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Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode;
Around the room I jovial rode :
Why did not these enjoyments last;
While innocence allow'd to waste !
Shenstone.—Born 1714, Died 1763.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
Just opening to the view.
Consumed her early prime ;
She died before her time.
Come from her midnight grave :
Thy love refused to save.
When injured ghosts complain;
To haunt the faithless swain. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth. Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep ? Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep ?
And yet that face forsake ?
Yet leave that heart to break ?
896.-WRITTEN AT AN INN AT
HENLEY. To thee, fair Freedom, I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot or humble inn.
'Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne :
Such freedom crowns it at an inn. I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,
I fly from falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lackeys else might hope to win; It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has travell’d life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn.
Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763.
Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale ?
Believe the flattering tale?
Those lips no longer red :
And every charm is fled.
This winding-sheet I wear :
Till that last morn appear.
A long and last adieu !
Who died for love of you.
With beams of rosy red :
And raving left his bed.
Where Margaret's body lay ;
That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he called on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore ; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more ! David Mallet.-Born 1700, Died 1765,
897.-WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 'Twas at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Clad in a wintry cloud;
That held her sable shroud.
When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death bas reft their crown.
His cheek, where health with beauty
glowed, A deadly pale o'ercast; So fades the fresh rose in its prime,
Before the northern blast.
The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed ; And wearied Heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrows shed.
898.-EDWIN AND EMMA. Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
A humble cottage stood.
Beneath a mother's eye ;
To see her blest, and die.
Gave colour to her cheek;
When vernal mornings break.
This charmer of the plains :
To paint our lily deigns.
Each maiden with despair ;
Yet knew not she was fair:
'Tis past! he cried, but, if your
souls Sweet mercy yet can move, Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love!
She came; his cold hand softly touched,
And bathed with many a tear :
So morning dews appear.
A cruel sister she !
“My Edwin, live for me!”
The churchyard path along, The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed
Her lover's funeral song.
Her startling fancy found
His groan in every sound.
The visionary vale-
Sad sounding in the gale!
Her aged mother's door : “He's gone !” she cried, " and I shall see
That angel face no more.
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art;
Shone forth the feeling heart.
Was quickly too revealed ;
That virtue keeps concealed.
Did love on both bestow !
Where fortune proves a foe.
Like her in mischief joyed,
Each darker art employed. The father, too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the clod
From whence his riches grew. Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmoved ;
Har sternly disapproved.
Of differing passions strove :
Yet could not cease to love.
The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walked and wept. Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste
Beneath the moonlight shade, In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight mourner strayed.
I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my side!”
She shivered, sighed, and died.
899.-SONG. The smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tuneful birds to sing, And while they warble from each spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them improve the hour that flies, And in soft raptures waste the day Among the shades of Endermay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear :
At this, thy living bloom will fade,
David Mallet.—Born 1700, Died 1765.
900.-A FUNERAL HYMN.
Ye midnight Shades ! o'er Nature spread
Lo! as the surpliced train draw near
901.-TENDENCIES OF THE SOUL
TOWARDS THE INFINITE. Say, why was man so eminently raised Amid the vast creation ; why ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing
eye, With thoughts beyond the limit of his
frame; But that the Omnipotent might send hiin
forth In sight of mortal and immortal powers, As on a boundless theatre, to run The great career of justice; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner deeds; To chase each partial purpose from his
breast : And through the mists of passion and of sense, And through the tossing tide of chance and
pain, To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, The applauding smile of Heaven ? Else
wherefore burns In mortal bosoms this inquenchèd hope, That breathes from day to day sublimer
things, And mocks possession ? wherefore darts the
mind, With such resistless ardour, to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free, Spurning the gross control of wilful might; Proud of the strong contention of her toils ; Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns To Heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view, Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame ? Who that, from Alpine heights, his labouring
eye Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave Through mountains, plains; through empires
black with shado And continents of sand ; will turn his gaze To mark the windings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet? The high-born
soul Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of Earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air; pursues the dying
storm; Rides on the volley'd lightning through the
heavens ; Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern
blast, Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she
soars The blue profound, and hovering round the
Sun, Beholds him pouring the redundant stream Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway Bend the reluctant planets to absolve The fated rounds of Time. Thence far
effused She darts her swiftness up the long career
Now let the sacred organ blow With solemn pause and sounding slow; Now let the voice due measure keep, In strains that sigh and words that weep, Till all the rocal current blended roll, Not to depress but lift the soaring soul. To lift it in the Maker's praise Who first inform'd our frame with breath, And after some few stormy days Now gracious gives us o'er to death. No king of fears In him appears Who shuts the scene of human woes; Beneath his shade Securely laid The dead alone find true repose.
Then while we mingle dust with dust,
Darid Mallet.-Born 1700, Died 1765.
Of devious comets; through its burning
signs Exulting measures the perennial wheel Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, Invest the orient. Now amazed she views The empyreal waste, where happy spirits
hold, Beyond this concave Heaven, their calm
abode; And fields of radiance, whose unfading light Has travell’d the profound six thousand
years, Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. Even on the barriers
of the world untired She meditates the eternal depth below; Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd
up In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of Renown, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery
lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but from
these Turning disdainful to an equal good, Through all the ascent of things enlarge her
view, Till every bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene.
Akenside.--Born 1721, Died 1770.
The form of beauty smiling at his heart,
head, Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. Nor yet will every soil with equal stores Repay the tiller's labour; or attend His will, obsequious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel. Different minds Incline to different objects : one pursues The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; Another sighs for harmony, and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning
fires The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the
ground; When furious whirlwinds rend the howling
air, And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky, Amid the mighty uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad From some high cliff superior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs All on the margin of some flowery stream To spread his careless limbs amid the cool Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day : Consenting zephyr sighs; the weeping rill Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the
groves ; And hill and dale with all their echoes
mourn. Such and so various are the tastes of men. O blest of heaven! whom not the languid
songs Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the
store Of nature fair imagination culls To charm the enliven'd soul! What though
not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's
pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marbles and the sculptured
gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the
902.-TASTE. What then is taste, but these internal
powers Active, and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust From things deformed or disarranged, or
gross In species? This, nor gems nor stores of
gold, Nor rrrple state, nor culture can bestow; Bat God alone, when first his active hand Imprints the secret bias of the soul. He, mighty parent, wise and just in all, Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the
swain Who journeys homeward from a summer
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her
wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence par
takes Fresh pleasure only: for the attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspired delight : her tempered
powers Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that eternal majesty that weighed The world's foundations; if to these the
mind Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the
forms Of servile custom cramp her generous power ; Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied
Akensude.-Born 1721, Died 1770.
Bless'd could my skill through ages make thee
shine, And proud to mix my memory with thine. But now the cause that waked my song
before, With praise, with triumph, crowns the toil
no more. If to the glorious man whose faithful cares, Nor quell’d by malice, nor relax'd by years, Had awed Ambition's wild audacious hate, . And dragg'd at length Corruption to her
fate; If every tongue its large applauses owed, And well-earn'd laurels every Muse bestow'd; If public Justice urged the high reward, And Freedom smiled on the devoted bard; Say then, to him whose levity or lust Laid all a people's generous hopes in dust; Who taught Ambition firmer heights of
power, And saved Corruption at her hopeless hour ; Does not each tongue its execrations owe ? Shall not each Muse a wreath of shame
bestow, And public Justice sanctify th' award, And Freedom's hand protect the impartial
bard ? Yet long reluctant I forbore thy name, Long watch'd thy virtue like a dying flame, Hung o'er each glimmering spark with anxious
eyes, And wish'd and hoped the light again would
rise. But since thy guilt still more entire appears, Since no art hides, no supposition clears ; Since vengeful Slander now too sinks her
blast, And the first rage of party hate is past; Calm as the judge of truth, at length I come To weigh thy merits, and pronounce thy
doom : So may my trust from all reproach be free; And Earth and Time confirm the fair decree. There are who say they view'd without
amaze The sad reverse of all thy former praise: That through the pageants of a patriot's name, They pierced the foulness of thy secret aim; Or deem'd thy arm exalted but to throw The public thunder on a private foe. But I, whose soul consented to thy cause, Who felt thy genius stamp its own applause, Who saw the spirits of each glorious age Move in thy bosom, and direct thy rage ; I scorn'd the ungenerous gloss of slavish
minds, The owl-eyed race, whom Virtue's lustre
blinds. Spite of the learned in the ways of vice, And all who prove that each man has his
price, I still believed thy end was just and free; And yet, even yet, believe it-spite of thee. Even though thy mouth impure has dared
disclaim, Urged by the wretched impotence of shame,
903.-AN EPISTLE TO CURIO. Thrice has the spring beheld thy faded fame, And the fourth winter rises on thy shame, Since I exulting grasp'd the votive shell, In sounds of triumph all thy praise to tell ;