Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Delighted with pastoral views,
Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils, And point out new themes for my muse. To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The damsel's of humble descent;
The cottager Peace is well-known for her sire, And shepherds have named her Content.
CCXII. GEORGE KEATE, 1729-1797.
ON THE DEATH OF A LINNET.
Beneath this fragrant woodbine's shade A little songster's bones are laid; Who, ever innocent and gay,
Felt all his hours glide smooth away ; No guilty passion tore his breast, No dream of greatness broke his rest; He with a cheerful, patient mind Played well that part the gods assigned; Nor matters it, when this be done, How soon the thread of life is spun! Ye warbling tenants of the grove, Approach this spot and mark your love. Light hovering round on airy wing Soft notes of plaintive friendship sing. So may no prying eye pervade The hedge-rows where your young are laid, Nor cruel hand of wanton boy Your dwellings plunder or destroy:
Far may you bend your flight from where
The artful fowler spreads his snare,
And live from ev'ry danger free,
Enjoying still sweet liberty!
WILLIAM FALCONER, 1730–1769.
THE MOMENT OF SHIPWRECK.
The moment fraught with fate approaches fast! While thronging sailors climb each quivering mast; The ship no longer now must stem the land, And "hard a starboard!" is the last command: While every suppliant voice to Heaven applies, The prow swift-wheeling to the westward flies;
Twelve sailors, on the foremast who depend, High on the platform of the top ascend Fatal retreat for while the plunging prow Immerges headlong in the wave below,
Down-prest by watery weight the bowsprit bends, And from above the stern deep-crashing rends : Beneath her bow the floating ruins lie; The foremast totters unsustained on high: And now the ship, fore-lifted by the sea, Hurls the tall fabric backward o'er her lee; While, in the general wreck, the faithful stay Drags the main-topmast by the cap away; Flung from the mast, the seamen strive in vain Through hostile floods their vessel to regain; Weak hope, alas! they buffet long the wave, And grasp at life, though sinking in the grave: Till all exhausted, and bereft of strength, O'erpowered, they yield to cruel fate at length: The burying waters close around their head; They sink for ever numbered with the dead!
2. EVENING ON BOARD SHIP.
The sun's bright orb, declining, all serene, Now glanced obliquely o'er the woodland scene. Creation smiles around! on every spray The warbling birds exalt their evening lay. Blithe skipping o'er yon hill, the fleecy train Join the deep chorus of the lowing plain; The golden lime and orange there were seen, On fragrant branches of perpetual green. The crystal streams, that velvet meadows lave. To the green ocean roll with chiding wave. The glassy ocean hushed forgets to roar, But trembling murmurs on the sandy shore And lo! his surface, lovely to behold! Glows in the west, a sea of living gold! While, all above, a thousand liveries gay The skies with pomp ineffable array. Arabian sweets perfume the happy plains: Above, beneath, around, enchantment reigns! While yet the shades, on time's eternal scale, With long vibration deepen o'er the vale;
While yet the songsters of the vocal grove With dying numbers tune the soul to love, With joyful eyes the attentive master sees The auspicious omens of an eastern breeze. Now radiant Vesper leads the starry train, And night slow draws her veil o'er land and main; Round the charged bowl the sailors form a ring ; By turns recount the wondrous tale, or sing; As love or battle, hardships of the main, Or genial wine, awake their homely strain: Then some the watch of night alternate keep; The rest lie buried in oblivious sleep.
CCXIV. JOHN SCOTT, 1730-1783.
ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM.
I hate that drum's discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; And when Ambition's voice commands, To march, and fight, and fall in foreign lands. I hate that drum's discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns, and ruined swains, And mangled limbs, and dying groans, And widows' tears, and orphans' moans; And all that misery's hand bestows To fill the catalogue of human woes.
CCXV. CHARLES CHURCHILL, 1730–1764. 1. OF HIMSELF.
Me, whom no muse of heavenly birth inspires, No judgment tempers, when rash genius fires; Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme, Short glams of sense and satire out of time; Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads By prattling streams, o'er flower-impurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have prayed For apt Alliteration's artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill, Coin fine new epithets which mean no ill: Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place Amongst the lowest of her favoured race.
Had I the power, I could not have the time, While spirits flow, and life is in her prime, Without a sin 'gainst pleasure, to design A plan, to methodise each thought, each line, Highly to finish, and make every grace,
In itself charming, take new charms from place. Nothing of books, and little known of men, When the mad fit comes on I seize the pen; Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down, Rough as they run, discharge them on the town.
What is't to us, if taxes rise or fall? Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all. Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal, Lament those hardships which we cannot feel. His Grace, who smarts, may bellow if he please, But must I bellow too, who sit at ease? By custom safe, the poet's numbers flow Free as the light and air some years ago. No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours and excise our brains. Burthens like these, vile earthly buildings bear; No tribute's laid on castles in the air!
The hive is up in arms, expert to teach,
Nor proudly to be taught unwilling, each Seems from her fellows a new zeal to catch, Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch, The bee goes forth, from herb to herb she flies, From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs
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