Who, through the sunshine and the shower,
Descry the rainbow-painted tower?
Who, wandering at return of May,
Catch the first cuckoo's vernal lay?
Who musing waste the summer hour,
Where high o'er-arching trees embower
The grassy lane so rarely paced,
With azure flowerets idly graced ?
Unnoticed now, at twilight's dawn
Returning reapers cross the lawn;
Nor fond attention loves to note
The wether's bell from folds remote :
While, own'd by no poetic eye,
Thy pensive evenings shade the sky!
For, lo! the Bard who rapture found
In every rural sight or sound;
Whose genius warm, and judgment chaste,
No charm of genuine nature pass'd;
Who felt the Muse's purest fires,—
Far from thy favour'd haunt retires :
Who peopled all thy vocal bowers
With shadowy shapes and airy powers.
Behold, a dread repose resumes,
As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms!
From the deep dell, where shaggy roots
Fringe the rough brink with wreathed shoots,
Th' unwilling Genius flies forlorn,
His primrose chaplet rudely torn.
With hollow shriek the Nymphs forsake
The pathless copse and hedgerow brake:
Where the delved mountain's headlong side
Its chalky entrails opens wide,
On the green summit, ambush'd high,
No longer Echo loves to lie.
No pearl-crown'd maids, with wily look,
Rise beckoning from the reedy brook.
Around the glow-worm's glimmering bank,
No fairies run in fiery rank;
Nor brush, half-seen, in airy tread,
The violet's unprinted head.
But Fancy, from the thickets brown,
The glades that wear a conscious frown,
The forest-oaks, that, pale and lone,
Nod to the blast with hoarser tone,
Rough glens, and sullen waterfalls,
Her bright ideal offspring calls.
So by some sage enchanter's spell
(As old Arabian fablers tell),
Amid the solitary wild,
Luxuriant gardens gaily smiled
From sapphire rocks the fountains stream'd,
With golden fruit the branches beam'd;
Fair forms, in every wondrous wood,
Or lightly tripp'd, or solemn stood;
And oft, retreating from the view,
Betray'd, at distance, beauties new:
While gleaming o'er the crisped bowers
Rich spires arose, and sparkling towers.
If bound on service new to go,
The master of the magic show,
His transitory charm withdrew,
Away th' illusive landscape flew :
Dun clouds obscured the groves of gold,
Blue lightning smote the blooming mould:
In visionary glory rear'd,
The gorgeous castle disappear'd;
And a bare heath's unfruitful plain
Usurp'd the wizard's proud domain.
THE AUTHOR CONFINED TO COLLEGE.
1 ONCE more the vernal sun's ambrosial beams
The fields as with a purple robe adorn:
Cherwell, thy sedgy banks and glistering streams
All laugh and sing at mild approach of morn;
Through the deep groves I hear the chanting birds,
And through the clover'd vale the various-lowing herds.
2 Up mounts the mower from his lowly thatch,
Well pleased the progress of the spring to mark,
The fragrant breath of breezes pure to catch,
And startle from her couch the early lark;
More genuine pleasure soothes his tranquil breast,
Than high-throned kings can boast, in eastern glory drest.
3 The pensive poet through the greenwood steals, Or treads the willow'd marge of murmuring brook; Or climbs the steep ascent of airy hills;
There sits him down beneath a branching oak, Whence various scenes, and prospects wide below, Still teach his musing mind with fancies high to glow.
4 But I nor with the day awake to bliss, (Inelegant to me fair Nature's face,
A blank the beauty of the morning is,
And grief and darkness all for light and grace ;) Nor bright the sun, nor green the meads appear, Nor colour charms mine eye, nor melody mine ear.
5 Me, void of elegance and manners mild,
With leaden rod, stern Discipline restrains
Stiff Pedantry, of learned Pride the child,
My roving genius binds in Gothic chains;
Nor can the cloister'd Muse expand her wing,
Nor bid these twilight roofs with her gay carols ring.
THE COMPLAINT OF CHERWELL. AN ODE..
1 ALL pensive from her osier-woven bower
Cherwell arose. Around her darkening edge
Pale Eve began the steaming mist to pour,
And breezes fann'd by fits the rustling sedge:
She rose, and thus she cried in deep despair,
And tore the rushy wreath that bound her streaming hair :
2 "Ah! why," she cried, " should Isis share alone
The tributary gifts of tuneful fame!
Shall every song her happier influence own,
And stamp with partial praise her favourite name?
While I, alike to those proud domes allied,
Nor hear the Muse's call, nor boast a classic tide.
3 "No chosen son of all yon fabling band
Bids my loose locks their glossy length diffuse;
Nor sees my coral-cinctured stole expand
Its folds, besprent with Spring's unnumber'd hues:
No poet builds my grotto's dripping cell,
Nor studs my crystal throne with many a speckled shell.
4 "In Isis' vase if Fancy's eye discern
Majestic towers emboss'd in sculpture high;
Lo! milder glories mark my modest urn,
The simple scenes of pastoral imagery:
What though she pace sublime, a stately queen?
Mine is the gentle grace, the meek retiring mien.
5" Proud Nymph, since late the Muse thy triumphs sung, No more with mine thy scornful Naiads play, (While Cynthia's lamp o'er the broad vale is hung), Where meet our streams, indulging short delay; No more, thy crown to braid, thou deign'st to take My cress-born flowers, that float in many a shady lake.
6" Vain bards! can Isis win the raptured soul,
Where Art each wilder watery charm invades?
Whose waves, in measured volumes taught to roll,
Or stagnant sleep, or rush in white cascades:
Whose banks with echoing industry resound,
Fenced by the foam-beat pier, and torrent-braving mound.
7" Lo! here no commerce spreads the fervent toil, To pour pollution o'er my virgin tide;
The freshness of my pastures to defile,
Or bruise the matted groves that fringe my side:
But Solitude, on this sequester'd bank,
Mid the moist lilies sits, attired in mantle dank.
8 "No ruder sounds my grazing herds affright,
Nor mar the milk-maid's solitary song:
The jealous halcyon wheels her humble flight,
And hides her emerald wing my reeds among;
All unalarm'd, save when the genial May
Bids wake my peopled shores, and rears the ripen'd hay.
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