  (1772—1780.) SOLITUDE.[September, 1772.] Free from envy, strife and sorrow, Jealous doubts, and heart-felt fears; Free from thoughts of what to-morrow May o'er-charge the soul with cares— Live I in a peaceful valley, By a neighbouring lonely wood; Giving way to melancholy, (Joy, when better understood). Near me ancient ruins falling 10 From a worn-out castle's brow; Once the greatest [chiefs] installing, Where are all their honours now? Here in midnight's gloomy terror I enjoy the silent night; Darkness shews the soul her error, Darkness leads to inward light. Here I walk in meditation, Pond'ring all sublunar things, From the silent soft persuasion, Which from virtue's basis springs. 20 What, says truth, are pomp and riches? Guilded baits to folly lent; Honour, which the soul bewitches, When obtain'd, we may repent. By me plays the stream meand'ring Slowly, as its waters glide; And, in gentle murmurs wand'ring, Lulls to downy rest my pride. Silent as the gloomy graves are 30 Now the mansions once so loud; Still and quiet as the brave, or All the horrors of a croud. This was once the seat of plunder, Blood of heroes stain'd the floor; Heroes, nature's pride and wonder, Heroes heard of now no more. Owls and ravens haunt the buildings, Sending gloomy dread to all; Yellow moss the summit yielding, 40 Pellitory decks the wall. Time with rapid speed still wanders, Journies on an even pace; Fame of greatest actions squanders, But perpetuates disgrace. Sigh not then for pomp or glory; What avails a heroe's name? Future times may tell your story, To your then disgrace and shame. Chuse some humble cot as this is, 50 In sweet philosophic ease; With dame Nature's frugal blisses Live in joy, and die in peace. A SONG.[September, 1772.] I. As Chloe fair, a new-made bride, Sat knotting in an arbour, To Colin now the damsel ty'd, No strange affection harbour. II. "How poor," says [she, "'s a] single life, A maid's affected carriage; Spent in sighs and inward strife, Things unknown in marriage. III. "Virgins vainly say they're free,10 None so much confin'd are; Lovers kind and good may be, Husbands may be kinder. IV. "Then shun not wedlock's happy chain, Nor wantonly still fly man; A single life is care and pain, Blessings wait on Hymen." CONCLUDING LINES OF PRIZE POEM ON HOPE.[Before October, 1772.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * But, above all, the Poet owns thy powers— Hope leads him on, and every fear devours; He writes, and, unsuccessful, writes again, Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain; New schemes he forms, and various plots he tries To win the laurel, and possess the Prize. TO EMMA.View, my fair, the fading flower, Clad like thee in [beauty's] arms, Idle pageant of an hour; Soon shall time its tints devour, And what are then its charms? Early pluck'd, it might produce A remedy to mortal pain, Afford a balmy cordial juice, That might celestial ease diffuse, 10 Nor blossom quite in vain. So 'tis with thee, my Emma fair, If nature's law's unpaid, If thou refuse our vows to hear And steel thy heart to ev'ry pray'r, A cruel frozen maid. But yield, my fair one, yield to love, And joys unnumber'd find, In Cupid's mystic circle move, Eternal raptures thou shalt prove, 20 Which leave no pang behind. Suffolk, Oct. 15, 1772. 'Multa cadunt inter calicem supremaque labra.' DESPAIR.[November, 1772.] Heu mihi! Quod nullis amor medicabilis herbis. Tyrsis and Damon. D. Begin, my Tyrsis; songs shall sooth our cares, Allay our sorrows, and dispel our fears; Shall glad thy heart, and bring its native peace, And bid thy grief its weighty influence cease. No more those tears of woe, dear shepherd, shed, Nor ever mourn the lov'd Cordelia dead. T. In vain, my Damon, urge thy fond request To still the troubles of an anxious breast: Cordelia's gone! and now what pain is life 10 Without my fair, my friend, my lovely wife? Hope! cheerful hope! to distant climes is fled, And Nature mourns the fair Cordelia dead. D. But can thy tears re-animate the earth, Or give to sordid dust a second birth? Mistaken mortal! learn to bear the ill, Nor let that canker, grief, thy pleasures kill. No more in Sorrow's sable garb array'd, Still [mourn] thy lov'd, thy lost Cordelia dead. T. Can I forget the fairest of her kind, 20 Beauteous in person, fairer still in mind? Can I forget she sooth'd my heart to rest, And still'd the troubl'd motion in my breast? Can I, by soothing song or friendship led, Forget to mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead? D. Another fair may court thee to her arms, Display her graces, and reveal her charms; May catch thy wand'ring eye, dispel thy woe, And give to sorrow final overthrow. No longer, then, thy heart-felt anguish shed, 30 Nor mourn, in solitude, Cordelia dead. T. Sooner shall lions fierce forget to roam, And peaceful walk with gentle lambs at home; Sooner shall Discord love her ancient hate, And Peace and Love with Rage incorporate; Sooner shall turtles with the sparrow wed, Than I forget my lov'd Cordelia dead. D. Must then Dorintha ever sigh in vain, And CÆlia breathe to echoing groves her pain? Must Chloe hope in vain to steel that heart 40 In which each nymph would gladly share a part? Must these, dejected shepherd, be betray'd. And victims fall, because Cordelia's dead? T. By those who love, my friend, it stands confest, No second flame can fill a lover's breast: For me no more the idle scenes of life Shall vex with envy, hatred, noise, or strife; But here, in melancholy form array'd, I'll ever mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead. CUPID.[November, 1772.] Whoe'er thou art, thy master know; He has been, is, or shall be so. What is he, who clad in arms, Hither seems in haste to move, Bringing with him soft alarms, Fears the heart of man to prove; Yet attended too by charms— Is he Cupid, God of Love? Yes, it is, behold him nigh, Odd compound of ease and smart; Near him [stands] a nymph, whose sigh 10 Grief and joy, and love impart; Pleasure dances in her eye, Yet she seems to grieve at heart. Lo! a quiver by his side, Arm'd with darts, a fatal store! See him, with a haughty pride, Ages, sexes, all devour; Yet, as pleasure is describ'd, Glad we meet the tyrant's power. Doubts and cares before him go, 20 Canker'd jealousy behind; Round about him spells he'll throw, Scatt'ring with each gust of wind On the motley crew below, Who, like him, are render'd blind. This is love! a tyrant kind, Giving extacy and pain; Fond deluder of the mind, Ever feigning not to feign; Whom no savage laws can bind, 30 None escape his pleasing chain. SONG.[November, 1772.] Cease to bid me not to sing. Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre: Hither, god of music, bring Food to feed the gentle fire; And on PÆgasean wing Mount my soul enraptur'd higher. Some there are who'd curb the mind, And would blast the springing bays; All essays are vain, they'll find, 10 Nought shall drown the muse's lays, Nought shall curb a free-born mind, Nought shall damp Apollo's praise. [ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SPRINGALL LEVETT.][1774.] What though no trophies peer above his dust, Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust; What though no earthly thunders sound his name, Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame: One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess— More should we mourn him, did we love him less. PARODY ON [BYROM'S] "MY TIME, OH YE MUSES."[Woodbridge, about 1774.] My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped Ere you or your whimsies got into my head; I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest, And my heart play'd a regular tune in my breast. But now, lack-a-day! what a change for the worse, 'Tis as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse. My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind, Could guide my pen gently to what I design'd. I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle, 10 Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle. But, since this vile Cupid has got in my brain, I beg of the gods to assist in my strain. And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves, And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves. * * * * * * * * * * * * * THE WISH.[Woodbridge, about 1774.] My Mira, shepherds, is as fair As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale, As sylphs who dwell in purest air, As fays who skim the dusky dale, As Venus was when Venus fled From watery Triton's oozy bed. My Mira, shepherds, has a voice As soft as Syrinx in her grove, As sweet as echo makes her choice, As mild as whispering virgin-love; As gentle as the winding stream Or fancy's song when poets dream. * * * * * * * * * |
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