And view, no longer aw'd, your nerveless arms,
Unfit to cultivate Ohio's banks.
See the bold emigrants of Accadie,
And Massachuset, happy in those arts
That join the politics of Trade and War,
Bearing the palm in either: they appear
Better exemplars; and that hardy crew,
Who, on the frozen beech of Newfoundland,
Hang their white fish amid the parching winds:
The kindly fleece in webs of Duffield woof,
Their limbs, benumb'd, enfolds with cheerly warmth,
And frieze of Cambria, worn by those, who seek,
Through gulfs and dales of Hudson's winding bay,
The beaver's fur, though oft they seek in vain,
While Winter's frosty rigour checks approach,
E'en in the fiftieth latitude. Say why,
(If ye, the travell'd sons of Commerce, know)
Wherefore lie bound their rivers, lakes, and dales,
Half the Sun's annual course, in chains of ice ?
While the Rhine's fertile shore, and Gallic realms,
By the same zone encircled, long enjoy
Warm beams of Phoebus, and, supine, behold
Their plains and hillocks blush with clustering vines.
Must it be ever thus? or may the hand
Of mighty Labour drain their gusty lakes,
Enlarge the brightening sky, and, peopling, warm
The opening valleys, and the yellowing plains?
Or rather shall we burst strong Darien's chain,
Steer our bold fleets between the cloven rocks,
And through the great Pacific every joy
Of civil life diffuse? Are not her isles
Wreck-threatening Staten-land's o'er-hanging shore,
Enormous rocks on rocks, in ever-wild
Posture of falling; as when Pelion, rear'd,
On Ossa, and on Ossa's tottering head
Woody Olympus, by the angry gods
Precipitate on Earth were doom'd to fall.
At length, through every tempest, as some branch,
Which from a poplar falls into a loud
Impetuous cataract, though deep immers'd,
Yet re-ascends, and glides, on lake or stream,
Smooth through the valleys; so his way he won
To the serene Pacific, flood immense,
And rear'd his lofty masts, and spread his sails.
Then Paita's walls in wasting flames involv'd,
His vengeance felt, and fair occasion gave
To show humanity and continence,
To Scipio's not inferior. Then was left
No corner of the globe secure to pride
And violence: although the far-stretch'd coast
Of Chili, and Peru, and Mexico,
Arm'd in their evil cause; though fell Disease,
Un'bating Labour, tedious Time, conspir'd,
And Heat inclement, to unnerve his force; [world,
Though that wide sea, which spreads o'er half the
Deny'd all hospitable land or port;
Where, seasons voyaging, no road he found
To moor, no bottom in th' abyss, whereon
To drop the fastening anchor; though his brave
Companions ceas'd, subdu'd by toil extreme;
Though solitary left in Tinian's seas,
Where never was before the dreaded sound
Numerous and large? Have they not harbours calm, Of Britain's thunder heard; his wave-worn bark
Inhabitants, and manners? haply, too,
Peculiar sciences, and other forms
Of trade, and useful products, to exchange
For woolly vestures? T is a tedious course
By the Antarctic circle: nor beyond
Those sea-wrapt gardens of the dulcet reed,
Bahama and Caribbee, may be found
Safe mole or harbour, till on Falkland's isle
The standard of Britannia shall arise.
Proud Buenos Aires, low-couched Paraguay,
And rough Corrientes, mark, with hostile eye,
The labouring vessel: neither may we trust
The dreary naked Patagonian land,
Which darkens in the wind. No traffic there,
No barter for the fleece. There angry storms
Bend their black brows, and, raging, hurl around
Their thunders. Ye adventurous mariners,
Be firm; take courage from the brave. 'T was there
Perils and conflicts inexpressible
Anson, with steady undespairing breast,
Endur'd, when o'er the various globe he chas'd
His country's foes. Fast-gathering tempests rous'd
Huge Ocean, and involv'd him: all around
Whirlwind, and snow, and hail, and horrour : now,
Rapidly, with the world of waters, down
Descending to the channels of the deep,
He view'd th' uncover'd bottom of th' abyss;
And now the stars, upon the loftiest point
Toss'd of the sky-mix'd surges, Oft the burst
Of loudest thunder, with the dash of seas,
Tore the wild-flying sails and tumbling masts;
While flames, thick-flashing in the gloom, reveal'd
Ruins of decks and shrouds, and sights of death.
Yet on he far'd, with fortitude his cheer,
Gaining, at intervals, slow way beneath
Del Fuego's rugged cliffs, and the white ridge,
Above all height, by opening clouds reveal'd,
Of Montegorda, and inaccessible
Met, fought, the proud Iberian, and o'ercame.
So fare it ever with our country's foes!
Rejoice, ye nations, vindicate the sway
Ordain'd for common happiness. Wide, o'er
The globe terraqueous, let Britannia pour
The fruits of plenty from her copious horn.
What can avail to her, whose fertile earth
By Ocean's briny waves are circumscrib'd,
The armed host, and murdering sword of war,
And conquest o'er her neighbours? She ne'er breaks
Her solemn compacts in the lust of rule:
Studious of arts and trade, she ne'er disturbs
The holy peace of states. 'T is her delight
To fold the world with harmony, and spread,
Among the habitations of mankind,
The various wealth of toil, and what her fleece,
To clothe the naked, and her skilful looms,
Peculiar give. Ye too rejoice, ye swains;
Increasing commerce shall reward your cares.
A day will come, if not too deep we drink
The cup, which luxury on careless wealth,
Pernicious gift, bestows; a day will come,
When, through new channels sailing, we shall clothe
The Californian coast, and all the realms
That stretch from Anian's straits to proud Japan;
And the green isles, which on the left arise
Upon the glassy brine, whose various capes
Not yet are figur'd on the sailor's chart:
Then every variation shall be told
Of the magnetic steel; and currents mark'd,
Which drive the heedless vessel from her course.
That portion too of land, a tract immense,
Beneath th' Antarctic spread, shall then be known,
And new plantations on its coast arise.
Then rigid Winter's ice no more shall wound
The only naked animal; but man
With the soft fleece shall every-where be cloth'd.
Th' exulting Muse shall then, in vigour fresh,
Her flight renew. Meanwhile, with weary wing, O'er Ocean's wave returning, she explores Siluria's flowery vales, her old delight,
The shepherd's haunts, where the first springs arise Of Britain's happy trade, now spreading wide, Wide as th' Atlantic and Pacific seas,
Or as air's vital fluid o'er the globe.
THE COUNTRY WALK.
THE morning 's fair, the lusty Sun
With ruddy cheek begins to run;
And early birds, that wing the skies,
Sweetly sing to see him rise.
I am resolv'd, this charming day,
In the open field to stray;
And have no roof above my head,
But that whereon the gods do tread.
Before the yellow barn I see
A beautiful variety
Of strutting cocks, advancing stout,
And flirting empty chaff about,
Hens, ducks, and geese, and all their brood,
And turkeys gobbling for their food,
While rustics thrash the wealthy floor,
And tempt them all to crowd the door.
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What a fair face does Nature show!
Augusta, wipe thy dusty brow;
A landscape wide salutes my sight, Of shady vales, and mountains bright; And azure heavens I behold, And clouds of silver and of gold. And now into the fields I go, Where thousand flaming flowers glow; And every neighbouring hedge I greet, With honeysuckles smelling sweet. Now o'er the daisy meads I stray, And meet with, as I pace my way, Sweetly shining on the eye, A rivulet, gliding smoothly by; Which shows with what an easy tide The moments of the happy glide. Here, finding pleasure after pain, Sleeping, I see a wearied swain, While his full scrip lies open by, That does his healthy food supply. Happy swain, sure happier far Than lofty kings and princes are! Enjoy sweet sleep, which shuns the crown, With all its easy beds of down.
The Sun now shows his noon-tide blaze,
And sheds around me burning rays.
A little onward, and I go
Into the shade that groves bestow;
And on green moss I lay me down,
That o'er the root of oak has grown;
Where all is silent, but some flood
That sweetly murmurs in the wood;
But birds that warble in the sprays.
And charm e'en Silence with their lays.
Oh powerful Silence, how you reign
In the poet's busy brain!
His numerous thoughts obey the calls
Of the tuneful water-falls,
Like moles, whene'er the coast is clear,
They rise before thee without fear,
And range in parties here and there.
Some wildly to Parnassus wing,
And view the fair Castalian spring;
Where they behold a lonely well,
Where now no tuneful Muses dwell;
But now and then a slavish hind
Paddling the troubled pool they find.
Some trace the pleasing paths of joy,
Others the blissful scene destroy;
In thorny tracks of sorrow stray,
And pine for Clio far away.
But stay-Methinks her lays I hear,
So smooth! so sweet so deep! so clear!
No, 't is not her voice, I find,
'T is but the echo stays behind.
Some meditate ambition's brow,
And the black gulf that gapes below:
Some peep in courts, and there they see
The sneaking tribe of Flattery.
But, striking to the ear and eye,
A nimble deer comes bounding by ;
When rushing from yon rustling spray,
It made them vanish all away.
I rouse me up, and on I rove,
'T is more than time to leave the grove.
The Sun declines, the evening breeze
Begins to whisper through the trees:
And, as I leave the sylvan gloom,
As to the glare of day I come,
An old man's smoky nest I see,
Leaning on an aged tree :
Whose willow walls, and furzy brow,
A little garden sway below.
Through spreading beds of blooming green,
Matted with herbage sweet, and clean,
A vein of water limps along,
And makes them ever green, and young.
Here he puffs upon his spade,
And digs up cabbage in the shade:
His tatter'd rags are sable brown,
His beard and hair are hoary grown:
The dying sap descends apace,
And leaves a wither'd hand and face.
Up Grongar hill' I labour now,
And catch at last his bushy brow.
Oh, how fresh, how pure the air!
Let me breathe a little here.
Where am I, Nature? I descry
Thy magazine before me lie!
Temples!--and towns!-and towers!-and woods!
And hills!-and vales!-and fields!-and floods!
Crowding before me, edg'd around
With naked wilds, and barren ground.
See, below, the pleasant dome,
The poet's pride, the poet's home,
Which the sun-beams shine upon,
To the even, from the dawn.
See her woods, where Echo talks,
Her gardens trim, her terrass walks,
Her wildernesses, fragrant brakes,
Her gloomy bowers, and shining lakes,
Keep, ye gods, this humble seat,
For ever pleasant, private, neat.
See yonder hill, uprising steep,.
Above the river slow and deep:
It looks from hence a pyramid,
Beneath a verdant forest hid;
On whose high top there rises great,
The mighty remnant of a seat,
An old green tower, whose batter'd brow
Frowns upon the vale below.
Look upon that flowery plain,
How the sheep surround their swain,
How they crowd to hear his strain!
All careless with his legs across,
Leaning on a bank of moss,
He spends his empty hours at play,
Which fly as light as down away.
And there behold a bloomy mead,
A silver stream, a willow shade,
Beneath the shade a fisher stand,
Who, with the angle in his hand,
Swings the nibbling fry to land.
In blushes the descending Sun
Kisses the streams, while slow they run;
And yonder hill remoter grows,
Or dusky clouds do interpose.
The fields are left, the labouring hind
His weary oxen does unbind;
And vocal mountains, as they low,
Re-echo to the vales below;
The jocund shepherds piping come,
And drive the herd before them home;
And now begin to light their fires,
Which send up smoke in curling spires:
While with light heart all homeward tend,
To Abergasney I descend.
But, oh! how bless'd would be the day, Did I with Clio pace my way,
And not alone and solitary stray!
E poor little sheep, ah! well may ye stray, While sad is your shepherd, and Clio away! Tell where have you been, have you met with my love, On the mountain, or valley, or meadow, or grove? Alas-aday, No-Ye are stray'd, and half dead; Ye saw not my love, or ye all had been fed. Oh, Sun, did you see her?-ah! surely you did: 'Mong what willows, or woodbines, or reeds, is she
Pray tell where she hides her-you surely do know— And let not her lover pine after her so.
Oh, had I the wings of an eagle, I'd fly
Along with bright Phoebus all over the sky;
Like an eagle, look down, with my wings wide dis-
play'd,
And dart in my eyes at each whispering shade:
I'd search every tuft in my diligent tour,
I'd unravel the woodbines, and look in each bower,
Till I found out my Clio, and ended my pain,
And made myself quiet, and happy again.
AN EPISTLE TO A FAMOUS PAINTER. DELIGHTFUL partner of my heart, Master of the loveliest art!
"The name of a seat belonging to the author's brother.
How sweet our senses you deceive,
When we, a gazing throng, believe!
Here flows the Po!-The Minis there,
Winding about with sedgy hair!
And there the Tyber's yellow flood,
Beneath a thick and gloomy wood!
And there Darius' broken ranks
Upon the Grannic's bloody banks;
Who bravely die, or basely run
From Philip's all-subduing son!
And there the wounded Porus brought
(The bravest man that ever fought!)
To Alexander's tent, who eyes
His dauntless visage, as he lies
In death's most painful agonies.
To me reveal thy heavenly art,
To me thy mysteries impart.
As yet I but in verse can paint,
And to th' idea coleur faint
What to the open eye you show,
Seeming Nature's living glow !
The beauteous shapes of objects near!
Or distant ones confus'd in air!
The golden eve, the blushing dawn,
Smiling on the lovely lawn!
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And pleasing views of chequer'd glades !
And rivers winding through the shades!
And sunny hills!-and pleasant plains!
And groups of merry nymphs and swains!
Or some old building, hid with grass,
Rearing sad its ruin'd face;
Whose columns, frizes, statues, lie,
The grief and wonder of the eye!
Or swift adown a mountain tall,
A foaming cataract's sounding fall;
Of the wondering traveller!
Whose loud roaring stuns the ear
Or a calm and quiet bay,
And a level shining sea!
Or surges rough, that froth and roar,
And vessels tost! and billows high!
And, angry, dash the sounding shore!
And lightnings flashing from the sky!
Or that which gives me most delight,
The fair idea (seeming sight!)
Of warrior fierce, with shining blade!
Or orator with arms display'd!
Declaiming against Catiline.
Tully's engaging air and mien,
Or fierce Achilles towering high
Above his foes, who round him die,
Of Hercules, with lion's hide,
And knotty cudgel thrown aside,
Who, in his gripe, expires there!
Lifting Antæus high in air!
Or Sisyphus, with toil and sweat, And muscles strain'd, striving to get Which near the top recoils, and rolls impetuous Up a steep hill a ponderous stone, down.
Or beauteous Helen's easy air,
With head reclin'd, and flowing hair;
Or comely Paris, gay and young,
Moving with gailant grace along!
These you can do!-I but advance
In a florid ignorance;
And say to you, who better know,
You should design them so and so.
ON HIS POEM CALLED GIDEON.
[Those lines in this poem marked with inverted
commas are taken out of the poem called Gideon.]
TELL me, wondrous friend, where were you
When Gideon was your lofty song!
Where did the heavenly spirit bear you,
When your fair soul reflected strong
Gideon's actions, as they shin'd
Bright in the chambers of your mind!
Say, have you trod Arabia's spicy vales,
Or gather'd bays beside Euphrates' stream,
Or lonely sung with Jordan's water-falls,
THE CHOICE.
TO MR. DYER. BY AARON HILL, ESQ.
WHILE, charm'd with Aberglasney's quiet plains,
The Muses, and their empress, court your strains,
Tir'd of the noisy town, so lately try'd,
Methinks I see you smile, on Towy's side!
Pensive, her mazy wanderings you unwind,
And, on your river's margin, calm your mind.
Oh! greatly bless'd-whate'er your fate requires,
Your ductile wisdom tempers your desires!
Balanc'd within, you look abroad serene,
And, marking both extremes, pass clear between.
Oh could your lov'd example teach your skill,
And, as it moves my wonder, mend my will!
While heavenly Gideon was your sacred theme? Calm would my passions grow; my lot would please; Or have you many ages given
To close retirement and to books!
And held a long discourse with Heaven,
And notic'd Nature in her various looks!
Full of inspiring wonder and delight,
Slow read I Gideon with a greedy eye!
Like a pleas'd traveller that lingers sweet
On some fair and lofty plain
Where the Sun does brightly shine,
And glorious prospects all around him lie!
On Gideon's pages beautifully shine,
Surprising pictures rising to my sight,
With all the life of colours and of line,
And all the force of rounding shade and light, And all the grace of something more divine! High on a hill, beneath an oak's broad arm,
I see a youth divinely fair, "Pensive he leans his head on his left hand; His smiling eye sheds sweetness mix'd with awe, His right hand, with a milk-white wand, some figure seems to draw!
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And my sick soul might think itself to ease!
But, to the future while I strain my eye,
Each present good slips, undistinguish'd, by.
Still, what I would, contends with what I can,
And my wild wishes leap the bounds of man.
If in my power it lies to limit hope,
And my unchain'd desires can fix a scope, [poor;
This were my choice-Ob, friend! pronounce me
For I have wants, which wealth can never cure!
Let others with a narrow'd stint of pride,
In selfish views, a bounded hope divide:
If I must wish at all-Desires are free,
High, as the highest, I would wish to be!
Then might I, sole supreme, act, unconfin'd,
And with unbounded influence bless mankind.
Mean is that soul, whom its own good can fill !
A prosperous world, alone, could feast my will.
He's poor, at best, who others' misery sees,
And wants the wish'd-for power to give them ease!
A glory this, unreach'd, but on a throne!
All were enough-and, less than all, is none !
This my first wish:-but since 't is wild, and vain,
A nameless grace is scatter'd through his air,
And o'er his shoulders loosely flows his amber-co-To grasp at glittering clouds, with fruitless pain,
Above, with burning blush the morning glows,
The waking world all fair before him lies;
"Slow from the plain the melting dews, To kiss the sun-beams, climbing, rise," &c. Methinks the grove of Baal I see,
In terrass'd stages mount up high, And wave its sable beauties in the sky.
"From stage to stage, broad steps of half-hid
stone,
With curling moss and blady grass o'ergrown,
Lead awful-
Down in a dungeon deep,
Where through thick walls, oblique the broken light
From narrow loop-holes quivers to the sight,
With swift and furious stride,
Close-folded arms, and short and sudden starts,
The fretful prince, in dumb and sullen pride,
Revolves escape"
Here in red colours glowing bold
A warlike figure strikes my eye!
The dreadful sudden sight his foes behold
Confounded so, they lose the power to fly;
"Backening they gaze at distance on his face,
Admire his posture, and confess his grace;
His right hand grasps his planted spear," &c.
Alas! my Muse, through much good-will, you err:
And we the mighty author greatly wrong;
To gather beauties here and there,
As but a scatter'd few there were,
While every word 's a beauty in his song!
More safely low let my next prospect be,
And life's mild evening this fair sun-set see.
Far from a lord's loath'd neighbourhood—a state!
Whose little greatness is a pride I hate!
On some lone wild should my large house be plac'd,
Vastly surrounded by a healthful waste!
Steril and coarse the untry'd soil should be,
Till forc'd to flourish, and subdu'd by me.
Seas, woods, meads, mountains, gardens, streams,
and skies,
Should, with a changeful grandeur, charm my eyes!
Where'er I walk'd, effects of my past pains
Should plume the mountain tops, and paint the
plains,
Greatly obscure, and shunning courts, or name!
Widely befriended, but escaping fame;
Peaceful, in studious quiet, would I live,
Lie bid, for leisure, and grow rich, to give!
TO MR. SAVAGE,
SON OF THE LATE EARL RIVERS.
SINK not, my friend, beneath misfortune's weight,
Pleas'd to be found intrinsically great.
Shame on the dull, who think the soul looks less,
Because the body wants a glittering dress.
It is the mind's for ever bright attire,
The mind's embroidery, that the wise admire!
That which looks rich to the gross vulgar eyes
Is the fop's tinsel which the grave despise.
Wealth dims the eyes of crowds, and while they gaze, | Till Outrage arises, or Misery needs
The coxcomb 's ne'er discover'd in the blaze!
As few the vices of the wealthy see,
So virtues are conceal'd by poverty.
Earl Rivers!-In that name how wouldst thou
shine?
Thy verse, how sweet! thy fancy, how divine!
Critics and bards would, by their worth, be aw'd,
And all would think it merit to applaud.
But thou hast nought to please the vulgar eye,
No title hast, nor what might titles buy.
Thou wilt small praise, but much ill-nature find,
Clear to thy errours, to thy beauties blind;
And if, though few, they any faults can see,
How meanly bitter will cold censure be!
But, since we all, the wisest of us, err,
Sure 't is the greatest fault to be severe.
A few, however, yet expect to find,
Among the misty millions of mankind,
Who proudly stoop to aid an injur'd cause,
And o'er the sneer of coxcombs force applause,
Who, with felt pleasure, see fair Virtue rise,
And lift her upwards to the beckoning prize!
Or mark her labouring in the modest breast,
And honour her the more, the more deprest.
Thee, Savage, these (the justly great) admire,
Thee, quick'ning judgment's phlegm with fancy's
Thee, slow to censure, earnest to commend, [fire!
An able critic, but a willing friend.
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN TOWN'.
HAVE my friends in the town, in the gay busy town,
Forgot such a man as John Dyer?
Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown,
Whose bosom no pageantries fire?
No matter, no matter-content in the shades-
(Contented?-why every thing charms me)
Fall in tunes all adown the green steep, ye cascades,
Till hence rigid Virtue alarms me.
Among the poems of Mr. Savage, there is one to Mr. Dyer, in answer to his from the country.
The swift, the intrepid avenger;
Till sacred Religion or Liberty bleeds,
Then mine be the deed and the danger.
Alas! what a folly, that wealth and domain
We heap up in sin and in sorrow!
Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over tomorrow?
Then glide on my moments, the few that I have,
Smooth-shaded, and quiet, and even;
While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to Heaven.
TO MR. DYER. BY CLIO',
I've done thy merit and my friendship wrong,
In holding back my gratitude so long;
The soul is sure to equal transport rais'd,
That justly praises, or is justly prais'd;
The generous only can this pleasure know
Who taste the godlike virtue-to bestow!
I e'en grow rich, methinks, while I commend
And feel the very praises which I send ;
Nor jealousy nor female envy find,
Though all the Muses are to Dyer kind.
Sing on, nor let your modest fears retard,
Whose verse and pencil join, to force reward:
Your claim demands the bays in double wreath,
Your poems lighten, and your pictures breathe.
I wish to praise you, but your beauties wrong;
No theme looks green, in Clio's artless song:
But yours will an eternal verdure wear,
For Dyer's fruitful soul will flourish there.
My humbler lot was in low distance laid;
I was, oh, hated thought! a woman inade;
For household cares, and empty trifles meant,
The name does immortality prevent.
Yet let me stretch, beyond my sex, my mind,
And, rising, leave the fluttering train behind;
| Nor art, nor learning, wish'd assistance lends,
But nature, love, and music, are my friends.
Among the poems of Mr. Savage, is an epistle occasioned by Mr. Dyer's picture of this lady.
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