TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.
To you, my lord, my Muse her tribute pays
Of various verse, in various rude essays;
To you she first address'd her early voice,
By inclination led, and fix'd by choice;
To you, on whose indulgence she depends,
Her few collected lays she now commends.
By no one measure bound, her numbers range,
And, unresolv'd in choice, delight in change;
Her songs to no distinguish'd fame aspire,
For, now, she tries the reed, anon, attempts the
In high Parnassus she no birth-right claims,
Nor drinks deep draughts of Heliconian streams :
Yet near the sacred mount she loves to rove,
Visits the springs, and hovers round the grove.
She knows what dangers wait too bold a flight,
And fears to fall from an Icarian height:
Yet she admires the wing that safely soars,
At distance follows, and its track adores.
She knows what room, what force, the swan re-
Whose towering head above the clouds aspires,
And knows as well, it is your lowest praise,
Such heights to reach with equal strength and ease.
O had your genius been to leisure born,
And not more bound to aid us, than adorn!
Albion in verse with ancient Greece had vy'd,
And gain'd alone a fame, which, there, seven states
But such, ev'n such renown, too dear had cost,
Had we the patriot in the poet lost.
A true poetic state we had deplor'd,
Had not your ministry our coin restor'd.
But still, my lord, though your exalted name
Stands foremost in the fairest list of Fame,
Though your ambition ends in public good
(A virtue lineal to your house and blood):
Yet think not meanly of your other praise,
Nor slight the trophies which the Muses raise.
How oft a patriot's best-laid schemes we find
By party cross'd, or faction undermin'd!
Could I, like him, in tuneful grief excel,
And mourn like Stella for her Astrofel;
Then might I raise my voice, (secure of skill)
And with melodious woe the valleys fill;
The listening Echo on my song should wait,
And hollow rocks Pastora's name repeat;
Each whistling wind, and murmuring stream
How lov'd she liv'd, and how lamented fell.
Wert thou with every bay and laurel crown'd, And high as Pan himself in song renown'd; Yet would not all thy art avail, to show Verse worthy of her name, or of our woe : But such true passion in thy face appears, In thy pale lips, thick sighs, and gushing tears; Such tender sorrow in thy heart I read, As shall supply all skill, if not exceed. Then leave this common line of dumb distress, Each vulgar grief can sighs and tears express; In sweet complaining notes thy passion vent, And not in sighs, but words explaining sighs, lament.
Wild be my words, Menalcas, wild my thought,
Artless as Nature's notes in birds untaught;
Boundless my verse, and roving be my strains,
Various as flowers on unfrequented plains.
And thou, Thalia, darling of my breast,
By whom inspir'd, I sung at Comus' feast;
While, in a ring, the jolly rural throng
Have sat and smil'd to hear my cheerful song:
Begone, with all thy mirth and sprightly lays,
My pipe no longer now thy power obeys;
Learn to lament, my Muse, to weep, and mourn,
Thy springing laurels all to cypress turn;
Wound with thy dismal cries the tender air, [hair;
And beat thy snowy breast, and rend thy yellow
Far hence, in utmost wilds, thy dwelling choose,
Begone, Thalia; Sorrow is my Muse.
I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
No more these woods shall with her sight be bless'd,
Nor with her feet these flowery plains be press'd;
No more the winds shall with her tresses play,
And from her balmy breath steal sweets away;
No more these rivers cheerfully shall pass,
Pleas'd to reflect the beauties of her face;
While on their banks the wondering flocks have
Greedy of sight, and negligent of food.
No more the nymphs shall with soft tales delight
Her ears, no more with dances please her sight:
Nor ever more shall swain make song of mirth,
To bless the joyous day that gave her birth;
Lost is that day which had from her its light,
For ever lost with her, in endless night:
In endless night and arms of Death she lies,
Death in eternal shades has shut Pastora's eyes.
Lament, ye nymphs, and mourn, ye wretched
swains;
Stray, all ye flocks, and desert be, ye plains; Sigh, all ye winds, and weep, ye crystal floods; Fade, all ye flowers, and wither, all ye woods.
I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn, And sable clonds her chalky cliffs adorn. Within a dismal grot, which damps surround, All cold she lies upon th' unwholesome ground; The marble weeps, and, with a silent pace, Its trickling tears distil upon her face.
Falsely ye weep, ye rocks, and falsely mourn;
For never will you let the nymph return!
With a feign'd grief the faithless tomb relents,
And, like the crocodile, its prey laments.
O she was heavenly fair, in face and mind!
Never in nature were such beauties join'd:
Without, all shining; and within, all white;
Pure to the sense, and pleasing to the sight;
Like some rare flower, whose leaves all colours yield,
And, opening, is with sweetest odours fill'd.
As lofty pines o'ertop the lowly reed,
So did her graceful height all nymphs exceed;
To which excelling height, she bore a mind
Humble, as osiers bending to the wind.
Thus excellent she was
Ah wretched fate! she was, but is no more :
Help me, ye hills and vallies, to deplore.
I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
From that blest earth, on which her body lies,
May blooming flowers with fragrant sweets arise.
Let Myrrha, weeping aromatic gum,
And ever-living laurel, shade her tomb.
Thither let all th' industrious bees repair,
Unlade their thighs, and leave their honey there :
Thither let fairies with their train resort,
Neglect their revels and their midnight sport;
There in unusual wailings waste the night,
And watch her by the fiery glow-worm's light.
There may no dismal yew nor cypress grow,
Nor holly-bush, nor bitter elder's bough;
Let each unlucky bird far build his nest,
And distant dens receive each howling beast;
Let wolves be gone, be ravens put to flight,
With hooting owls, and bats that hate the light.
But let the sighing doves, that sorrows bring,
And nightingales, in sweet complainings sing;
Let swans from their forsaken rivers fly,
And, sickening at her tomb, make haste to die,
That they may help to sing her elegy.
Let Echo too, in mimic moan, deplore,
And cry with me, "Pastora is no more!"
I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
And see, the Heavens to weep in dew prepare,
And heavy mists obscure the burthen'd air;
A sudden damp o'er all the plain is spread,
Each lily folds its leaves and hangs its head:
On every tree the blossoms turn to tears,
And every bough a weeping moisture bears.
Their wings the feather'd airy people droop,
And flocks beneath their dewy fleeces stoop.
The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills
Furrow the brows of all th' impending hills;
The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn,
And each, with streaming eyes, supplies his want-
[grove,
The fawns forsake the woods, the nymphs the And round the plain in sad distraction rove; In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear, And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.
With their sharp nails, themselves the satyrs
wound,
[the ground,
And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief
Lo, Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak,
Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke.
See, Pales woeping too, in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bosom bare.
And see yon fading myrtle, where appears
The queen of love, all bath'd in flowing tears;
See how she wrings her hands, and beats her breast, ❘ New fire informs my soul, unfelt before;
And tears her useless girdle from her waist:
Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves,
For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves.
Lo, Love himself, with heavy woes opprest!
See how his sorrows swell his tender breast;
His bow he breaks, and wide his arrows flings,
And folds his little arms, and hangs his drooping
Then lays his limbs upon the dying grass, [wings;
And all with tears bedews his beauteous face,
With tears, which from his folded lids arise,
And even Love himself has weeping eyes.
All nature mourns; the floods and rocks deplore,
And cry with me, "Pastora is no more!"
1 mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
The rocks can melt, and air in mists can mourn,
And floods can weep, and winds to sighs can turn;
The birds, în songs, their sorrows can disclose,
And nymphs and swains, in words, can tell their
But, oh! behold that deep and wild despair, [woes.
Which neither winds can show, nor floods, nor air.
See the great shepherd, chief of all the swains,
Lord of these woods, and wide-extended plains,
Stretch'd on the ground, and close to earth his face,
Scalding with tears th' already-faded grass;
To the cold clay he joins his throbbing breast,
No more within Pastora's arms to rest!
No more! for those once soft and circling arms
Themselves are clay, and cold are all her charms;
Cold are those lips, which he no more must kiss,
And cold that bosom, once all downy bliss;
On whose soft pillows, lull'd in sweet delights,
He us'd in balmy sleep to lose the nights.
Ah! where is all that love and fondness fled?
Ah! where is all that tender sweetness laid?
To dust must all that heaven of beauty come!
And must Pastora moulder in the tomb!
Ah, Death! more fierce and unrelenting far,
Than wildest wolves or savage tigers are:
With lambs and sheep their hungers are appeas'd,
But ravenous Death the shepherdess has seiz'd.
I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
And sable clouds her chalky clifis adorn.
But see, Menalcas, where a sudden light,
With wonder stops my song, and strikes my sight!
And where Pastora lies, it spreads around,
Showing all radiant bright the sacred ground.
While from her tomb, behold, a flame ascends
Of whitest fire, whose flight to Heaven extends!
On flaking wings it mounts, and, quick as sight,
Cuts through the yielding air with rays of light;
Till the blue firmament at last it gains,
And, fixing there, a glorious star remains!
Fairest it shines of all that light the skies,
As once on Earth were seen Pastora's eyes.
TO THE KING,
*ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR.
Præsenti tibi maturos largimur honores:
Nil oriturum alias, nil ortum tale fatentes.
Or arms and war my Muse aspires to sing,
And strike the lyre upon an untry'd string:
And, on new wings, to heights unknown I soar.
O power unseen! by whose resistless force
Compell'd, I take this flight, direct my course;
For fancy wild and pathless ways will choose,
Which judgment rarely, or with pain, pursues:
Say, sacred nymph, whence this great change pro-
Why scorns the lowly swain his oaten reeds;
Daring aloud to strike the sounding lyre,
And sing heroic deeds;
Neglecting flames of love, for martial fire?
William, alone, my feeble voice can raise;
What voice so weak, that cannot sing his praise!
The listening world each whisper will befriend!
That breathes his name, and every ear attend.
The hovering winds on downy wings shall wait
around,
[sound.
And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying
Ev'n I will in his praise be heard;
For by his name my verse shall be preferr'd.
Borne like a lark upon this eagle's wing,
High as the spheres, I will his triumph sing;
High as the head of Fame; Fame, whose exalted size
From the deep vale extends up to the vaulted skies:
A thousand talking tongues the monster bears,
A thousand waking eyes and ever-open ears;
Hourly she stalks with huge gigantic pace,
Measuring the globe, like Time, with constant race:
Yet shall she stay, and bend to William's praise:
Of him her thousand earsshall hear triumphantlays,
Of him her tongue shall talk, on him her eyes shall
But lo, a change, astonishing my eyes!
And all around, behold, new objects rise!
What forms are these I see? and whence?
Beings substantial! or does air condense,
To clothe in visionary shape my various thought?
Are these by fancy wrought!
Can strong ideas strike so deep the sense?
O sacred Poesy! O boundless power!
What wonders dost thou trace, what hidden worlds
Through seas, earth, air, and the wide-circling
sky,
[eye!
What is not sought and seen by thy all-piercing
'Twas now, when flowery lawns the prospect made,
And flowing brooks beneath a forest's shade;
A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd,
Stood feeding by; while two fierce bulls prepar'd
Their armed heads for fight, by fate of war to prove
The victor worthy of the fair-one's love :
Unthought presage of what met next my view!
For soon the shady scene withdrew:
And now, for woods, and fields, and springing
[towers!
Behold a town arise, bulwark'd with walls, and lofty
Two rival armies all the plain o'erspread,
Each in battalia rang'd, and shining arms array'd:
With eager eyes beholding both from far
Namur, the prize and mistress of the war.
Now, thirst of conquest, and immortal fame,
Does every chief and soldier's heart inflame.
Defensive arms the Gallic forces bear,
While hardy Britons for the storm prepare;
For Fortune had, with partial hand, before
Resign'd the rule to Gallia's power.
High on a rock the mighty fortress stands,
Founded by Fate, and wrought by Nature's hands.
A wondrous task it is th' ascent to gain,
Through craggy cliffs, that strike the sight with
pain,
And nod impending terrours o'er the plain.
To this, what dangers men can add, by force or
(And great is human force and wit in ill) [skill
Are join'd; on every side wide-gaping engines wait,
Teeming with fire, and big with certain fate;
Ready to hurl destruction from above,
In dreadful roar, mocking the wrath of Jove.
Thus fearful does the face of adverse power appear;
But British forces are unus'd to fear:
Though thus oppos'd they might, if William were
not there.
But hark, the voice of war! behold the storm begin!
The trumpet's clangour speaks in loud alarms,
Mingling shrill notes, with dreadful din
Of cannons' burst, and rattling clash of arms.
Clamours from Earth to Heaven, from Heaven to
Distinction in promiscuous noise is drown'd,
And echo lost in one continued sound.
Torrents of fire from brazen mouths are sent,
Follow'd by peals, as if each pole were rent;
Such flames the gulf of Tartarus disgorge,
So vaulted Ætna roars from Vulcan's forge;
Such were the peals from thence, such the vast blaze
that broke,
Reddening with horrid gloom the dusky smoke, When the huge Cyclops did with moulding thunder sweat,
And massive bolts on repercussive anvils beat.
Amidst this rage, behold, where William stands,
Undaunted, undismay'd!
With face serene, dispensing dread commands;
Which, heard with awe, are with delight obey'd.
A thousand fiery deaths around him fly;
And burning balls hiss harmless by:
For ev'ry fire his sacred head must spare,
Nor dares the lightning touch the laurels there.
Now many a wounded Briton feels the rage
Of missive fires that fester in each limb,
Which dire revenge alone has power t' assuage;
Revenge makes danger dreadless seem.
And now, with desperate force, and fresh attack,
Through obvious deaths, resistless way they
make;
[lay,
Raising high piles of earth, and heap on heap they
And then ascend; resembling thus (as far
As race of men inferior may)
The fam'd gigantic war,
When those tall sons of Farth did Heaven aspire;
(A brave, but impious fire!)
Uprooting hills, with most stupendous hale,
To form the high and dreadful scale.
The gods, with horrour and amaze, look'd down,
Beholding rocks from their firm basis rent;
Mountain on mountain thrown,
With threatening hurl, that shook th' aerial firma-
Th' attempt did fear in Heaven create;
Even Jove desponding sate,
Tili Mars, with all his force collected, stood,
And pour'd whole war on the rebellious brood;
Who, tumbling headlong from th' empyreal skies,
O'erwhelm'd those hills, by which they thought
to rise.
Mars on the gods did then his aid bestow,
And now in godlike William storms with equal force
below.
Still they proceed, with firm unshaken pace,
And hardy breasts oppos'd to danger's face.
With daring feet, on springing mines they tread
Of secret sulphur, in dire ambush laid.
Still they proceed; though all beneath, the labour-
ing Earth
Trembles to give the dread irruptions birth.
Through this, through more, through all they go,
Mounting at last amidst the vanquish'd foe.
See, how they climb, and scale the steepy walls!
See, how the Britons rise! see the retiring Gauls!
Now from the fort, behold, the yielding flag is
spread,
And William's banner on the breach display'd.
Hark, the triumphant shouts from every voice!
The skies with acclamations ring?
Hark, how around, the hills rejoice,
And rocks reflected los sing!
Hautboys and fifes and trumpets join'd
Heroic harmony prepare,
And charm to silence every wind,
And glad the late-tormented air,
Far is the sound of martial music spread,
Echoing through all the Gallic host,
Whose numerous troops the dreadful storm sur-
vey'd:
But they, with wonder or with awe dismay'd,
Unmov'd beheld the fortress lost.
William, their numerous troops with terrour fill'd,
Such wondrous charms can godlike valour show!
Not the wing'd Perseus, with petrific shield
Of Gorgon's head, to more amazement charm'd his
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