"Twas such a scene as gave a kind relief
To memory, in sweetly-pensive grief:
Gloomy, unpleafing images it wrought;
No mufing, foft complacency of thought:
For Time had canker'd all, and worn away
Ev'n the last, mournful graces of decay:
Oblivion, hateful goddess, fate before,
And cover'd with her dusky wings the door :
No filver harps I heard, no Mufe's voice,
But birds obfcene in horrid notes rejoice:
Fancy recoil'd, and with his tinfel train
Forfook the chearless fcene; no more remain
The warm ambitious hope of airy youth;
Severe reflection came, and frowning Truth:
Away each glitt'ring gay idea fled,
And bade a melancholy train fucceed,
That form'd, or feem'd to form, a mournful call
In feeble echoes mutt'ring round the wall,
Seek not the Muses here! th' affrighted maids
Have fled Parthenope's polluted fhades:
Her happy fhores, the feats of joy and ease,
Their fav'rite manfions once, no longer please:
No longer, as of old, in transport lost,
The fifters rove along th' enchanted coast;
They turn with horror from each much-lov'd stream,
And loath the fields that were their darling theme:
The tuneful names themfelves once fondly gave
To every fwelling hill, and moffy cave,
So pleafing then, are only heard with fighs;
And each fad echo bids their forrow rise.
Yet Nature fmiles, as when their Virgil fung,
Nor midft a fairer fcene his lyre was ftrung;
Still bloom the fweets of his elyfium here,
And the fame charms in every grove appear.
But ah in vain indulgent funs prevail;
Health and delight in every balmy gale
Are wafted now in vain: fmall comfort bring
To weeping eyes the beauties of the spring.
To groaning flaves those fragrant meads belong,
Where Tully dictated, and Maro fung.
Long fince, alas! thofe golden days are flown,
When here each Science wore its proper crown:
Pale Tyranny has laid their altars low,
And rent the laurel from the Mufe's brow:
What wonder then 'midit fuch a fcene to fee
The Arts expire with bleeding Liberty?
Pentive and fad, each fair angelic form
Droops, like the wearied dove beneath a florm:
Far other views the poet's thought engage,
Than the warm glories of th' Auguftan age.
Can mis'ry bid th' imagination glow ?
Or genius brighten 'midft domeftic woe?
To fe defponding wretches round him pine,
Horace had wept beneath the Alban vine.
Sad fits the bard amidst his country's tears,
And fighs, regardless of the wreath he wears.
Did ever Want and Famine sweetly fing?
The fetter'd hand uncouthly strikes the string.
Lo! ftern Oppreffion lifts her iron rod,
And Ruin waits th' imperious harpy's nod:
Black Defolation, and deftructive War,
Rife at the signal, and attend her car.
From the dire pomp th' affrighted shepherd flies,
And leaves his flock the rav'nous foldier's prize.
Where now are all the nymphs that bleft the plains?
Where the full chorus of contented swains?
The fongs of love, of liberty and peace,
Are heard no more; the dance and tabor cease :
To the foft oaten pipe, and past'ral reed,
The din of arms and clarion's blast fucceed:
Dire shapes appear in every op'ning glade;
And Furies howl where once the Mufes ftray'd.
Is this the queen of realms, for arts renown'd?
This captive maid, that weeps upon the ground?
Alas! how chang'd!-dejected and forlorn!
The mistress of the world become the fcorn!
Around stand Rapine, Horror and Defpair;
And Ign'rance, dark ally of barb'rous War:
She, at th' ufurping Vandal's dread command,
Difplays her gloomy banner o'er the land:
Beneath its chilling fhade neglected lies
Each fifter Art; and unlamented dies.
Lo! Sculpture lets her useful chiffel fall;
While on fome ruin'd temple's broken wall
Sad Architecture fits; and fees with fhame
Mif-fhapen piles ufurp her injured name:
Mufic and Verfe, unhappy twins! belong
To antique Mafque, and weak unmanly Song:
The gathering deluge fwells on every fide,
And monkish Superftition fwells the tide.
By the refiftless torrent overborn
Floats every Virtue, from its bafis torn:
Fair Learning droops, the fick'ning arts decay;
And every laurel fades, and every bay.
All is confus'd, no traces now are seen
To fhew what wretched Italy has been.
Thus once Vefuvius, crown'd with circling wood,
Parthenope, thy beauteous neighbour stood:
Perpetual Spring cloath'd the fair mountain's fide,
And, what is now thy terror, was thy pride.
Sudden th' imprifon'd flames burst forth; and laid
On fmoaky heaps each fhrieking Dryad's shade :
Now deep in afhes finks the myrtle bow'r,
O'er beds of flow'rs fulphureous torrents roar ;
And exil'd demi-gods their ruin'd feats deplore.
E ladies that live in the city or town,
Fair Winton or Alresford so fine and so gay;
And ye neat country laffes in clean linen gown,
As neat and as blithe and as pretty as they :
Come away ftrait to Ovington, for you can't think
What a charming new walk there is made on the Link.
Look how lovely the prospect, the meadows how green,
The fields and the woods, in the vale or the hill :
The trees, and the cottage that peeps out between,
The clear stream that runs bubbling in many a rill,
That will show your fair face as you stand on the brink,
And murmurs most sweetly all under the Link.
How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky,
How pure the fresh air, and how healthy the place!
Your heart goes a pit-a-pat light as a fly,
And the blood circles brifkly, and glows in your face:
Would you paint your fair cheeks with the rofe and the pink? Throw your washes away, take a walk on the Link.
a A village near Alresford in Hampshire.
|