But ah! Oppression forced me from my cot,
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandoned on the world's wild stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell! a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless
CXLIX. WALTER HARTE.
SCIPIO AND DIOCLETIAN.
Scipio sought virtue in his prime,
And, having early gain'd the prize,
Stole from the ungrateful world in time,
Contented to be low and wise!
He served the state with zeal and force,
And then with dignity retired;
Dismounting from the unruly horse,
To rule himself, as sense required,
Without a sigh, he power resigned.
All, all from thee,
Supremely gracious Deity,
Corrector of the mind!
When Diocletian sought repose,
Cloyed and fatigued with nauseous power,
He left his empire to his foes,
For fools t' admire, and rogues devour:
Rich in his poverty, he bought
Retirement's innocence and health;
With his own hands the monarch wrought,
And changed a throne for Ceres' wealth.
Toil soothed his cares, his blood refined—
And all from thee,
Supremely gracious Deity,
Composer of the mind!
What beauties does Flora disclose!
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Nor all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come let us go forth to the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day? Does Mary not tend a few sheep? Do they never carelessly stray, While happily she lies asleep? Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest; Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. "Tis she does the virgins excel,
No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces around her do dwell;
She is fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer where do thy flocks stray, Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on smooth winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?
CLI. STEPHEN DUCK.
CONTENTMENT.
Deluded on from scene to scene,
We never end but still begin,
By flattering hope betrayed;
I'm weary of the painful chase
Let others run this endless race
To catch a flying shade.
Let others boast their useless wealth;
Have I not honesty and health?
Which riches cannot give :
Let others to preferment soar,
And, changing liberty for pow'r,
In golden shackles live.
Silent nymph! with curious eye,
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale;
Come with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy sister muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar! in whose mossy cells,
Sweetly musing, Quiet dwells;
Grongar! in whose quiet shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At a fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flow'ry bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood;
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his chequered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind;
And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads:
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.
Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours, intervene :
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow:
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires:
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads:
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes;
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beach, the sable yew;
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak, with broad-spread bougnss
And, beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood:
His sides are clothed with waving wood:
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a safety from the wind
One mutual dependance find.
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now the apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls.
Yet time has been, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete
Big with the vanity of state:
But transient is the smile of Fate.
A little rule, a little sway,
A sun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.
And see the rivers, how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade, and sun,
Sometimes swift and sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave they go,
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses, green and
gay,
To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
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