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Is it glad Suminer's balmy breath, that blows For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring:
The nightingale was mute, Oft have I met her ou the verdant side
And every shepherd's flute Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow mcads,
Was cast in silent scorn away, Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
While all attended to ber sweeter lay. Array'd in all her flowery pride.
Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song, No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
And thou, melodious Philomel, No brighter colours paint th' enameld field.
Again thy plaintive story tell;
For Death has stopt that tuneful tongie, Is it to Love these new delights I owe?
Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel. Four times has the revolving Sun His annual circle through the zodiac run;
In vain I look around Since all that Love's indulgent power
O'er all the well-known ground, On favour'd mortals can bestow,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Was given to me in this auspicious bower.
Where oft we us'd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy Along the valley, can she now be found : Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound Of innocent desires,
No more iny mournful eye While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.
Can aught of her espy, Whence then this strange increase of joy? But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like me, (If such another happy man there be)
O shades of Ilagley, where is now your boast ? Has by his own experience tried
Your bright inhabitant is lost.
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
To your sequesterd dales
And flower embroider'd vales MEMORY OF THE SAME LADY. From an admiring world she chose to fly:
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every passion from her breast,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.
Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry ;
By your delighted mother's side, Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ? This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And pour forth all my stores of grief;
And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of Of grief surpassing every other woe,
truth? Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
O loss beyond repair! Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
O wretched father! left alone, Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe! Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Now she, alas! is gone, Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
From folly and from vice their helpless age to sare! Oft have you my Lucy seen! But never shall you now behold her more:
Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate Nor will she now with fond delight
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore; And taste refind your rural charms explore.
From these fond arms, that vainly strove Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
With hapless ineflectual love Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine To guard her bosom from the mortal blow? Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.
Could not your favouring power, Aonian
maids, Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice Could not, alas! your power prolong ber date, To hear her heavenly voice;
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,
A. D. 1747.
Or ander Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar, And made each charm of polish'd courts agree You open'd all your sacred store,
With candid Truth's simplicity, Whate'er your ancient sages taught,
And uncorrupted Innocence ! Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
Tell how to more than manly sense And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit She join'd the softening influence glow?
Of more than female tenderness:
How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
joy, Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Which oft the care of others' good destroy,
Her kindly-melting heart,
To every want and every woe,
To guilt itself when in distress,
And all relief that bounty could bestow! Steep Anio 3 pours his floods,
Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life Nor yet wbere Meles 4 or Dissus s stray.
Beneath the bloody knife,
Her gentle tears would fall,
Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to To dire disease and death your darling should be left.
Now what avails it that in early bloom,
Not only good and kind,
But strong and elevated was her mind :
[Rome ; A spirit that with noble pride With you she search'd the wit of Greece and Could look superior down And all that in her latter days
On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize,
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain, Or what in Britain's isle,
But by magnanimous disdain. Most favour'd with your smile,
A wit that, temperately bright, The powers of Rea on and of Fancy join'd
With inofensive light To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?
All pleasing shone; nor ever past Ah! what is now the use
The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand, Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind, And sweet Benevolence's mild command, To black Oblivion's glooin for ever now consign’d. And bashful Modesty, before it cast.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceivid, At least, ye Nine, her spot less name
That nor too little nor too much believ'd, 'Tis yours from death to save,
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear, And in the temple of immortal Fame
And without weakness knew to be sincere. With golden characters her worth engrave.
Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days, Come then, ye virgin sisters, come,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise, And strew with choicest flowers her ballow'd tomb:
In life's and glory's freshest bloom, But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the With accents sweet and sad,
tomb. Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn Unhappy Petrarch callid to mourn;
So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.
When now the wintry tempests all are fled,
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale, Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head: Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace! From every branch the balmy Aowerets rise, Hoy eloquent in every look
(spoke! On every bough the golden fruits are seen; Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
The wood-nymphs tend, and th’ Idalian queen. Left all the taint of modish Vice behind,
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
Cold with perpetual snows: The Mintio runs by Mantua, the birth place The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and of Virgil.
dies. * The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.
Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers, 3 The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where
With never-fading myrtles twin'd, Horace had a villa.
And fragrant with ambrosial powers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd; 4 The Meles is a river of Jonia, from whence
Arise, and bither bring the silver lyre,
To the soft notes of elegant desire,
With which o'er many a land
Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love; Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supreme decree
With impious grief complain.
That all thy full blown joys at once should fade;
Was his most righteous will--and be that will obey'd. Rough mountain oaks and desert rocks, to pity move.
Would thy fond love his grace to her control,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? l'o thee thy mistress in the blissful band
Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?
Nomrather strive thy groveling mind to raise The joys of wedded love were never thine:
Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is every mortal bliss;
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees Nor did her fond affection on the bed
Beyond thc bounds of this imperfect state, Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sorereign good ascend.
Rise then, my soul, with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight,
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate
No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss. O best of wives ! O dearer far to me
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore, Than when thy virgin charms
There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more,
ON THE SAME LADY.
Memory of Lucy Lyttelton,
Daughter of Hugh Fortescue of Filleigh
In the county of Devon, esq. What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give?
Father to the present earl of Clinton, Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise,
By Lucy his wife, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts
The daughter of Matthew lord Aylmer, could raise.
Who departed this life the 19th of Jan. 1746-7,
Having employed the short time assigned to
her here On whom for consolation shall I call ?
In the uniform practice of religion and virtue,
Made to engage all hearts, and charm all
eyes; To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. Though meek, magnanimous; though witty, wise; · Alas! each friend of mine,
Polite, as all her life in courts had been ;
The noble fire of an exalted inind,
With gentle female tenderness combin'd.
Her speech was the melodious voice of Love, Are now with your idea sadden'd all :
Her song the warbling of the vernal grove; Each favourite author we together read Her eloquence was sweeter than her song, My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong; dead.
Her form each beauty of her mind express'd,
Her mind was Virtue by the Graces dress'd.
And back return'd again;
HORACE. BOOK IV. ODE IV.
WRITTEN AT OXFORD 1725 1.
Qualem ministrum fulminis alitem, &c.
To whom he gave his dreadful bolts to bear, That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd Faithful assistant 2 of his master's love, Of rare felicity,
King of the wandering nations of the air, On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, And every scheme of bliss our hearts bad form'd, First printed with Mr. West's translation of With soothing hope, for many a future day, Pindar. See the preface to that gentleman's In one sad moment broke!
poems. Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; * In the rape of Ganymede, who was carried up
TO THE COUNTESS OF ECREMONT.
When balmy breezes fannd the vernal sky, “ Not Hydra sprouting from her mangled head On doubtful pinions left his parent nest,
So tir'd the baffled force of Hercules; In slight essays bis growing force to try,
Nor Thebes, nor Colchis, such a monster bred, While inborn courage fir'd his generous breast ; Pregnant of hills, and fam'd for prodigies. Then, darting with impetuous fury down,
“ Plunge her in ocean, like the morning Sun, The flocks he slaughter'd, an unpractis'd foe; Brighter she rises from the depths below: Now his ripe valour to perfection grown
To earth with unavailing ruin thrown, The scaly snake and crested dragon know : Recruits her strength, and foils the wondering foe. Or, as a lion's youthful progeny,
“ No more of victory the joyful fame Wean'd from his savage dam and milky food, Shall from my camp to haughty Carthage fly; The gazing kid beholds with fearful eye,
Lost, lost, are all the glories of her name! Doom'd first to stain his tender fangs in blood : With Asdrubal her hopes and fortune die ! Such Drusus, young in arms, his foes beheld, “ What shall the Claudian valour not perform
The Alpine Rhæti, long unmatch'd in fight : Which Power Divine guards with propitious care, 80 were their hearts with abject terrour quell'd; Which Wisdom steers through all the dangerous So sunk their haugbty spirit at the sight.
Through all the rocks and shoals of doubtful Tam'd by a boy, the fierce barbarians find
How guardian Prudence guides the youthful flame, And how great Cæsar's fond paternal mind
Each generous Nero forms to early fame;
VIRTUE AND FAME.
Virtue and Fame, the other day,
Happen'd to cross each other's way;
Said Virtue, Hark ye! madam Fame,
Your ladyship is much to blame;
Jove bids you always wait on me, Let red Metaurus, stain'd with Pupic blood,
And yet your face I seldom see: Let mighty Asdrubal subdued, confess
The Paphian queen employs your trumpet,
And bids it praise some handsome strumpet ; How much of empire and of fame is ow'd By thee, O Rome, to the Neronian race.
Or, thundering through the ranks of war,
Ambition ties you to her car.”
Saith Fame, “Dear madam, I protest,
In such obscure retreats you lurk!
To seek you is an endless work." Pode o'er the ravag'd towns of Italy;
“Well," answer'd Virtue, “ I allow As through the pine-trees flies the raging fire, Your plea. But hear, and mark me now. Or Eurus o'er the vext Sicilian sea.
I know (without offence to others)
I know the best of wives and mothers;
Who never pass'd an useless day
In scandal, gossiping, or play : From hence 'twas given her conquering sword to
Whose modest wit, chastis'd by sense, wield,
Is lively cheerful innocence; Raise her fall'n gods, and ruin'd shrines restore.
Whose heart nor envy knows, nor spite, Thus Hannibal at length despairing spoke :
Whose duty is her sole delight; “ Like stags to ravenous wolves an easy prey,
Nor ruld by whim, nor slave to fashion, Our feeble arms a valiant foe provoke,
Her parents' joy, her husband's passion.” Whom to elude and 'scape were victory:
Fame smil'd and answer'd, “ On my life,
This is some country parson's wife, "A dauntless nation, that from Trojan fires, Who never saw the court nor town, Hostile Ausonia, to thy destin'd shore
Whose face is homely as her gown ; Her gods, her infant sons, and aged sires,
Who banquets upon eggs and bacon—" Through angry seas and adverse tempests bore : “ No, madam, no--you’re much mistaken
I beg you'll let me set you right" As on high Algidas the sturdy oak,
'Tis one with every beauty bright; Whose spreading boughs the axe's sharpness feel, Adorn’d with every polish'd art Improves by loss, and, thriving with the stroke, That rank or fortune can impart: Draws health and vigour from the wounding steel. 'Tis the most celebrated toast
That Britain's spacious isle can boast; to Jupiter by an eagle, according to the Poetical 'Tis princely Petworth's noble dame; History.
'Tis Egremont-Go, tell it, Fame."
BY EARL HARDWICKE.
For you alone I now think fit
To turn a poet and a wit-
Have power to smooth my wrinkled brow,
And make me, though by nature stupid, “ First on my roll stands Wyndham's bride;
As brisk, and as alert, as Cupid. My trumpet oft I've rais'd, to sound
These obligations to repay, Her modest praise the world around !
Whene'er your happy nuptial day But notes were wanting-Canst thou find
Shall with the circling years return, A Muse to sing her face, her mind ?
For you my torch shall brighter burn Believe me, I can name but one,
Than when you first my power ador'd,
Nor will I call myself your lord,
LETTER TO EARL HARDWICKE:
Dear child, let Hymen not beguile
You, who are such a judge of style,
To think that he these verses made,
Without an abler penman's aid;
Methought I saw before my feet,
READING MISS CARTER'S POEMS Had oft inspir'd my careless lays.
Such were the notes that struck the wondering ear Long had I lost you from my bower,
Of silent Night, when, on the verdant banks You scorn'd to own my gentle power;
Of Siloë's hallow'd brook, celestial harps, With me no more your genius sported,
According to seraphic voices, sung The grave historic Muse you courted ;
Glory to God on high, and on the earth Or, rais'd from Earth, with straining eyes;
Peace and good-will to men !- Resume the lyre, Pursued Urania through the skies;
Chauntress divine, and every Briton call But now, to my forsaken track,
Its melody to hear-so shall thy strains, Fair Egremont has brought you back:
More powerful than the song of Orpheus, tame Nor blush, by her and Virtue led,
The savage heart of brutal Vice, and bend That soft, that pleasing path, to tread;
At pure Religion's shrine the stubborn knees For there, beneath to morrow's ray,
Of bold Impiety.-Greece shall no more Ev'n Wisdom's self shall deign to play.
Of Lesbian Sappho boast, whose wanton Muse, Lo! to my flowery groves and springs
Like a false Syren, while she charm’d, seduc'd Her favourite son the goddess brings,
To guilt and ruin. For the sacred head The council's and the senate's guide,
Of Britain's poetess, the Virtues twine Law's oracle, the nation's pride:
A nobler wreath, by them from Eden's grove He comes, he joys with thee to join,
Unfading gather'd, and direct the hand
Of to fix it on her brows.
The gods, on thrones celestial seated,
“ That place is inine,” great Neptune cries : HYVEN TO ELIZA.
“ Bebold ! how proud o'er all the main
Those stately turrets seem to regn! Madam, before your feet I lay
No views so grand on Earth you see! This ode upon your wedding-day,
The master too belongs to me: The first indeed I ever made,
I grant him my domain to share, For writing odes is not my trade :
I bid his hand my trident bear.” My head is full of household cares,
“ The sea is your's, but mind the land,” And necessary dull affairs;
Pallas replies; “ by me were plann'd Besides that sometimes jealous frumps
Those towers, that hospital, those docks, Will put me into doleful dumps.
That fort, which crowns those island rocks: And then no clown beneath the sky
The lady too is of my choir, Was e'er more ungallant than I;
I taught her hand to touch the lyre;