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This unadorned stone was placed here
George Lord LYTTELTON,
Lord Lyttelton's poems are the works of a man of literature and judgment, devoting part of his time to versification. They have nothing to be despised, and little to be admired. Of his Progress of Love, it is sufficient blame to say that it is pastoral. His blank verse in Blenheim has neither much force nor much elegance. His little performances, whether songs or epigrams, are sometimes sprightly, and sometimes insipid. His epistolary pieces have a smooth equability, which camot much tire, because they are short, but which seldom elevates or surprises. But from this censure ought to be excepted his Advice to Belinda, which, though for the most part written when he was very young, contains much truth and much prudence, very elegantly and vigorously expressed, and shows a mind attentive to life, and a power of poetry which cultivation might have raised to excellence,
IN FOUR ECLOGUES.
TO MR. POPE.
“Ye nymphs,” he cried, "ye Dryads, whoso long THE PROGRESS OF LOVE,
Have favour'd Damon, and inspir'd his sony;
Though wild Ambition and destructive Rage 1. Uncertainty. To Mr. Pope.
No factions here can form, no wars can wage: 2. Hope. To the hon. George Doddington.
Though Envy frowns not on your humble shades, S. Jealousy. To Edward Walpole, esq.
Nor Calumny your inocence invades :
Too often violates your boasted rest;
“Ah, luckless day! when first with fond surprise UNCERTAINTY.
On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes!
Then in wild tumults all my soul was tost,
Then reason, liberty, at once were lost :-
From the same spring at the same moment flow: Though now, sublimely borne on Homer's wing Unhappy boy! these vain inquiries cease, Of glorious wars and godlike chiefs she sing : Thought could not guard, nor will restore, thy peace: Wilt thou with me revisit once again
Indulge the frenzy that thou must endure, The crystal fountain, and the flowery plain? And sooth the pain thou know'st not how to cure. Wilt thou, indulgent, hear my verse relate Come, flattering Memory! and tell my heart The various changes of a lover's state;
How kind she was, and with what pleasing art And, while each turn of passion I pursue,
She strove its fondest wishes to obtain, Ask thy own heart if what I tell be true?
Confirm her power, and faster bind my chain. To the green margin of a lonely wood,
If on the green we danc'd, a mirthful band; Whose pendent shades o'erlook'd a silver flood, To me alone she gave her willing hand: Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd, Her partial taste, if e'er I touch'd the lyre, Full of the image of his beauteous maid:
Still in my song found something to adınire. His flock, far off, unfed, untended, lay,
By none but her my crook with flowers was crown'd, To every savage a defenceless prey;
By none but her my brows with ivy bound: No sense of interest could their master move, The world, that Damon was her choice, believ'd, And every care seem'd trifling now but love. The world, alas! like Damon, was deceiv'd. A while in pensive silence he remainid,
When last I saw her, and declar'd my fire But, though his voice was mute, his looks complain'd; In words as soft as passion could inspire, At length the thoughts within his bosom pent Coldly she heard, and full of scorn withdrew, Forc'd his unwilling tongue to give them vent. Without one pitying glance, one sweet adieus.
The frighted hind, who sees his ripen'd corn
“ And art thou then, fond youth, secure of joy? Up from the roots by sudden tempests torn, Can no reverse thy flattering bliss destroy? Whose fairest hopes destroy'd and blasted lie, Has treacherous Love no torment yet in store? Feels not so keen a pang of grief as I.
Or hast thou never prov'd his fatal power? Ah, how have I deserv'd, inhuman maid,
Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy To have my faithful service thus repaid?
cheek? Were all the marks of kindness I receivd,
Why sigh'd thy heart as if it strove to break ? But dreams of joy, that charm'd me and deceiv'd? Why were the desert rocks invok'd to hear Or did you only nurse my growing love,
The plaintive accent of thy sad despair? That with inore pain I might your hatred prove? From Delia's rigour all those pains arose, Sure guilty treachery no place could find
Delia, who now compassionates my woes, In such a gentle, such a generous mind :
Who bids me hope; and in that charming word A maid brought up the woods and wilds among Has peace and transport to my soul restord. Could ne'er have learnt the art of courts so young: Begin my pipe, begin the gladsome lay ; No; let me rather think her anger feign'd, A kiss from Delia shall thy music pay; Still let me hope my Delia may be gaind; A kiss obtain'd 'twixt struggling and consent, 'Twas only modesty that seem'd disdain,
Given with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content. And her heart suffer'd when she gave me pain.” No laureat wreaths I ask, to bind my brows,
Pleas'd with this flattering thought, the lovesick Such as the Muse on lofty bards bestows: Felt the faint dawning of a doubtful joy; [boy Let other swains to praise or fame aspire ; Back to his fock more cheerful he return'd, I from her lips my recompense require. When now the setting Sun more fiercely burn'd, “Why stays my Delia in her secret bower? Blue vapours rose along the mazy rills,
Light gales have chas'd the late impending shower; And light's last blushes ting'd the dist: nt hills. Th' emerging San more bright his beams extends;
Oppos'd, its beauteous arch the rainbow bends!
Come forth, my love, thy shepherd's joys to crown:
All nature smiles.-Will only Delia frown?
“ Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plain, While every flower of every sweet they drain :
See, how beneath yon hillock's shady steep,
The shelter'd herds on flowery couches sleep:
If with my fond desires my love comply;
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms? From Love, Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
A bird for thee in silken bands I hold, Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains. Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold; Young Maro, touch'd by his inspiring dart, From distant isles the lovely stranger came, Could charm each ear, and soften every heart: And bears the fortunate Canaries name; Me too his power has reachd, and bids with thine In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note, My rustic pipe in pleasing concert join'.
Not ev'n the nightingale's melodious throat. Damon no longer sought the silent shade, Accept of this; and could I add beside No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd, What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide: But call'd the swains to hear his jocund song, If all the gems in eastern rocks were mine, And told his joy to all the rural throng.
On thee alone their glittering pride should shine. “Blest be the hour,” he said, “that happy hour, But, if thy mind no gifts have power to move, When first I own'd my Delia's gentle power; Phoebus himself shall leave th’ Aonian grove: Then gloomy discontent and pining care
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain, Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there; Shall come sweet suppliants for their favourite Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires,
swain. Delightful languors, and transporting fires. For bim each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood, Where yonder limes combine to form a shade, For him each green-hair'd sister of the wood, These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming inaid ; Whom oft bencath fair Cynthia's gentle ray There she appeard, on that auspicious day, His music calls to dance the night away. When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay: And you, fair nymphs, companions of my love, She led the dance-Heavens! with what grace she With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove, mova !
I beg you, recommend my faithful fame, Who could have seen her then, and not have lov’d? | And let her often hear her shepherd's name : I strore not to resist so sweet a flame,
Shade all my faults from her inquiring sight, But gloried in a happy captive's name;
And show my merits in the fairest light; Nor would I now, could Love permit, be free, My pipe your kind assistance shall repay, But leave to brutes their savage liberty.
And every friend shall claim a different lay.
“ But see! in yonder glade the heavenly far " Mr. Doddington had written some very pretty Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy airlove verses, which have never been published. Ah, thither let ine fly with eager feet ;
Lyttelton. Adieu, my pipe; I go my love to mee:
TO MR. EDWARD WALPOLE.
0, may I find her as we parted last,
Ah, wretched swain, could no examples move And may each future hour be like the past ! Thy heedless heart to shun the rage of love? So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed, Hast thou not heard how poor Menalcas 2 died Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.”
A victim to Parthenia's fatal pride?
Around his tomb their tears the Muses paid ;
And all things moum'd, but the relentless maid.
And rest, as if my Delia still were kind.
No, let me live, her falsehood to upbraid : Wealth is disturbid by care, and power by fear:
Some god perhaps my just revenge will aid. Of all the passions that employ the mind,
Alas! what aid, fond swain, wouldst thou receive? In ge:tle love the sweetest joys we find :
Could thy heart bear to see its Delia grieve? Yet ev'n those joys dire Jealousy molests,
Protect her, Heaven ! and let her never know And blackens each fair image in our breasts.
The slightest part of hapless Damon's woe : O may the warmth of thy too tender heart
I ask no vengeance from the powers above;
All I implore is never more to love.-
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair. Begin, my Muse, and Damon's woes rehearse, Come, cool Indifference, and heal my breast; In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.
Wearied, at length, I seek thy downy rest : On a romantic mountain's airy head
No turbulence of passion shall destroy (While browzing goats at ease around him fed)
My future ease with flattering hopes of joy. Anxions he lay, with jealous cares opprest ; Hear, mighty Pan, and, all ye sylvans, hear Distrust and anger labouring in his breast- What by your guardian deities I swear; The vale beneath a pleasing prospect yields No more my eyes shall view her fatal charms, Of verdant meads and cultivated fields;
No more I'll court the traitoress to my arms; Through these a river rolls its winding flood, Not all her arts my steady soul shall move, Adorn'd with various tufts of rising wood; And she shall find that reason conquers love!"Here, half conceal'd in trees, a cottage stands, Scarce had he spoke, when through the lawn below A castle there the opening plain commands; Alone he saw the beauteous Delia go; Beyond, a town with glittering spires is crown'd,
At once transported, he forgot his vow, And distant hills the wide horizon bound:
(Such perjuries the laughing gods allow!) So charming was the scene, a while the swain
Down the steep hills with ardent baste he fiew; Beheld delighted, and forgot his pain:
He found her kind, and soon believ'd her true.
“ Say, thou inconstant, what has Damon done, Though far unequal to those polish'd strains, To lose the heart bis tedious pains had won ? With which thy Congreve charm'd the listening Tell me what charms you in my rival find,
plains : Against whose power no ties have strength to bind ? | Yet shall its music please thy partial ear, Has he, like me, with long obedience strove And sooth thy breast with thoughts that once were To conquer your disdain, and merit love?
dear; Has he with transport every smile ador'd,
Recall those years which time has thrown behind, And died with grief at each ungentle word ? When smiling Love with Honour shar'd thy mind : Ah, no! the conquest was obtain'd with ease; When all thy glorious days of prosperous fight He pleas'd you, by not studying to please : Delighted less than one successful night. His careless indolence your pride alarm'd; The sweet remembrance shall thy youth restore, And, had be lov'd you more, he less had charm’d. Pancy again shall run past pleasures o'er;
"O pain to think ! another shall possess And, while in Stowe's enchanting walks you stray, Those balmy lips which I was wont to press : This theme may help to cheat the summer's day. Ar ther on her panting breast shall lie,
Beneath the covert of a myrtle wood,
To Venus and to Hymen, there combin'd,
See Mr. Gay's Dione,
TO LORD COBHAM.