, amid his train to bear

A female friend. Then learn, my gentle youth!
Not Love himself, with all the pointed pains
That store his quiver, shall seduce my soul
From Honour's laws. Elvira once denied
A consort's name, more swift than lightning flies
When elements discordant vex the sky,
Shall blushing from the form she loves retire.
"Yet if the specious wish the vulgar voice
Has titled Prudence, sways a soul like thine,
In gems or gold what proud Iberian dame

Heaven search my soul, and if through all its Eclipses me? Nor paint the dreary storms

cells

Lurk the pernicious drop of poisonous guile;
Full on my fenceless head its phial'd wrath
May Fate exhaust; and for my happiest hour
Exalt the vengeance I prepare for thee!

"Ah me! nor Henry's, nor his country's foe,
On thee 1 gaz'd, and Reason soon dispell'd
Dim Errour's gloom, and to thy favour'd isle
Assign'd its total merit, unrestrain❜d.
Oh! lovely region to the candid eye!
'Twas there my fancy saw the Virtues dwell,
The Loves, the Graces play; and blest the soil
That nurtur'd thee! for sure the Virtues form'd
Thy generous breast; the Loves, the Graces, plann'd
Thy shapely limbs. Relation, Birth, essay'd
Their partial power in vain: again I gaz’d,
And Albion's isle appear'd, amidst a tract
Of savage wastes, the darling of the skies!
And thou by Nature form'd, by Fate assign'd,
To paint the genius of thy native shore.

"Tis true, with flowers, with many a dazzling

scene

Of burnish'd plants, to lure a female eye,
Iberia glows: but ah! the genial Sun,
That gilds the lemou's fruit, or scents the flower,
On Spanish minds, a nation's nobler boast!
Beams forth ungentle influences. There
Sits Jealousy enthron'd, and at each ray
Exultant lights his slow-consuming fires.
Not such thy charming region; long before

Or hair-breadth 'scapes that haunt the boundless
deep

And force from tender eyes the silent tear;
When memory to the pensive maid suggests,
In full contrast, the safe domestic scene
For these resign'd. Beyond the frantic rage
Of conquering heroes brave, the female mind,
When steel'd by Love, in Love's most horrid way
Beholds not danger, or beholding scorns.
Heaven take my life, but let it crown my love."
She ceas'd: and, ere his words her fate decreed,
Impatient watch'd the language of his eye:
There Pity dwelt, and from its tender sphere
Sent looks of love, and faithless hopes inspir'd.
"Forgive me, generous maid," the youth re-
turn'd,

"If by thy accents charm'd, thus long I bore
To let such sweetness plead, alas! in vain!
Thy virtue merits more than crowns can yield
Of solid bliss, or happiest love bestow.
But ere from native shores I plough'd the main,
To one dear maid, by virtue and by charms
Alone endear'd, my plighted vows I gave;
To guard my faith, whatever chance should wait
My warring sword: if conquest, fame, and spoil,
Grac'd my return, before her feet to pour
The glittering treasure, and the laurel wrea th
Enjoying conquest then, and fame, and spoil;
If Fortune frown'd adverse, and Death forbade
The blissful union, with my latest breath

To dwell on Medway's and Maria's name. This ardent vow, deep-rooted, from my soul No dangers tore; this vow my bosom fir'd To conquer danger, and the spoils enjoy. Her shall I leave, with fair events elate,

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. IN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

Auditæ voces, vagitus et ingens,

Who crown'd mine humblest fortune with her Infantumque animæ flentes in limine primo. VIRG.

love?

Her shall I leave, who now perchance alone
Climbs the proud cliff, and chides my slow return?
And shall that vessel, whose approaching sails
Shall swell her breast with ecstasies, convey
Death to her hopes, and anguish to her soul?
No! may the deep my villain-corse devour,
If all the wealth Iberian mines conceal,
If all the charms Iberian maids disclose,
If thine, Elvira, thine, uniting all!
Thus far prevail-nor can thy virtuous breast
Demand what Honour, Faith, and Love, denies."

"Oh! happy she," rejoin'd the pensive maid,
"Who shares thy fame, thy virtue, and thy love!
And be she happy! thy distinguish'd choice
Declares her worth, and vindicates her claim.
Farewell my luckless hopes, my flattering dreams
Of rapturous days! my guilty suit, farewell!
Yet, fond howe'er my plea, or deep the wound
That waits my fame, let not the random shaft
Of Censure pierce with me th' Iberian dames:
They love with caution, and with happier stars.
And oh! by pity mov'd, restrain the taunts
Of levity, nor brand Elvira's flame;
By merit rais'd; by gratitude approv'd;
By hope confirm'd; with artless truth reveal'd;
Let, let me say, but for one matchless maid
Of happier birth, with mutual ardour crown'd.
"These radiant gems, which burnish happiness,
But mock misfortune, to thy favourite's hand
With care convey. And well may such adorn
Her cheerful front, who finds in thee alone
The source of every transport; but disgrace
My pensive breast, which, doom'd to lasting woe,
In thee the source of every bliss resigns.

"And now farewel, thou darling youth! the gem Of English merit! Peace, Content, and Joy, And tender Hopes, and young Desires, farewel! Attend, ye smiling train, this gallant mind Back to his native shores; there sweetly smooth His evening pillow; dance around his groves; And, where he treads, with violets paint his way. But leave Elvira! leave her, now no more Your frail companion! In the sacred cells Of some lone cloister let me shroud my shame: There, to the matin bell, obsequious, pour My constant orisons. The wanton Loves, And gay Desires, shall spy the glimmering towers, And wing their flight aloof: but rest confirm'd, That never shall Elvira's tongue conclude Her shortest prayer, ere Henry's dear success The warmest accent of her zeal employ."

Thus spoke the weeping fair, whose artless mind Impartial scorn'd to model her esteem By native customs; dress, and face, and air, And manners, less; nor yet resolv'd in vain. He, bound by prior love, the solemn vow Given and receiv'd, to soft compassion gave A tender tear; then with that kind adieu Esteem could warrant, wearied Heaven with prayers To shield that tender breast he left forlorn.

He ceas'd; and to the cloister's pensive scene Elvira shap'd her solitary way.

ADVERTISEMENT.

What particulars in Spenser were imagined most proper for the author's imitation on this occasion, are his language, his simplicity, his manner of description, and a peculiar tenderness of sentiment remarkable throughout his works.

АH me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest Worth neglected lies
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise:
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies,
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity.
In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame,
There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we School-mistress name;
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame;
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stowe;
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow;
And work the simple vassal's mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat

low;

And as they look'd they found their horrour grew,
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy [aghast;
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,

No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.
Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray;
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!
The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,
Do Learning's little tenement betray:

Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her whee around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwin'd,

With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd; And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind. Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet pourThe childish faces of old Eol's train; [tray'd, Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array'd, How then would fare or Earth, or Sky, or Main, Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein? And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to maintain,

The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! "T was her own labour did the fleece prepare; And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare;' For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight

[ocr errors]

on ground.

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,

Ne pompous title did bebauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth,

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;
Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear:
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere:
For never title yet so mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind which did that title love.
One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came!
Such favour did her past deportment claim:
And, if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she
found.

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew; Where no vain flower disclos'd a gawdy streak; But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew: The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue; The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

[ocr errors]

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around;
And pungent radish, biting infants' tongue;
And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's
wound;

And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found;
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom

Shall be, ere-while, in arid bundles bound,

To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, [fume. And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare perAnd here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd The daintiest garden of the proudest peer; Ere, driven from its envied site, it found A sacred shelter for its branches here; Where edg'd with gold its glittering skirts appear, Oh wassel days! O customs ineet and well! Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere:

Simplicity then sought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete,
If winter 't were, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat:
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foe men did a song entreat,
All, for the nonce, untuning every string,
Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they
to sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed;
And in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore
The times, when Truth by Popish rage did bleed;
And tortious death was true Devotion's meed;
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn,

That nould on wooden image place her creed; And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn: Ah! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er

return.

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac'd,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac'd,
The matron sate; and some with rank she grac'd,
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!)
Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd;
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.
Right well she knew each temper to descry;
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise;
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,
And some entice with pittance small of praise;
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays:
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd shesways:
Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold,
Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.
Lo now with state she utters the command!
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair;
Their books of stature small they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn secured are,
To save from finger wet the letters fair:
The work so gay that on their back is seen,
St. George's high achievements does declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween!
Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write:
As erst the bard' by Mulla's silver stream,
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite.
For brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight!
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,
Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin.

O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
His little sister doth his peril see:
All playful as she sate, she grows demure;
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee;
She meditates a prayer to set him free:
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree)

Spenser.

To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wings her so that all for pity she could dye. No longer can she now her shrieks command; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, To stay harsh Justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear! (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!) She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow; And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.

But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace? Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his disguised face? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain? When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain; Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim.

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: By turns, astony'd, every twig survey, And, from their fellows' hateful wounds, beware; Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them greet. And ginger-bread y-rare; now certes, doubly sweet! See to their seats they hye with merry glee, And in beseemly order sitten there; All but the wight of bum y-galled, he Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair; (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair;) And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, Convulsions intermitting! does declare

His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest;
And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd.
His face besprent with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face that seems a purple flower,
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower.
O the hard bosoms of despotic power!
All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour:
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall
claim

If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.
Behind some door, in melancholy thought,
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines;
Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught,
But to the wind all merriment resigns;
And deems it shame, if he to peace inclines;
And many a sullen look ascance is sent,
Which for his dame's annoyance he designs;
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent.
The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past resent.
Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be!
But if that pride it be, which thus inspires,
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see,
Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires:
Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres,
All coward arts, is Valour's generous heat;
The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires,
Like Vernon's patriot soul! more justly great
Than Craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false Deceit.

Yet nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellour in embryo,

Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die!
Though now he crawl along the ground so low,
Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high,
Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fate incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield; And many a poet quit th' Aonian field; And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here?"

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie,
And Liberty unbars her prison-door;
And like a rushing torrent out they fly,
And now the grassy cirque had cover'd o'er
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar;
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run,
Heavenshield their short-liv'd pastimes, I implore!
For well may Freedom erst so dearly won,
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the Sun.
Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade,
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers;
For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid;
For never may ye taste more careless hours
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers.
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing!
But most in courts where proud Ambition towers;
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.
Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring

See in each sprite some various bent appear!
These rudely carol most incondite lay;
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer
Salute the stranger passing on his way;
Some builden fragile tenements of clay;
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play;
Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend,

In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.
Here, as each season yields a different store,
Each season's stores in order ranged been;
Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er,
Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen;
And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green;
And here of lovely dye, the catharine pear,
Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween
O may no wight e'er pennyless come there,
Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care!
See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd,
Scattering like blooming maid their glances round,
With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside;
And must be bought, though penury betide.
The plumb all azure and the nut all brown,
And here each season do those cakes abide,
Whose honour'd names 2 th' inventive city own,
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises
known,

2 Shrewsbury cakes.

« ForrigeFortsæt »