Delphi Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson (Illustrated) E-Book

Mary Robinson

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics Ltd
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 1004

Beschreibung

The English actress, poet and society beauty of the late eighteenth century, Mary Robinson was known as “the English Sappho” and earned her nickname “Perdita” for her celebrated role as the heroine of Shakespeare’s ‘The Winter’s Tale’. Robinson’s work has in more recent times received critical attention, recognising her importance in the development of Romanticism. In her day, she was acknowledged as a leading poet and her verses demonstrate wit, charm, theatricality and emotional resonance. A poet of sensibility, as well as of popular culture, Robinson wrote poems that chronicle the major events of her time, employing aesthetic innovations. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Robinson’s collected poetical works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Robinson’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Robinson’s life and poetry
* Many rare poems appearing in digital print for the first time, including ‘Captivity’, the poem Robinson wrote after her experiences in a debtors’ prison
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Robinson’s protofeminist essay ‘A Letter to the Women of England’
* Features the poet’s memoir - discover Robinson’s intriguing life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Life and Poetry of Mary Robinson
Brief Introduction: Mary Robinson by John Joseph Knight
Poems, 1775
Captivity: A Poem; and, Celadon and Lydia: A Tale
Poems, 1791
Sight, the Cavern of Woe, and Solitude
Monody to the Memory of the Late Queen of France
Sappho and Phaon
Lyrical Tales
The Wild Wreath

The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Non-Fiction
A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustice of Mental Subordination

The Memoir
Mrs. Mary Robinson, Written by Herself

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Leseprobe

Mary Robinson

(1757-1800)

Contents

The Life and Poetry of Mary Robinson

Brief Introduction: Mary Robinson by John Joseph Knight

Poems, 1775

Captivity: A Poem; and, Celadon and Lydia: A Tale

Poems, 1791

Sight, the Cavern of Woe, and Solitude

Monody to the Memory of the Late Queen of France

Sappho and Phaon

Lyrical Tales

The Wild Wreath

The Poems

List of Poems in Chronological Order

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Non-Fiction

A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustice of Mental Subordination

The Memoir

Mrs. Mary Robinson, Written by Herself

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2019

Version 1

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Mary Robinson

By Delphi Classics, 2019

COPYRIGHT

Mary Robinson - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2019.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78877 982 1

Delphi Classics

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Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

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The Life and Poetry of Mary Robinson

Bristol, a city in South West England — Mary Robinson’s birthplace

Bristol, 1850

Brief Introduction: Mary Robinson by John Joseph Knight

From ‘Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900, Volume 49’

MARY ROBINSON (1758 — 1800), known as ‘Perdita,’ actress, author, and mistress of George, Prince of Wales (afterwards George IV), of Irish descent, was born on 27 Nov. 1758 at College Green, Bristol. The original name of her father’s family, McDermott, had been changed by one of her ancestors into Darby. Her father, the captain of a Bristol whaler, was born in America. Through her mother, whose name was Seys, she claimed descent from Locke. She showed precocious ability and was fond of elegiac poetry, reciting at an early age verses from Pope and Mason. Her earliest education was received at the school in Bristol kept by the sisters of Hannah More [q. v.] A scheme of establishing a whale fishery on the coast of Labrador and employing Esquimaux labour, which her father originated, and in which he embarked his fortune, led to his temporary settlement in America. His desertion of her mother brought with it grave financial difficulties. Mary was next placed at a school in Chelsea under a Mrs. Lorrington, an able erratic but drunken woman, from whom she claims to have learnt all she ever knew, and by whom she was encouraged in writing verses. She passed thence to a school kept by a Mrs. Leigh in Chelsea, which she was compelled to leave in consequence of her father’s neglect. After receiving, at the early age of thirteen, a proposal of marriage from a captain in the royal navy, she temporarily assisted her mother in keeping a girls’ school at Chelsea. This establishment was broken up by her father, and she was sent to a ‘finishing school’ at Oxford House, Marylebone, kept by a Mrs. Hervey. Hussey, the dancing-master there, was ballet-master at Covent Garden Theatre. Through him she was introduced to Thomas Hull [q. v.], and afterwards to Arthur Murphy [q. v.] and David Garrick.

Struck by her appearance, Garrick offered to bring her out as Cordelia to his own Lear. He paid her much attention, told her her voice recalled that of Mrs. Cibber, and encouraged her to attend the theatre and familiarise herself with stage life and proceedings. But her appearance on the boards was long deferred owing to her marriage, on 12 April 1774 at St. Martin’s Church, with Thomas Robinson, an articled clerk, who was regarded by her mother as a man of means and expectations. At his request her nuptials were kept secret, and she lived for a while with her mother in a house in Great Queen Street, on the site now occupied by the Freemasons’ Tavern. After a visit to Wales to see the father of her husband, whose birth was illegitimate, she returned to London and lived with Robinson at No. 13 Hatton Garden. During two years she led a fashionable life, neglected by her husband, receiving compromising attentions from Lord Lyttelton and other rakes, and at the end of this period she shared the imprisonment of her husband, who was arrested for debt.

During a confinement in the king’s bench prison, extending over almost ten months, she occupied in writing verses the hours that were not spent in menial occupation or attending to her child. Her poems, while in manuscript, obtained for her the patronage of the Duchess of Devonshire; a first collection was published in 1775 (2 vols.). After her release from prison, she took refuge in Newman Street. There she was seen by Sheridan, to whom she recited. At the instance of William Brereton she now applied once more to Garrick, who, though he had retired from the stage, still took an active interest in the affairs of Drury Lane. In the green-room of the theatre she recited the principal scenes of Juliet, supported by Brereton as Romeo. Juliet was chosen for her début by Garrick, who superintended the rehearsals, and on some occasions went through the various scenes with her. A remunerative engagement was promised her, and on 10 Dec. 1776 she appeared with marked success as Juliet. Garrick occupied a seat in the orchestra. On 17 Feb. 1777 she was Statira in ‘Alexander the Great,’ and on 24 Feb. was the original Amanda in the ‘Trip to Scarborough,’ altered by Sheridan from Vanbrugh’s ‘Relapse.’ In this she had to face some hostility directed against the piece by a public to which it had been announced as a novelty. She also played for her benefit Fanny Sterling in the ‘Clandestine Marriage.’ On 30 Sept. 1777 she appeared as Ophelia, on 7 Oct. as Lady Anne in ‘Richard the Third,’ on 22 Dec. as the Lady in ‘Comus,’ on 10 Jan. 1778 as Emily in the ‘Runaway,’ on 9 April as Araminta in the ‘Confederacy,’ on 23 April as Octavia in ‘All for Love.’ For her benefit she played somewhat rashly on 30 April Lady Macbeth in place of Cordelia, for which she was previously advertised. On this occasion her musical farce of the ‘Lucky Escape,’ of which the songs only are printed, was produced. Her name does not appear in the list of characters. In the following season she was the first Lady Plume in the ‘Camp’ on 15 Oct. 1778, and on 8 Feb. 1779 Alinda in Jephson’s ‘Law of Lombardy.’ She also played Palmira in ‘Mahomet,’ Miss Richly in the ‘Discovery,’ Jacintha in the ‘Suspicious Husband,’ Fidelia in the ‘Plain Dealer,’ and, for her benefit, Cordelia. In her fourth and last season (1779 — 1780) she was Viola in the ‘Twelfth Night,’ Perdita in the ‘Winter’s Tale,’ Rosalind, Oriana in the ‘Inconstant Imogen,’ Mrs. Brady in the ‘Irish Widow,’ and on 24 May 1780 was the original Eliza Campley, a girl who masquerades as Sir Harry Revel in the ‘Miniature Picture’ of Lady Craven (afterwards the margravine of Anspach). At the close of the season she quitted the stage; her last appearance at Drury Lane seems to have been on 31 May 1780.

Her beauty, which at this time was remarkable, and her figure, seen to great advantage in the masculine dress she was accustomed to wear on the stage, had brought her many proposals from men of rank and wealth. On 3 Dec. 1778, when Garrick’s adaptation of the ‘Winter’s Tale,’ first produced on 20 Nov., was acted by royal command, ‘Gentleman Smith’ [see Smith, William, (d. 1819)], the Leontes, prophesied that Mrs. Robinson, who was looking handsomer than ever as ‘Perdita,’ would captivate the Prince of Wales (subsequently George IV). The prediction was fulfilled. She received, through Lord Malden (afterwards Earl of Essex), a letter signed ‘Florizel,’ which was the beginning of a correspondence. After a due display of coyness on the part of the heroine, who invariably signed herself ‘Perdita,’ a meeting was arranged at Kew, the prince being accompanied by the Duke of York, then bishop of Osnaburgh. This proved to be the first of many Romeo and Juliet-like encounters. Princes do not sigh long, and after a bond for 20,000l., to be paid when the prince came of age, had been sealed with the royal arms, signed, and given her, Mrs. Robinson’s position as the royal mistress was recognised. After no long period the prince, who had transferred his ‘interest’ to another ‘fair one,’ wrote her a cold note intimating that they must meet no more. One further meeting was brought about by her pertinacity, but the rupture was final. The royal bond was unpaid, and Mrs. Robinson, knowing how openly she had been compromised, dared not face the public and resume the profession she had dropped. Ultimately, when all her letters had been left unanswered and she was heavily burdened with debt and unable to pay for her establishment in Cork Street, Fox granted her in 1783 a pension of 500l. a year, half of which after her death was to descend to her daughter. She then went to Paris, where she attracted much attention, and declined overtures from the Duke of Orleans; she also received a purse netted by the hands of Marie-Antoinette, who (gratified, no doubt, by the repulse administered to Philippe d’Orléans) addressed it to ‘La Belle Anglaise.’ In Paris she is said to have opened an academy. Returning to England, she settled at Brighton. Report, which is sanctioned by Horace Walpole, coupled her name with Charles James Fox. She formed a close intimacy, extending over many years, with Colonel (afterwards Sir Banastre) Tarleton, an officer in the English army in America. In a journey undertaken in his behalf, when he was in a state of pecuniary difficulty, she contracted an illness that ended in a species of paralysis of her lower limbs.

From this period she devoted herself to literature, for which she had always shown some disposition. She had already published, besides her poems (1775), ‘Captivity,’ a poem, and ‘Celadon and Lydia,’ a tale, both printed together in 4to in 1777. Two further volumes of poems saw the light in 1791, 8vo; ‘Angelina,’ a novel, 3 vols. 12mo, in 1796. ‘The False Friend,’ a domestic story, 4 vols. 12mo, in 1799, ‘Lyrical Tales’ in 1800, and ‘Effusions of Love,’ 8vo, n.d., purporting to be her correspondence with the Prince of Wales. She is also credited with ‘Vaucenza, or the Dangers of Credulity,’ a novel, 1792; ‘Walsingham, or the Pupil of Nature,’ a domestic story, 2nd ed. 4 vols. 12mo, 1805, twice translated into French; and ‘Sappho and Phaon,’ a series of sonnets, 1796, 16mo. ‘Hubert de Sevrac,’ a ‘Monody to the Memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds,’ and a ‘Monody to the Memory of the late Queen of France,’ ‘Sight,’ ‘The Cavern of Woe,’ and ‘Solitude’ were published together in 4to. To these may be added ‘The Natural Daughter,’ ‘Impartial Reflections on the Situation of the Queen of France,’ and ‘Thoughts on the Condition of Women.’ Halkett and Laing attribute to her a ‘Letter to the Women of England on the Injustice of Mental Subordination, with Anecdotes by Anne Frances Randall,’ London, 1799, 8vo. Under the pseudonym of Laura Maria, she published ‘The Mistletoe,’ a Christmas tale, in verse, 1800. She is said to have taken part under various signatures, in the Della Cruscan literature [see Merry, Robert], and is, by a strange error, credited in ‘Literary Memoirs of Living Authors,’ 1798 [by David Rivers, dissenting minister of Highgate], with being the Anna Matilda of the ‘World,’ who was of course Hannah Cowley [q. v.] Many other poems, tracts, and pamphlets of the latter part of the eighteenth century are ascribed to her, often on very doubtful authority. Her latest poetical contributions were contributed to the ‘Morning Post’ under the signature, ‘Tabitha Bramble.’ Mrs. Robinson’s poems were collected by her daughter. What is called the best edition, containing many pieces not previously published, appeared in 1806, 3 vols. 8vo. Another edition appeared in 1826. Her memoirs, principally autobiographical but in part due to her daughter, appeared, 4 vols. 12mo, 1801; with some posthumous pieces in verse, again in 2 vols. 1803; and again, with introduction and notes by Mr. J. Fitzgerald Molloy, in 1894.

Mrs. Robinson was also active as a playwright. To Drury Lane she gave ‘Nobody,’ a farce, never printed, but acted, 29 Nov. 1794, by Banister, jun., Bensley, Barrymore, Mrs. Jordan, Miss Pope, Mrs. Goodall, and Miss de Camp. It was a satire on female gamblers. It was played three or four times amid a scene of great confusion, ladies of rank hissing or sending their servants to hiss. A principal performer, supposed to be Miss Farren, threw up her part, saying that the piece was intended to ridicule her particular friend. Mrs. Robinson also wrote the ‘Sicilian Lover,’ a tragedy, 4to, 1796, but could not get it acted.

Mary Robinson died, crippled and impoverished, at Englefield Cottage, Surrey, on 26 Dec. 1800, aged 40 (according to the tombstone, 43). She was buried in Old Windsor churchyard. Poetic epitaphs by J. S. Pratt and ‘C. H.’ are over her grave. Her daughter, Maria or Mary Elizabeth, died in 1818; the latter published ‘The Shrine of Bertha,’ a novel, 1794, 2 vols. 12mo, and ‘The Wild Wreath,’ 1805, 8vo, a poetical miscellany, dedicated to the Duchess of York.

Mrs. Robinson was a woman of singular beauty, but vain, ostentatious, fond of exhibiting herself, and wanting in refinement. Her desertion by the prince and her subsequent calamities were responsible for her notoriety, and the references to her royal lover in her verse contributed greatly to its popularity. She was to be seen daily in an absurd chariot, with a device of a basket likely to be taken for a coronet, driven by the favoured of the day, with her husband and candidates for her favour as outriders. ‘To-day she was a paysanne, with her straw hat tied at the back of her head, looking as if too new to what she passed to know what she looked at. Yesterday she perhaps had been the dressed belle of Hyde Park, trimmed, powdered, patched, painted to the utmost power of rouge and white lead. To-morrow she would be the cravatted Amazon of the riding-house; but be she what she might, the hats of the fashionable promenaders swept the ground as she passed’ (Hawkins, Memoirs, ii. 24). A companion picture shows her at a later date seated, helplessly paralysed, in one of the waiting-rooms of the opera-house, ‘a woman of fashionable appearance, still beautiful, but not in the bloom of beauty’s pride. In a few minutes her liveried servants came to her,’ and after covering their arms with long white sleeves, ‘lifted her up and conveyed her to her carriage’ (ib. ). As an author she was credited in her own day with feeling, taste, and elegance, and was called the English Sappho. Some of her songs, notably ‘Bounding Billow, cease thy motion,’ ‘Lines to him who will understand them,’ and ‘The Haunted Beach,’ enjoyed much popularity in the drawing-room; but though her verse has a certain measure of facility, it appears, to modern tastes, jejune, affected, and inept. Wolcot (Peter Pindar) and others belauded her in verse, celebrating her graces, which were real, and her talents, which were imaginary.

Many portraits of Mary Robinson are in existence. Sir Joshua painted her twice, one portrait being now in the possession of Lord Granville, and another in that of Lady Wallace. He ‘probably used her as model in some of his fancy pictures, for she sat to him very assiduously throughout the year’ (1782) (Leslie and Taylor, Life of Reynolds, ii. 343). The Garrick Club collection has a portrait after Sir Joshua Reynolds, and one by Zoffany, as Rosalind. A portrait, engraved by J. R. Smith, was painted by Romney. Another is in Huish’s ‘Life of George IV.’ A full-length portrait of her in undress, sitting by a bath, was painted by Stroehling. Two portraits were painted by Cosway, and one by Dance. A portrait by Hoppner was No. 249 in the Guelph Exhibition. A half-length by Gainsborough was exhibited in the National Portrait Exhibition of 1868. Engraved portraits are in the various editions of her life. In his ‘Book for a Rainy Day,’ J. T. Smith tells how, when attending on the visitors in Sherwin’s chambers, he received a kiss from her as the reward for fetching a drawing of her which Sherwin had made.

[The chief if not always trustworthy authority for the life of Mrs. Robinson is her posthumous memoirs published by her daughter. Letters from Perdita to a certain Israelite and her Answer to them, London, 1781, 8vo, is a coarse satire accusing her and her husband of swindling. Even coarser is Poetical Epistles from Florizel to Perdita ——, and Perdita’s Answer, &c., London, 1781, 4to, and Mistress of Royalty, or the Loves of Florizel and Perdita, n. d. (Brit. Mus. Cat. s.v. ‘Perdita’). Other books consulted are the Life of Reynolds by Leslie and Taylor; Memoirs of her by Miss Hawkins; Genest’s Account of the Stage; Monthly Mirror; Walpole Correspondence, ed. Cunningham; Doran’s Annals of the Stage, ed. Lowe; Allibone’s Dictionary; Bryan’s Dictionary of Painters; Georgian Era; Clark Russell’s Representative Actors; Biographia Dramatica; Thespian Dictionary; John Taylor’s Records of my Life; Gent. Mag. 1804, ii. 1009; Literary Memoirs of Living Authors, 1798; Notes and Queries, 4th ser. iii. 173, 348, iv. 105, 5th ser. ix. 59, 7th ser. vi. 147.]

J. K.

Portrait of David Garrick by Thomas Gainsborough — Robinson in her youth attended a school run by the social reformer Hannah More, where she came to the attention of the famous actor David Garrick.

Portrait of Mary Robinson by Thomas Gainsborough, 1781

Coronation portrait of George IV by Sir Thomas Lawrence, 1821. Robinson gained popularity playing the role of Perdita (heroine of ‘The Winter’s Tale’) in 1779. It was during this performance that she attracted the notice of the young Prince of Wales, who offered her twenty thousand pounds to become his mistress.

Perdita by Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1782

Portrait of Robinson by George Romney, c. 1782

Lieutenant-Colonel Banastre Tarleton by Joshua Reynolds.  Robinson lived separately from her husband and went on to have several love affairs, most notably with Banastre Tarleton, a soldier who had recently distinguished himself fighting in the American War of Independence.

Mary Robinson in later years by George Dance, 1793

Poems, 1775

CONTENTS

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

PART THE SECOND.

ANOTHER.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

AN ODE TO WISDOM.

AN ODE TO CHARITY.

THE LINNET’S PETITION.

A CHARACTER.

WRITTEN ON THE OUTSIDE OF AN HERMITAGE.

A CHARACTER.

ODE TO VIRTUE.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

THE WISH.

ON A FRIEND.

ON THE DEATH OF LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON.

A CHARACTER.

ODE TO SPRING.

LETTER TO A FRIEND ON LEAVING TOWN.

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON THE PICTURE OF A FRIEND.

HYMN TO VIRTUE.

SONG.

SONG.

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF A LADY.

TO AURELIA ON HER GOING ABROAD.

TO LOVE: WRITTEN EXTEMPORE.

THE COMPLAINT.

THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT.

AN ODE TO CONTENTMENT.

A SONG.

THE VISION.

TO MATILDA.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

I

Ye Shepherds who sport on the plain,

Drop a tear at my sorrowful tale,

My heart was a stranger to pain,

Till pierc’d by the pride of the vale.

When deck’d with his pipe and his crook,

A garland his temples did bind,

So sweetly the Shepherd did look,

I thought he cou’d not be unkind.

II

But alas! t’other day at the fair,

(Sad story for me to relate,)

He bought ribbons for Phillis’s hair,

For Phillis, the nymph that I hate.

Sweet songs to beguile the dull hours,

A crook, and a garland so fine,

A posie of May-blowing flowers,

Adorn’d with green myrtle and thyme.

III

Last week as they sat in the grove,

Such sweetness his looks did impart,

Their converse I’m sure was of love,

And I fear, that it flow’d from his heart.

I heard the soft words that he sung,

Such tender, such amorous lays,

Each accent that fell from his tongue,

Was blended with Phillis’s praise.

IV

“My charmer, said he, is more fair,

“Then the jessamine twin’d round my bow’r,

“What’s thyme with her breath to compare,

“Or lavender after a show’r.

“The rose when compar’d with her cheek,

“Drooping downward with envy it dies,

“When Sol thro’ a shower doth break —

“He’s not half so bright as her eyes.”

V

Alas! if they never had met,

I had not endur’d such keen woes,

I wish he would Phillis forget,

And yield my poor heart some repose.

Each day wou’d I sing thro’ the grove,

Each moment devote to my swain.

But if he has settled his love,

My bosom is destin’d to pain.

VI

Adieu, to contentment and rest,

Adieu, to my once lov’d repose,

For I fear I can never be bless’d,

Till death puts an end to my woes.

To the grave will I carry my truth,

Take heed ah! ye nymphs by my fate,

Be careful to shun the false youth,

And with pity my story relate.

PART THE SECOND.

I

Come join all ye nymphs of the grove,

And sing of the change that I find,

At length I have conquer’d my love,

And taught the dear youth to be kind.

My bow’r shall with chaplets be dress’d,

My lambkins no longer shall stray,

For my bosom no more is oppress’d,

Henceforth I’ll be happy, and gay.

II

Oh jealousy, merciless foe,

How did’st thou invade my fond breast,

Each day, was a compound of woe,

Each night, it depriv’d me of rest.

I envied the nymphs and the swains,

With malice and hatred I pin’d,

Because they were strangers to pain,

And felt not such torture as mine.

III

Young Daphne the sprightly and gay,

Admir’d for her beauty and grace,

With Damon did wantonly play,

O! I wish’d to have been in her place.

I fear’d that her charms would beguile,

That her song would enchant the dear swain,

I could not allow him to smile,

For his smiles were the cause of my pain.

IV

Gay Colin by all is approv’d,

And said to be witty and fair,

He has often declar’d that he lov’d,

Yet none can with Damon compare.

But why do I muse on past woe,

And my happiness idly destroy,

What blessing can heaven bestow,

Superior to that I enjoy.

V

No danger or peril I fear,

No trouble my bliss can remove,

While bless’d in the smiles of my dear,

In the smiles of the youth that I love.

Together we sport all the day,

By the stream that meanders along,

Or else o’er the meadows we stray,

And Damon enchants with his song.

VI

Adieu to all anguish and care,

To malice, and envy adieu,

No longer will Delia despair,

For Damon is faithful and true.

Then join all ye nymphs of the grove,

And sing of the change that I find,

At length I have conquer’d my love,

And taught the dear youth to be kind.

ANOTHER.

I

Ye myrtles and woodbines so green,

Your fragrance no longer beguile,

Ye bow’rs that with rapture I’ve seen,

When Damon did tenderly smile.

When his heart beat with every look,

His charmer did kindly bestow;

When he left both his pipe and his crook,

O’er the meadows with Delia to go.

II

Each hour he employ’d for his dear,

In gathering fruit of the best,

The sweet bryar, and violet did rear,

To make poesies for Delia’s breast.

With roses, and hiacynths fair,

With myrtle, and ever green bay,

Sweet chaplets he wove for her hair,

And her charms were the theme of his lay.

III

At noon’s scorching heat we retir’d,

To the grove at the foot of the hill,

Or else to the wood he admir’d,

By the side of a murmuring rill.

With his song did the shepherd delight,

His reed did resound through the grove,

My steps did the charmer invite,

And each accent was blended with love.

IV

But ah! to my sorrow I find,

(What grieves my fond heart to relate;)

That Damon is false as the wind,

His passion is changed to hate.

With scorn doth he slight all my charms,

Such contempt ev’ry look doth impart,

With hatred he flies from my arms,

With disdain he rejects my soft heart.

V

The garland he wove for my hair,

Of laurel, and ever green bay,

The crook that he bought at the fair,

He has given to Phillis the gay.

The bow’r which for Delia he made,

The lambkins he lov’d for my sake,

Of the grot, and the silver cascade,

No longer must Delia partake.

VI

My flocks can no longer delight,

In vain do they frolick and play,

For when Damon is out of my sight,

No pleasure I feel through the day.

No more do I sport on the plain,

No comfort my bosom can prove,

‘Till Damon doth pity my pain,

For pity is sister to love.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

I

Ye nymphs, ah! give ear to my lay,

Your pastime I prithe’ give o’er,

For Damon the youthful and gay,

Is gone, — and our joys are no more.

That Shepherd so blithsome and fair,

Whose truth was the pride of the plains,

Has left us alas! in despair,

For no such a Shepherd remains.

II

His life was a compound of joy,

Pure innocence guided each thought,

No envy his bliss cou’d annoy,

For with virtue his bosom was fraught.

He scorn’d to deceive or betray,

Fair truth ever dwelt in his sight,

He always was blithsome and gay,

And to please was his only delight.

III

In the shade when reclin’d on his crook,

To hear his melodious strains,

My flocks I have often forsook,

To wander alone on the plains.

Each bird did attend on the spray,

The zephers did play on the trees,

Sweet harmony join’d the soft lay,

And whisper’d his praise in each breeze.

IV

My lambkins are straying far wide,

The lilly reclines her fair head,

My crook is with scorn thrown aside,

For alas! my sweet Shepherd is dead.

I will riffle the jessamin bow’rs,

To deck the green turf on his breast,

With myrtle and sweet scented flow’rs,

My Damon’s cold grave shall be dress’d.

V

While Eglantine sheds a perfume,

Or peace is Pastora’s desire,

While the cowslip continues to bloom,

Or the rose is adorn’d with a brier.

While the lambkins shall graze on the plain,

Or the nightingale warble its lay,

As long as old time shall remain,

His memory ne’er shall decay.

VI

But alas! the lov’d youth is no more,

Each stream shall repeat the sad sound,

Each Shepherd the loss shall deplore,

And his fate thro’ the grove shall resound.

Since truth like my Damon’s must yield,

To death, that invincible foe,

Ye swains, ah! make virtue your shield,

Nor tremble to meet the dire blow.

AN ODE TO WISDOM.

I

Hail wisdom, goddess of each art,

That wakes the soul, and mends the heart,

Superior joy, whose influence bright,

Regales the sense, and glads the sight,

Thou source of every bliss on earth combin’d,

Absolve my frailties, and enlarge my mind.

II

Beneath thy penetrating eye,

Folly’s delusive shadows fly,

Far from thy temple vain desires,

With pride’s destructive train retires,

For virtue there alone can reign secure,

Protected by thy precepts wise, and pure.

III

To thee, the suppliant knee I bend,

Minerva to my pray’r attend,

With parent fondness teach my soul,

Each idle passion to controul,

That guided by the clear transcendent ray,

In life’s great circle, I may bend my way.

AN ODE TO CHARITY.

I

Hail meek-eyed daughter of the sky,

Celestial, heaven-born, Charity;

To thee my lays are due,

To thee for ever will I sing,

And soar on contemplations wing,

To peace, to joy, and you.

II

Thou greatest virtue man can boast,

Fair offspring of the heavenly host,

Accept my humble pray’r;

Thou source of bliss for ever new,

May I thy impulse still pursue,

With energy sincere.

III

Thy precepts dignify the heart,

And banish each anxious smart,

With influence divine,

Then steal, O steal, into my breast,

Where every feeling stands confess’d,

Before thy sacred shrine.

IV

Conduct me to that calm retreat,

Where thou hast fix’d thy peaceful seat,

Where charms supreme abound,

Where bliss extatick deigns to roam,

Where sweet content has fixt her throne,

And glories shine around.

V

O lead me to that sacred shrine,

Where piety and grace divine,

Alternately do reign,

Where love, and friendship, join to please,

With strict sincerity and ease,

Without one anxious pain.

VI

There calumny’s destructive dart,

No more invades the honest heart,

Or wounds the gentle breast,

But peace seraphick sooths the mind,

And every bliss in thee combin’d,

Transports the soul to rest.

VII

Thither retir’d from grief and pain,

From envy and ambition’s train,

My future days I’d spend,

And in thy pure society,

From pride, deceit, and folly free,

This life of sorrow end.

VIII

Gladly I’d quit this wretched state,

And willing yield my breath to fate,

Without one pang, one sigh,

Well pleas’d with heaven’s all just decree,

Sustain’d by Faith, by Hope, and Thee,

Content to live or die.

THE LINNET’S PETITION.

I

As Stella sat the other day,

Beneath a myrtle shade,

A tender bird in plaintive notes,

Address’d the pensive maid.

II

Upon a bough in gaudy cage,

The feather’d warbler hung,

And in melodious accents thus,

His fond petition sung.

III

“Ah! pity my unhappy fate,

“And set a captive free,

“So may you never feel the loss,

“Of peace, or liberty.”

IV

“With ardent pray’r and humble voice,

“Your mercy now I crave,

“Your kind compassion and regard,

“My tender life to save.”

V

“Ah! wherefore am I here confin’d,

“Ah! why does fate ordain,

“A life so innocent as mine,

“Should end in grief and pain.”

VI

“I envy every little bird,

“That warbles gay and free,

“The meanest of the feather’d race,

“Is happier far than me.”

VII

“Sweet liberty by heaven sent,

“From me, alas! is torn,

“And here without a cause confin’d,

“A captive doom’d I mourn.”

VIII

“When bright Aurora’s silver rays,

“Proclaim the rising morn,

“And glitt’ring dew drops shine around,

“Or gild the flow’ring thorn.”

IX

“When every bird except myself,

“Went forth his mate to see,

“I always tun’d my downy throat,

“To please, and gladden thee.”

X

“Beneath thy window each new day,

“And in the myrtle bow’r,

“I strove to charm thy list’ning ear,

“With all my little pow’r.”

XI

“Ah! what avails this gaudy cage,

“Or what is life to me,

“If thus confin’d, if thus distress’d,

“And robb’d of liberty.”

XII

“I who the greatest fav’rite was

“Of all the feather’d race,

“Think, Stella think, the pain I feel,

“And pity my sad case.”

XIII

While here condemn’d to sure despair,

“What comfort have I left,

“Or how can I this fate survive,

“Of every joy bereft.”

XIV

“My harmless life was ever free,

“From mischief and from ill,

“My only wish on earth to prove,

“Obedient, to your will.”

XV

“Then pity my unhappy fate,

“And set a captive free,

“So may you never feel the loss,

“Of peace, or liberty.”

XVI

On Stella’s breast compassion soon,

Each tender feeling wrought,

Resolv’d to give him back with speed,

That freedom which he sought.

XVII

With friendly hand she ope’d the cage,

By kindred pity mov’d,

And sympathetic joys divine,

Her gentle bosom prov’d.

XVIII

When first she caught the flutt’ring thing,

She felt strange extasy,

But never knew so great a bliss,

As when she set him free.

A CHARACTER.

How very rare my gen’rous friend we find,

A woman bless’d with such a virtuous mind,

A mind, unaw’d by any idle fear,

A heart which nobly dares to be sincere,

A soul without ambition, truly great,

Sprightly, yet wise, and witty, tho’ sedate.

With ev’ry heav’n-born virtue amply fraught,

By prudence, piety, and reason taught;

A bosom, aw’d by chastity and love,

A tongue, ordain’d, the hardest heart to move;

An ear, for ever open to the poor,

A breast, that’s guided by no idle power;

A form as spotless as her heavenly mind,

In temper affable, polite, and kind.

WRITTEN ON THE OUTSIDE OF AN HERMITAGE.

Stranger beware who’ere thou art,

How ye profane this shade,

For know beneath this humble roof,

No idle cares invade.

The bright inhabitants within,

Are grace, and truth divine,

And sweet contentment dwells secure,

Beneath this sacred shrine.

If thou in ought hast been forsworn,

These hallow’d paths forbear,

For know the sure reward you’ll meet,

Is grief and pining care,

If envy reigns within thy breast,

Attempt not here to dwell,

For virtue, piety, and peace,

Inhabit this sweet cell.

If malice taints thy secret thoughts,

Or hatred guides thy heart,

With caution tread these hallow’d shades,

And e’er too late depart.

If high ambition sways thy mind,

Ah! search no longer here,

For naught but calm humility,

Within these walls appear.

Or if thou art to falsehood prone,

Or dare with impious hand,

To deal out mischief or profane,

High heaven’s supreme command;

Far from this lowly roof retreat,

Or pain will be thy share,

With heart-felt woe and wretched pangs,

Repentance, and despair.

For know that grief, and keen remorse,

Await on guilty deeds,

But for the gen’rous, just, and good,

A sure reward succeeds.

Vice, vanity, and all her train,

Are strangers to this place,

Nor dares black artful calumny,

Shew her destructive face.

But wisdom, happiness, and joy,

With charity divine,

And peace, content, delight, and ease,

Dwell safe within this shrine.

No jealous cares invade, or break,

The calm repose within,

No voice profane is heard to breath,

An accent fraught with sin,

But every joy on earth combin’d,

Serenely deigns to dwell,

Uninterrupted, free from care,

Within this rustic cell.

Such as delight in virt’ous deeds,

Are welcome guests and free,

To reign henceforth without restraint,

In our society.

The conscience void of black deceit,

And all her hateful crew,

Will find no cares in solitude,

But joys for ever new.

The rich (if just) are welcome here,

The lowly and the poor,

To such with glad and willing hand,

We op’e the friendly door.

But those who dare approach this shrine,

Whose breast by vice is sway’d,

Whose mind by avarice and pride,

To folly is betray’d.

Whose soul ne’er own’d soft pity’s claim,

Whose heart ne’er learnt to glow,

With genial warmth in virtue’s cause,

Or felt another’s woe.

Whose only joy in this short life —

Is pomp and vain desires,

Who never knew the pure delight,

A rural life inspires.

Will find this moss-grown rustic cell,

For such was ne’er design’d,

Nor can they gain admittance here,

Tho’ e’er so much inclin’d.

Then ah! forbear whoe’er thou art,

How ye profane this shade,

For know beneath this simple roof,

No idle cares invade.

A CHARACTER.

If a perfect form can please,

Join’d with innocence and ease,

Wit and eloquence refin’d,

Harmony and judgment join’d,

Meek and gentle to excess,

Neat and elegant in dress,

Charitable, free and gay,

Blooming as the month of May,

Foe to art and vanity,

From deceit and folly free,

Learned as a female ought,

Not by idle custom taught;

Grace in all her steps doth move,

Beauteous as the queen of love.

If such charms can please the sight,

Where all elegance unite,

Virtue, and fair truth divine,

The laurel, Juliet be thine.

ODE TO VIRTUE.

I

Hail daughter of th’etherial sky,

Hail everlasting purity,

To thee the seraphs and archangels sing,

Peace to thy altar shall her off’rings bring,

Free from every earthly woe,

From every ill that reigns below,

Welcome thou sweet celestial guest,

Receive me to thy gentle breast.

II

Instruct my unexperienc’d heart,

And all thy precious gifts impart,

That my fond soul may learn of thee to prize,

Joys, which alone from thy fair laws arise,

To thee, my willing heart aspires,

Thy name, my tender bosom fires,

Teach me, then teach me, by thy sacred rules,

To shun with scorn, the empty joys of fools.

III

Learn me to tread the paths of truth,

And rectify my erring youth,

That under thy supreme, discerning eye,

Thy precepts may each action dignify,

And in life’s perplexing maze,

May’st thou guide my blinded ways,

That free from art, from falsehood or disguise,

Thy solid joys my soul shall learn to prize.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

I

Permit me dearest girl to send,

The warmest wishes of a friend,

Who scorns deceit, or art,

Who dedicates her verse to you,

And every praise so much your due,

Flows genuine from her heart.

II

Yet all that I can write, or say,

My meaning never can convey,

My fond intention prove,

It flows spontaneous from the soul,

Without restraint, without controul,

’Tis gratitude, and love.

III

The friendship glowing in my breast,

Can never, never, be suppress’d,

While life or sense remain,

The only recompense I ask,

To me, would prove an easy task,

That prize bestow again.

IV

How bless’d are you in every joy,

No care your happiness to cloy,

No rude unwelcome pain,

No grief to interrupt your ease,

But every comfort form’d to please,

In solitude remain.

V

There busy clamours ne’er resound,

Nor high ambition’s to be found,

Or envy’s hateful train,

But ever happy, ever gay,

Soft pleasure with despotic sway,

Holds empire o’er the plain.

VI

Along the daisy painted meads,

New scenes of beauty each succeeds,

To charm th’enraptured eye,

Or shelter’d from the noon-tide beams,

Where cooling grots, and crystal streams,

Meand’ring murmur by.

VII

May heaven-born peace, content, and rest,

Dwell undisturb’d within that breast,

From every folly free,

May health, sincerity, and truth,

Be the companions of thy youth,

With meek-ey’d charity.

VIII

Adieu, dear girl, accept my love,

And may Maria never prove,

Unworthy thy esteem,

One vow I make to heaven and you,

This pleasing task I’ll still pursue,

And make thy praise, my theme.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Adieu, dear Emma; — now, alas! no more,

Deaths icy hand, hath chill’d thy tender frame,

In endless sighs, the loss I will deplore,

Revere thy memory, and exalt thy name.

Let soft humanity incline an ear,

Let gentle pity listen to my song,

Let every tender bosom grant a tear,

And Emma’s virtues, flow from every tongue.

Her heart was faithful, and her soul sincere,

Her temper gentle as the turtle dove,

In person beauteous, and in judgment clear,

Inspir’d by virtue, and sustain’d by love.

Her conscious soul unknowing how to feign,

Was true to honor, and it’s sacred laws,

Her tender bosom felt another’s pain,

And glow’d with fervent zeal, in friendship’s cause.

And yet, alas! these virtues could not save,

For one short moment, the departing breath,

Fate had decreed this victim to the grave,

And all must yield to the cold arms of death.

Then what avails my misery and grief,

Can it to life the heavenly maid restore,

Can tears or wishes now afford relief,

Or give me back the treasure I deplore.

Can earthly sorrow add one joy to those,

Whose pure delight exceeds all human thought,

Can weak mortality afford repose,

Greater than that, with which thy soul is fraught.

Yet friendship, says, the strain, I must prolong,

Her virtues still demand a generous tear,

They still require the tributary song,

A faithful friend her mem’ry to revere.

While I have life, or memory, or sense,

To Emma’s kindred shrine my praise is due,

Her soul was guided by pure innocence,

Nor envy, nor deceit, her bosom knew.

She was the first to sing in virtue’s praise,

To cherish truth in every tender breast,

And teach the young to tread the potent ways,

Which lead to glory, and eternal rest.

Alas! ye gay, consider well her fate,

Remember life is but a fleeting day,

Howe’er with affluence bless’d, or soon, or late,

Death’s cruel summons we must all obey.

Be innocent, be chaste, from folly free,

In this precarious life serenely move,

Submit with patience to just heaven’s decree,

Be firm in friendship, and sincere in love.

Let sacred honour guide your erring feet,

With kind compassion, and with grace divine,

Let every virtue in your bosoms meet,

And meek humility, with wisdom join.

Content, like Emma, in an humble state,

Seek not for grandeur, or vain pageantry,

Nor yet with envious eye behold the great;

The beggar, and the prince, alike must die.

Then, ah! farewell, my gen’rous, honour’d friend,

Accept the tear, to thy remembrance due,

Till memory and feeling has an end,

Nor worldly pleasures shall my grief subdue.

May kindred angels waft thy soul to rest,

May all thy merit meet it’s full reward,

May you be number’d with the pure and blest,

And Emma’s spirit be Maria’s guard.

THE WISH.

I

All I ask of bounteous heav’n,

Is to live a peaceful life,

In a cottage, sweet retirement,

Far from giddy noise and strife.

II

Far from town, and all its vices,

Dissipation, care, and fear,

Passing all my days serenely,

Ending life, without a tear.

III

Far from ball, and masquerade,

Far from op’ra, park, or play,

Far from courtly pomp, and fashion,

Innocently blith and gay.

IV

Distant from the madding croud,

Scene of avarice and gain,

Quitting smoak for silver fountains,

Choosing health, and leaving pain.

V

Ease, and comfort, peace and plenty,

Always grace the homely board,

Every joy that can be wish’d for,

Does the rustic cot afford.

VI

With the lark each morn arising,

No rude cares my peace molest,

But contentment sweet possessing,

Ever happy, ever bless’d.

VII

Each new day my maker praising,

Own his goodness ev’ry hour,

Thanking heav’n for ev’ry blessing,

And revere his mighty power.

VIII

One thing more I ask of heaven,

A sincere and faithful youth,

One whose heart is ever constant,

Full of honor, love, and truth.

IX

Blest with judgment, sound and clear,

Both the husband, and the friend,

Not the clown, or foolish coxcomb,

Such a youth kind heaven send.

X

Gentle, as the evening breezes,

Fanning soft the poplar grove,

Fresher than the summer morning,

Firm in friendship, fond in love,

XI

Smart, and witty, mild in manners,

Fair in person as in mind,

Free from flatt’ry, pride and folly,

Such a youth I wish to find.

XII

I desire not pow’r, or riches,

Bane to sweet content and ease,

They are not the joys I wish for,

They, alas! can never please.

ON A FRIEND.

I

A gentle soul, a beauteous form,

A voice the coldest breast to warm,

A heart with love and pity fraught,

A mind by ev’ry virtue taught,

With matchless truth, and grace divine,

O! Corydon, this praise be thine.

II

Deign to accept my grateful song,

To thee alone these lays belong,

Thy worth my trembling pen inspires,

Thy eloquence my soul admires,

And pleas’d I bend before the shrine,

To sing such wond’rous charms as thine.

III

Thou pattern to the human race,

Thou son of eloquence and grace,

To thee all elegance belong,

To thee I chaunt the rustic song,

Of thee alone my voice I’ll raise,

And still proclaim my Shepherd’s praise.

IV

A genius matchless and divine,

Ordain’d above all men to shine,

A soul unknowing how to feign,

A heart unus’d to giving pain,

To sing of thee, the task be mine,

To praise such matchless charms as thine.

V

Ye muses grant me this request,

May Corydon be ever bless’d,

May peace propitious smile on thee,

From every pain and trouble free,

And may just heaven for ever shine,

Indulgent o’er such worth as thine.

VI

Polite and generous to excess,

Whose only pleasure is to bless,

Whose greatest joy is to impart,

Warm comfort to the bleeding heart,

Free from base art, or dark design,

These virtues, Corydon, are thine.

VII

In sense, unequal’d, sound and clear,

In friendship steady, and sincere,

In actions just, in pity, kind,

An angel’s form, an angel’s mind,

Endow’d with every grace divine,

O! Corydon, this praise be thine.

VIII

In thy fond artless breast I find,

There’s honor, truth, and courage join’d,

A tongue unwilling to offend,

Warm to protect an injur’d friend;

I mean to sing in simple rhyme,

Such worth, O! Corydon, as thine.

IX

To tell the world thy wond’rous fame,

To celebrate thy heavenly name,

To do that justice you demand,

From every true impartial hand,

That you above each swain may shine,

For virtues matchless, and divine.

ON THE DEATH OF LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON.

I

Ye chrystal streams, ye murm’ring floods,

Ye lonely groves, and silent woods,

Ye flow’ry meads, and tow’ring hills,

Ye mossy fountains, purling rills,

Ah! mourn, your honour’d genius fled,

For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

II

No more your beauties can inspire,

No more awake the tender lyre,

No more your shades can yield delight,

The landscape fades upon the sight,

All joy, all pleasure, now is fled,

For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

III

That Lyttelton, by science hail’d,

That Lyttelton, who never fail’d

To warm the breast that nobly glow’d,

With heat that from true virtue flow’d,

Then Hagley mourn, your genius fled,

Alas! your honour’d muse is dead.

IV

That patron whom the world approv’d,

Whom justice hail’d, and honor lov’d,

Whose bosom felt soft pity’s claim,

Till time and nature shook his frame,

Then mourn, soft muse, your patron’s fled,

For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

V

In Hagley’s pensive fair retreat,

The virtues and the graces meet,

Amid’ the cool sequestred shade,

Oft has this heav’n-born genius stray’d,

But now, alas! your charms are fled,

For Lyttelton your muse is dead.

VI

Ye warbling choristers give o’er,

And swell your downy throats no more,

Ah! to what purpose, to what end,

Will your soft plaintive notes now tend,

Him whom ye strove to charm is fled,

For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

VII

Ye purling streams, your bubling cease,

Each murmur does my pain increase;

Ye flowers now droop your fragrant heads,

And kiss your clay cold mould’ring beds,

For every joy on earth is fled,

For generous Lyttelton is dead.

VIII

Ye sister muses ever mourn,

With laurels bind your patron’s urn,

To his fair altar quickly bring,

Each tribute of the blooming spring,

And o’er his honour’d sacred head,

Your kindred influence ever spread.

A CHARACTER.

Generous, and good, sincere, and void of art,

Blest with a tender, yet an honest heart,

Humane, and affable, to vice a foe,

Neither too much the rustic, or the beau:

Polite, and friendly, comely, good, and kind,

Foe to deceit, to virtue most inclin’d.

Fearless of danger, in a noble cause,

A firm supporter of fair honor’s laws,

Kind heaven has given him all the charms of youth,

And in his soul shines honesty, and truth,

Esteem’d by many, and by most approv’d,

By Delia honour’d, and by Delia lov’d.

ODE TO SPRING.

I

No more shall winter’s veil be spread,

Or clouds deform the tranquil sky,

Again shall spring her treasure shed,

To charm the sense, and please the eye.

To future ages shall the muses sing,

Hail, genial goddess, of the blooming spring.

II

Thou youthful season of the year,

Whose joys can banish every smart,

Clad in thy vernal sweets appear,

To soften and inspire the heart,

To future ages shall the muses sing,

Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

III

When I behold thy gifts around,

The groves, with thy fair glories shine,

And ev’ry flow’r that paints the ground,

Declares that influence divine.

To future ages shall the muses sing,

Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

IV

Thy pow’r, supreme, all nature feels,

Each tender plant, thy hand doth raise,

Each fruit and shrub thy bounty yields,

Eternally confirms thy praise.

To future ages shall the muses sing,

Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

V

Enliven’d by thy chearful face,

The bleeting lambs, and lowing herd,

And all the infant feather’d race,

At once are waken’d and inspir’d,

To future ages shall the muses sing,

Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

VI

Then welcome, welcome to our view,

Each gift thy bounteous hand bestows,

Still, still, thy heavenly scenes renew,

And all thy precious joys disclose.

To future ages shall the muses sing,

Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

LETTER TO A FRIEND ON LEAVING TOWN.

Gladly I leave the town, and all its care,

For sweet retirement, and fresh wholsome air,

Leave op’ra, park, the masquerade, and play,

In solitary groves to pass the day.

Adieu, gay throng, luxurious vain parade,

Sweet peace invites me to the rural shade,

No more the Mall, can captivate my heart,

No more can Ranelagh, one joy impart.

Without regret I leave the splendid ball,

And the inchanting shades of gay Vauxhall,

Far from the giddy circle now I fly,

Such joys no more, can please my sicken’d eye.

The town’s alluring scenes no more can charm,

Nor dissipation my fond breast alarm;

Where vice and folly has each bosom fir’d,

And what is most absurd, — is most admir’d.

Alas! what diff’rence ‘twixt the town bred fair,

And the blith maid who breaths the purer air.

Whose life is innocent, whose thoughts are clear,

Whose soul is gentle, and whose heart sincere.

Bless’d with her swain, she wants no greater joy,

Nor fears inconstancy, her bliss can cloy,

No anxious fears invade her tranquil breast,

The peaceful mansion of content and rest.

But rich in every virtue, void of art,

She feels those joys, truth only can impart.

View the gay courtly dame, and mark her face,

Where art supply’s fair nature’s nobler place,

Luxurious pleasures, all her days divide,

And fashion taints, bright beauty’s greatest pride.

Each action has its fixt and settled rule,

Eyes, limbs, and features, are all put to school.

Beaux without number, daily round her swarm,

And each with fulsome flatt’ry try’s to charm.

Till, like the rose, which blooms but for an hour,

Her face grown common, loses all its power.

Each idle coxcomb leaves the wretched fair,

Alone to languish, and alone despair,

To cards, and dice, the slighted maiden flies,

And every fashionable vice apply’s,

Scandal and coffee, pass the morn away,

At night a rout, an opera, or a play;

Thus glide their life, partly through inclination,

Yet more, because it is the reigning fashion.

Thus giddy pleasures they alone pursue,

Merely because, they’ve nothing else to do;

Whatever can afford their hearts delight,

No matter if the thing be wrong, or right;

They will pursue it, tho’ they be undone,

They see their ruin, — still they venture on.

Prudence they hate, grave wisdom they despise,

And laugh at those who teach them to be wise.

Pleas’d they embark upon the dangerous tide,

And with the fashionable current glide;

Till fate has every wish and purpose cross’d,

Their health, their beauty, and their fortune loss’d:

No art their wanted youth can then repair,

Abandon’d to remorse, and keen despair,

Repentant sighs, their wretched bosom wound,

And happiness, alas! no more is found.

In some sequester’d shade alone they stray,

And pensive waste, the solitary day.

Till fate relieves the wretched maid from grief,

And death affords, a long and last relief.

These are the follies that engage the mind,

And taint the principles, of half mankind,

Then wonder not my friend, that I can leave,

Those transcient pleasures, only born to grieve.

Those short-liv’d shadows of a fleeting day,

Those idle customs of the rich and gay.

Henceforth, retirement, is my chosen seat,

Far from the insolent, the vain, the great.

Sweet solitude, ah! welcome to my breast,

And with thee welcome, sweet content, and rest;

Farewell ambition, source of every pain,

Farewell pale malice, and thy hateful train:

Farewell black calumny, no more thy dart,

Shall force one sigh, or wound my placid heart.

My future days, shall with sweet peace abound,

By friendship, virtue, and experience crown’d.

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON THE PICTURE OF A FRIEND.

I

Within this narrow compass is confin’d,

A form possess’d of every pleasing grace,

The matchless beauties of whose heav’nly mind,

Cou’d ne’er be painted in so small a space.

II

Let every praise so much the artist’s due,

With never-ceasing honors on him fall,

Yet when this bright similitude I view,

I mourn the loss of the original.

III

To fames exalted summit be thou rais’d,

And move sublime in a distinguish’d sphere,

Where wond’ring mortals shall behold amaz’d,

Those lasting honors which the just revere.

IV

Above the malice of the artful mind,

Above the envious, ignorant, and vain,

Above the reach of slanderous mankind,

Whose greatest pleasure is another’s pain.

V

Thou chiefest wonder that adorns the age,

Still, still, the paths of fame and truth pursue,

Thy name shall celebrate some future page,

Some yet unheard of muse shall sing of you.

HYMN TO VIRTUE.

I

Divine inhabitant of heaven,

To whom superior power is given,

Ah! deign to guide my will,

Teach me to shun deceit and art,

To own a feeling, generous heart,

And guard my mind from ill.

II

When thou appearest (lovely maid,)

With all thy wond’rous charms display’d,

With modest, gentle eye,

Pleas’d I behold thy matchless grace,

Thy beauteous form, thy blooming face,

Fair daughter of the sky.

III

Thou guide to youth, support to age,

Direct the young, advise the sage,

Shew them the road to fame,

They who thy counsels do revere,

Inspir’d by thee can never err,

Or stain thy sacred name.

IV

If it’s your wish ye blooming fair,

To live content, be this your care,

Make truth your constant rule,

Let wise experience, teach you sense,

With modesty, and innocence,

Improve in virtues school.

V

Ne’er trust to fortune, fickle dame,

Nor play with honor’s sacred name,

Be cautious how ye stray,

Let prudence govern all your heart,

Beware of flatt’rys venom’d dart,

Nor tread the slip’ry way.

VI

Be it my task to sing thy praise,

In virtues cause my voice I’ll raise,

And all my time employ,

A recompence I largely find,

A peaceful conscience, quiet mind,

A life of heartfelt joy.

SONG.

I

As Cupid wanton, giddy child,

Was rambling throw the shade,

To mischief prown, the urchin wild,

Beheld a sleeping maid.

But how to wound her gentle breast,

A quick suggestion rose,

When ev’ry sense was lull’d to rest,

In peaceful, calm repose.

II

He chang’d his figure in a trice,

To Strephon’s, blith and young,

Then gently tapt her elbow thrice,

And thus divinely sung.

“Ah beauteous maid no longer scorn,

“A generous, constant swain,

“My breast with anxious pangs is torn,

“I pine with ceaseless pain.

III

“Be gone she cried, and henceforth know,

“Such boldness ne’er could move,

“A breast to mean deceit a foe,

“Yet ah! a friend to love.

“The youth who aims to gain my heart,

“Must prove his constancy,

“Confess’d a foe, to every art,

“From vice, and folly free.

IV

A quiver then the urchin drew,

Well stor’d with pointed darts,

And cry’d “fair nymph in me you view,

“The sov’reign of all hearts.

“To try your truth I only came,

“Your gentle breast to move,

“Thou, goddess, henceforth I proclaim,

“Of virtue, and of love.

SONG.

I

Ye crystal fountains, softly flow,

Ye gentle gales, ah! cease to blow,

For know my blooming constant swain,

Doth calmly sleep, on yonder plain.

II

Propitious pow’rs, afford that rest,

Which ever dwelt within his breast,

With caution guard his radiant charms,

And shield his heart, from rude alarms.

III

Around my love, ye violets spring,

In plaintive notes, ye warblers sing,

Ye roses bloom, about his head,

And sweetly scent, his mossy bed.

IV

Ye little Cupids, quickly bring,

Each green, that decks the verdant spring,

There form a sweet sequest’red grove,

And hide secure, my beauteous love.

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF A LADY.

To hail Louisa, this auspicious day,

Ye sister muses annual tribute pay.

Ye sons of science, greet this happy morn,

On which my gen’rous, honor’d, friend was born.

My ardent wishes, gentle maid receive,

My steady friendship, and my love believe.

Health and contentment, crown thy youthful days,

And sacred honor, guide thy peaceful ways,

Plenty and ease, thy constant help-mates be,

From malice, envy, and oppression free,

May fortune smile, propitious o’er thy life,

And guard thy gentle breast from care and strife.

Thus pass thy moments innocently gay,

And joys arise, with each revolving day,

That when grim death, shall spread his shadows round,

With bliss eternal, may thy life be crown’d.

TO AURELIA ON HER GOING ABROAD.

Farewell, my friend, good angels waft thee o’er,

And guard thee safely to Italia’s shore.

Propitious powers on all thy steps await,

Mild as thy gentle bosom — be thy fate.

Serene and calm be every moment past,

May each revolving day approve the last;

Pure as thyself may all thy friendships prove.

And may’st thou find sincerity in love.

Be cautious, fair Aurelia, how you trust,

To fickle man — for few alas are just.

If at love’s altar you resign your heart,

Let well try’d constancy direct the dart.

May sweet contentment crown the fleeting hours,

And strew thy paths with ever blooming flow’rs.

May no unwelcome pain disturb thy rest,

No anxious cares invade thy gen’rous breast;

But every earthly bliss on thee attend,

And keep from insult my much honor’d friend.

When thou art landed on the distant isle,

Think of our friendship past, and deign to smile:

For know Aurelia’s love I value more,

Then all the gems of India’s wealthy shore.

The laws of sacred virtue still protect,

Nor let my friendship meet a cold neglect.

Let not sad absence banish from thy mind,

Those faithful vows which once our hearts did bind.

Those gen’rous ties of truth, ah! ne’er resign,

For seldom love is more sincere than mine;

I boast no more than truth has pow’r t’impart,

A faithful, feeling, undissembling heart.

Seek not the splendid cares of shining courts,

For hidden sorrow with the great resorts.

Unbidden grief lurks in the dark disguise,

And heav’n-born peace her cheering ray denys.

Sweet mediocrity to thee alone,

Superior joys are most distinctly known.

Bestow your choicest gifts ye sacred nine,

On greater souls — simplicity be mine.

TO LOVE: WRITTEN EXTEMPORE.

I

Resistless power, ah! wherefore reign,

Alone among the rural train,

Is it because you seldom find,

The giddy throng to truth inclin’d.

II

Ah! wherefore in the modish breast,

Art thou so rarely found a guest,

Must fashion occupy thy place,

And custom, hymens charms efface.

III

Alas! how few are born to prove,

The joys of undissembled love,

How few can boast a gen’rous flame,

Inspir’d by virtue’s sacred name.

IV

Is it because thou’rt partial grown,

And yield to beauties power alone,

Must merit plead her right in vain,

And mourn for truth’s unpity’d pain.

V