And oft as to thy mind thou shalt recal The fweet companions of thy earliest years, Mates of thy fport, and rivals in the ftrife Of every generous art, remember me.
$140. Ad Amicos. t. R. WEST. YES, happy youths, on Camus' fedgy fide, You feel each joy that friendship can divide; Each realm of science and of art explore, And with the ancient blend the modern lore. Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend To raise the genius, or the heart to mend; Now pleas'd along the cloitter'd walk you rove, And trace the verdant mazes of the grove, Where focial oft, and oft alone, ye chufe To catch the zephyr, and to court the Muse. Meantime at me (while all devoid of art Thefe lines give back the image of my heart) At me the pow'r that comes or foou or late, Or aims, or feems to aim, the dart of fate, From you remote, methinks, alone I stand, Like fome fad exile in a defart land: Around no friends their lenient care to join In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with Or real pains, or thofe which fancy raife, [mine. For ever blot the funthine of my days; To sickness ftill, and still to grief a prey, Wealth turns from me her roly face away.
'Tis like the ftream, befide whose wat❜ry bed Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head; Nars'd by the wave the fpreading branches rife, Shade all the ground, and flourish to the fkies; The waves the while beneath in fecret flow, And undermine the hollow bank below: Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey. Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride, And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide. But why repine, does life deserve my sigh! Few will lament my lofs whene'er I die. For thofe, the wretches I defpife or hate, I neither envy nor regard their fate. [fpread For me, whene'er all conquering Death fhall His wings around my unrepining head, I care not, tho' this face be feen no more, The world will pafs as cheerful as before; Bright as before the day-ftar will appear, The fields as verdant, and the fkies as clear; Nor ftorms nor comets will my doom declare, Nor figns on earth, nor portents in the air; Unknown and filent will depart my breath, Nor nature e'er take notice of my death. Yet fome there are (ere spent my vital days) Within whofe breafts my tomb I wish to raife; Lov'd in my life, lamented in my end, [mend? Their praife would crown me, as their precepts
Juft Heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to To them may thefe fond lines my name endear,
Devotes my head untimely to the tomb;
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life [knife? Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous Did e'er this tongue the fland'rer's tale proclaim, Or madly violate my Maker's name? Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, Or know a thought but all the world might As yet juft ftarted from the lifts of time, [know? My growing years have fcarcely told their prime; Ufclefs, as yet, through life I've idly run, No pleasures tafted, and few duties donc. Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing funs appear, Would pluck the promife of the vernal year; Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray, Tear the crude clufter from the mourning fpray? Stern power of Fate, whofe ebon fceptre rules The Stygian defarts and Cimmerian pools, Forbear, nor rafhly finite my youthful heart, A victim yet unworthy of thy dart; Ab, ftay till age fhall blaft my withering face, Shake in my head, and falter in my pace; Then aim the fhaft, then meditate below, And to the dead my willing fhade fhall go. How weak is Man to Reafon's judging eye! Born in this moment, in the next we die; Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire, Too proud to creep, too humble to afpire. In vain our plans of happinefs we raife, Pain is our lot, and patience is our praife; Wealth, lineage, honors, conqueft, or a throne, Are what the wife would fear to call their own. Health is at beft a vain precarious thing, And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing:
Not from the Poet, but the Friend fincere.
$141. Hymn to Contentment. PARNELL. LOVELY, lafting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind! Heav'nly born, and bred on high, To crown the fav'rites of the sky With more of happiness below Than victors in a triumph know ! Whither, O whither art thou fled, To lay the incek contented head; What happy region doft thou please To make the feat of calms and cafe!
Ambition fearches all its sphere Of pomp and ftate, to meet thee there : Encrcafing avarice would find Thy prefence in its gold infhrin'd: The bold advent'rer ploughs his way Through rocks, amidft the foaming fea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves: The filent heart which grief affails, Treads foft and lonefome o'er the vales, Sees daifies open, rivers run, And feeks (as I have vainly done) Amufing thought; but learns to know That Solitude's the nurfe of woc. No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground: Or in a foul exalted high, To range the circuit of the fky, Converfe with ftars above, and know All Nature in its forms below;
+Almost all Tibullus's Elegy is imitated in this little piece, from whence his tranfition to Mr. Pope's letter is very artfully contrived, and befpeaks a degree of judgment much beyond Mr. Weft's years.
The reft it feeks, in feeking dies; And doubts at laft for knowledge rife. Lovely, lafting peace, appear; This world itfelf, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden bleft, And man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under fhade I ftood, I fung my withes to the wood, And, loft in thought, no more perceiv'd The branches whifper as they way'd; It feem'd as all the quiet place Confefs'd the prefence of his grace, When thus the fpoke-Go rule thy will, Bid thy wild paffions all be still, Know God-and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow; Then ev'ry grace fhall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest. Oh! by yonder moffy feat, In my hours of fweet retreat, Might I thus my foul employ, With fenfe of gratitude and joy; Rais'd as ancient prophets were, In heav'nly vifion, praife, and prayer; Pleafing all men, hurting none, Pleas'd and blefs'd with God alone; Then while the gardens take my sight, With all the colours of delight! While filver waters glide along, To please my ear and court my fong, I'll lift my voice and tune my string, And thee, Great Source of Nature, fing. The fun that walks his airy way, To light the world, and give the day The moon that fhines with borrow'd light; The ftars that gild the gloomy night; The feas that roll unnumber'd waves; The wood that fpreads its fhady leaves; The field whofe cars conceal the grain, The yellow treafure of the plain; All of thefe, and all I fee, Should be fung, and fung by me : They fpeak their Maker as they can, But want and afk the tongue of man.
Go fearch among your idle dreams, Your bufy or your vain extremes; And find a life of equal blifs, Or own the next begun in this.
§ 142. An Addrefs to Winter. COWPER.
OFF H Winter! ruler of th'inverted year, The fcatter'd hair with fleet like afhes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy checks Fring'd with a beard inade white with other fnows
Than thofe of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy fceptre, and thy throne A fliding car indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by forms along its flipp'ry way; I love thee, all unlovely as thou feem'st, And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'ft the fun A pris'ner in the yet undawning East, Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his ftay, Down to the rofy Weft. But kindly ftill Compenfating his lofs with added hours Of focial converse and inftructive cafe, And gathering at fhort notice in one group The family difpers'd, and fixing thought Not lefs difpers'd by daylight and its cares, I crown thee King of intimate delights, Fire-fide enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. No rattling wheels ftop fhort before these gates; No powder'd pert proficient in the art Of founding an alarm, affaults thefe doors Till the ftreet rings. No ftationary steeds Cough their own knell, while heedlefs of the found
The filent circle fan themfelves, and quake; But here the needle plies its bufy task. The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn, Unfolds its bofom, buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling to drils, gracefully difpos'd, Follow the nimble finger of the fair,
A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow With moft fuccefs when all befides decay. The poet's or hiftorian's page, by one Made vocal for th'amufement of the reft; The fprightly lyre, whofe treature of fweet founds [out; The touch from many a trembling chord thakes And the clear voice fymphonious, yet diftinet, And in the charming ftrife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and fet a keener edge On female induftry; the threaded steel Flies fwiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume clos'd, the customary rites Of the laft meal commence: a Roman meal, Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moon-light at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic fhade Enjoy'd, fpare feaft! a radifh and an egg. Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor fuch as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or prefcribes the found of mirth. Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with mem'ry's pointing wand, That calls the paft to our exact review, The dangers we have 'fcap'd, the broken fnare, The difappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preferv'd and peace restor❜d, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh evenings worthy of the Gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, More to be priz'd and coveted than yours, As more illumin'd and with nobler truths, That I and Mine, and those we love, enjov. Hh 4
"TIS liberty alone that gives the flaw'r
Of Alceting life its luftre and perfume, And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wildom lays on evil mon, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progrefs in the road of feience; blinds The eye fight of difcov'ry, and begets In those that fuffer it, a fordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form. Thee therefore ftill, blaine-worthy as thou art, With all thy lofs of empire, and though squeez'd By public exigence till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, feeing thou art free! My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours, and difpofes much All hearts to fadnefs, and none more than mine; Thine unadult'rate manners are less foft And plaufible than focial life requires, And thou haft need of difcipline and art To give thee what politer France receives From Nature's bounty-that humane addrefs And fweetness, without which no pleasure is In converfe, either ftarv'd by cold referve, Or flush'd with fierce difpute, a fenfelefs brawl; Yet, being free, I love thee. For the fake Of that one feature, can be well content, Difgrac'd as thou haft been, poor as thou art, To feek no fublunary reft befide.
But once enlay'd, farewell! I could endure Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, Where I am free by birthright, not at all. Then what were left of roughnefs in the grain Of British natures, wanting its excufe That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And fhock me. I fhould then with double pain Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; And if I must bewail the bleffing loft
"TIS night, dead night; and o'er the plain Darkness extends her ebon ray,
While wide along the gloomy fcene
Deep filence holds her folemn fway. Throughout the earth no cheerful beam
The melancholic eye furveys, Save where the worm's fantastic gleam
The 'nighted traveller betrays. The favage race (fo Heav'n decrees) No longer through the foreft rove; All nature refts, and not a breeze
All nature refts; in Sleep's foft arms Disturbs the stillness of the grove.
The village fwain forgets his care: Sleep, that the fting of Sorrow charms, And heals all sadness but Despair. Defpair alone her power denies,
And when the fun withdraws his rays, To the wild beach distracted flies, Or cheerless through the defart strays; Or, to the church-yard's horrors led, While fearful echoes burft around, On fome cold ftone he leans his head, Or throws his body on the ground.
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, To fome fuch drear and folemn fcene,
I would at least bewail it under skies Milder, among a people less auftere,
In fcenes which having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the lofs I felt.
$144 Defcription of a Poet. COWPER. KNOW the mind that feels indeed the fire The mufe imparts, and can command the lyre,
Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, Whate'er the theme, that others never feel. If human woes her foft attention clain, A tender fympathy pervades the frame: She pours a fenfibility divine
Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne, Fire indignation and a fenfe of fcorn, The ftrings are fwept with fuch a pow'r, fo loud, The form of mufic shakes th'aftonifh'd crowd.
Some friendly power direct my way, Where pale Misfortune's haggard train, Sad luxury delight to ftray. Wrapp'd in the folitary gloom,
Retir'd from life's fantastic crew, Refign'd, I'll wait my final doom,
And bid the bufy world adieu. The world has now no joy for me, Nor can life now one pleasure boaft, Since all my eyes defir'd to fee,
My wifh, my hope, my all, is loft; Since the, fo form'd to please and bless, So wife, fu innocent, fo fair, Whofe converfe fweet inade forrow lefs,
And brighten'd all the gloom of care; Since the is loft-Ye powers divine, What have I done, or thought, or said ? O fay, what horrid act of mine
Has drawn this vengeance on my head!
Why fhould Heav'n favour Lycon's claim? Why are my heart's best wishes croft? What fairer deeds adorn his name? What nobler merit can he boast? What higher worth in him was found My true heart's fervice to outweigh? A fenfelefs fop!-A dull compound Of scarcely animated clay ! He drefs'd, indeed, he danc'd with ease, And charm'd her by repeating o'er Unmeaning raptures in her praife, That twenty fools had told before: But I, alas! who thought all art
My paffion's force would meanly prove, Could only boast an honest heart,
And claim'd no merit but by love. Have I not fat-ye confcious hours
Be witness-while my Stella fung From morn to eve, with all my powers Rapt in th'enchantment of her tongue! Ye confcious hours that faw me ftand
Entranc'd in wonder and furprise, In filent rapture prefs her hand,
With paffion bursting from my eyes. Have I not lov'd-O earth and heav'n ! Where now is all my youthful boast ? The dear exchange I hop'd was given,
For flighted fame and fortune loft; Where now the joys that once were mine? Where all my hopes of future bliss? Muft I those joys, those hopes refign? Is all her friendship come to this? Muft then each woman faithlefs prove, And each fond lover be undone ? Are vows no more l-Almighty Love! The fad refemblance let me fhun ! It will not be-My honeft heart
The dear fad image ftill retains; And, fpite of reason, spite of art,
The dreadful memory remains. Ye Pow'rs divine, whofe wond'rous skill Deep in the womb of time can fee, Behold I bend me to your will,
Nor dare arraign your high decree. Let her be bleft with health, with ease, With all your bounty has in store; Let forrow cloud my future days: Be Stella bleft! I ask no more.
But lo! where high in yonder caft
The ftar of morning mounts apace! Hence!let me fly th'unwelcome guest, And bid the Mufe's labour ccafe.
WHEN, young, life's journey I began, The glittering profpect charm'd my eyes, I faw along th❜extended plan
Joy after joy exceffive rife: And Fame her golden trumpet blew ; And Power difplay'd her gorgeous charms; And Wealth engag'd my wandering view, And Pleasure woo'd me to her arms:
To each by turns my vows I paid,
As Folly led me to admire; While Fancy magnify'd each fhade,
And Hope encreas'd each fond defire. But foon I found 'twas all a dream;
And learn'd the fond pursuit to fhun, Where few can reach their purpos'd' aim,' And thousands daily are undone : And Fame, I found, was empty air; And Wealth had Terror for her guest;, And Pleasure's path was ftrewn with Care; And Power was vanity at best. Tir'd of the chace I gave it o'er;
And in a far fequefter'd shade, To Contemplation's fober power
My youth's next fervices I paid. There Health and Peace adorn'd the fcent; And oft, indulgent to my prayer, With mirthful eye and frolic mien The Mufe would deign to visit there. There would the oft delighted rove
The flower-enamell'd vale along : Or wander with me through the grove, And liften to the woodlark's fong. Or 'mid the foreft's awful gloom, Whilft wild amazement fill'd my eyes, Recall paft ages from the tomb, And bid ideal worlds arise. Thus in the Muse's favour bleft,
One with alone my foul could frame, And Heav'n bestow'd, to crown the reft, A friend, and Thyrfis was his name. For manly conftancy and truth,
And worth, unconscious of a stain, He bloom'd the flower of Britain's youth; The boast and wonder of the plain. Still with our years our friendship grew; No cares did then my peace deftroy; Time brought new bleffings as he flew,
And every hour was wing'd with joy. But foon the blissful scene was loft, Soon did the fad reverse appear; Love came, like an untimely froft, To blaft the promise of my year. I faw young Daphne's angel-form
(Fool that I was I blefs'd the smart) And, while I gaz'd, nor thought of harm, The dear infection feiz'd my heart. She was at least in Damon's eyes,- Made up of loveliness and grace; Her heart a stranger to difguife, Her mind as perfect as her face. To hear her fpeak, to fee her move
(Unhappy I, alas! the while) Her voice was joy, her look was love,
And Heaven was open'd in her fimile! She heard me breathe my amorous prayers, She liften'd to the tender strain, She heard my fighs, the faw my tears,
And feem'd at length to fhare my pain.
She faid fhe loy'd-and I, poor youth! (How foon, alas, can Hope perfuade) Thought all the faid no more than truth; And all my love was well repaid. In joys unknown to courts or kings, With her I fat the live-long day, And faid and look'd fuch tender things, As none befide could look or fay! How foon can Fortune fhift the scene, And all our earthly blifs deftroy! Care hovers round, and Grief's fell train Still treads upon the heels of Joy. My age's hope, my youth's best boast,
My foul's chief bleffing, and my pride, In one fad moment all were loft,
And Daphne chang'd, and Thyrfis dy'd ↓ O! who, that heard her vows ere-while,
Could dream thefe vows were infincere ! Or who could think, that faw her fimile, That fraud could find admittance there! Yet the was falfe-my heart will break! Her frauds, her perjuries were fuchSome other tongue than mine must speak— I have not power to fay how much! Ye fwains, hence warn'd, avoid the bait, Q fhun her paths, the trait'refs fhun! Her voice is death, her fmile is fate;
Who hears or fees her is undone. And when Death's hand fhall close my eves (For foon, I know, the day will come) O cheer my spirit with a figh, And grave thefe lines upon my
CONSIGN'D to duft, beneath this stone, In manhood's prime, is Damon laid; Joylefs he liv'd, and dy'd unknown,
In bleak misfortune's barren fhade. Lov'd by the Muse, but lov'd in vain : 'Twas beauty drew his ruin on ; He faw young Daphne on the plain;
He lov'd, believ'd-and was undone ! His heart then funk beneath the ftorm
(Sad meed of unexampl'd youth!) And forrow, like an envious worn, Devour'd the bloffom of his youth. Beneath this ftone the youth is laidO greet his athes with a tear
May Heaven with bleffings crown his shade, And grant that peace he wanted here!
§ 146. Great Cities, and London in particular,
allowed their due Praife. CowPER.
BUT tho' true worth and virtue, in the mild And genial foil of cultivated life Thrive moft, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in critics oft. In proud and gay And gain-devoted cities: thither flow,
As to a common and moit noifome fewer,
The dregs and fæculence of ev'ry land. In cities foul example on moft minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and luft, And wantonnefs and gluttonnefs excefs. In cities, vice is hidden with most case, Or feen with leaft reproach; and virtue, taught By frequent lapfe, can hope no triumph there Beyond th'atchiavement of fuccessful flight. I do confefs them nurs'ries of the arts, In which they flourish moft; where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect size. Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd The faireft capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worft. There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank be- A lucid mirror, in which Nature fees [comes All her reflected features. Bacon there Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham's cloquence to marble lips. Nor does the chiffel occupy alone
The pow'rs of sculpture, but the style as much: Each province of her art her equal care. With nice incifion of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil So fterile with what charms foc'er the will, The richeft fccn'ry and the loveliest forms. Where finds philofophy her eagle eye, With which the gazes at yon burning disk Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ? In London. Where her implements exact, With which the calculates, computes, and icans, All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world? In London. Where has commerce fuch a mart, So rich, fo throng'd, fo drain'd, and fo fupplied As London, opulent, enlarg'd, and still Increasing London? Babylon of old Not more the glory of the earth, then the A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now, She has her praife. Now mark a fpot or twe That fo much beauty would do well to purge; And flew this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul, fo witty, yet not wife. It is not feemly, nor of goood report,
That the is flack in in difcipline: more prompt T'avenge than to prevent the breach of law. That he is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life And liberty, and oft-times honor too, To peculators of the public gold.
That thieves at home muft hang; but he that puts Into his overgorg'd and bloated purfe The wealth of Indian provinces, efcapes. Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, That, through profane and infidel contempt Of holy writ, fhe has prefum'd t'annul And abrogote, as roundly as fhe may, The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing fathion to the poft of truth, And cent'ring all authority in modes And cuftoms of her own, till Sabbath rites Have dwindled into unrefpected forms, And knees and haffocks are well-nigh divarc'd.
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