who, supposing me to be Lord of the Manor, desired my Leave to cut a Bough upon the Waste.
WERE I of Kingston the Manorial King,
No boughs of mine should clip the Coachman's wing
But I was poor, when Dysart's wealthy Lord
Swept all the timber into his record:
Else at a word, before a day should roll,
I'd strip the Elm into a barber's pole.
Monday, the 22d of April, 1811, in a Walk from Salt Hill to Eton
College, (Gray's Ode upon it in my hand.)
YES, "redolent of joy and youth,
I feel the gales," disarming Truth
Of her inflicted pain;
'Tis April's dew that still I shed,
The tear no sooner born than fled,
And Spring is mine again.
With grace the Montem-pole I wield,
spurn the ditch that guards the field;
My bat adorns my hand:
Or, tir'd of sport, I give my heart,
Where no deceits their smile impart,
And Love is Fairy-land.
If Time's a local stamp of age,
I'll pin him to his early page;
He knows what Fancy means.
Last week I thought my hair was grey;
That life had reach'd the Winter's day: -
But I am in my teens.
on a View of the Obelisk and of its Figures, at one of the Gates to the Garden at CHISWICK HOUSE.
THIS breathing charm of Sculpture's grace No ravages of Time deface,
When Beauty, that all hearts could love,
No more its radiant eye can move;
Cold in the picture and the bust,
Its life and model, in the dust.
How dreadful is the tale that here
Chills with its hovering spectre's fear!
No brighter Poet ever sung:
The bees upon her accent hung;
Her native bloom surpass'd the rose;
Her smile could strings of pearl disclose;
Grace in her step the form improv'd,
Made Envy mute, and Splendour lov'd.
Short was the lovely pageant's day,
And fleet as light it pass'd away.
"But was the Saint for death prepar'd? Had Pleasure Wisdom's moment spar'd, Were jewels in the casket laid,
Which neither time nor thieves invade ?"
Muse! if such questions thou shouldst hear,
No answer make-but with a tear!
STINGO FAIR, IN THE NEW ROAD,
on the First of May, in front of my House.
AT Stingo Fair, the First of May,
All ages of the Rabble play.
The Children at an orange throw,
But never strike the victor's blow.
In hats of straw, and ribbons blue,
The Girls have something else to do*.
The child that is unborn† can tell,
That without book they do it well;
Good-humour is on every face;
An English Mob's a happy race.
But, when the morning shines again,
Mute is the heart-enlivening strain;
The face of Mirth is dull with care,
And Love is chang'd into Despair.
An emblem are these Girls and Boys-
A Fair like this are human joys.
A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY TO BATH.
AT Blake's was cut the Pedant's hair,
To give the head a fashion'd air.
The turnpike despots made a song,
Of Rules that govern right and wrong;
The first obtruded all his trash,
Exchang'd for current silver cash ;
* The burden of a popular song.
† Stolen from "Chevy Chase."
A famous hair-cutter in Duke-street, St. James's, whom I shot flying.
Of course was laugh'd at by the second,
as duly reckon❜d.
Lov'd Eton, at the Montem Hill *,
Brought scenes to mind-that paid the bill.
At Maidenhead the virgin flower
In dreams resum'd its nuptial hour.
At Reading, as I drew my cork,
In came the martial Duke of York;
Four batter'd steeds the Atlas drew,
And swift as wings of lightning flew.
I ask'd what meant this pelting haste;
They said it was a Royal taste."
An air that says, or seems to say,
"Europe is lost if I delay."
At Newbury, 't was at the Pelican,
I found a rhime that answer'd Helicon.
HAWKSTONE PARK‡.
THE Pilgrim who has travers'd many a scene,
By Hope sustain'd, prophetic and serene,
When, all the perils of the journey past,
The labour of his love is crown'd at last,
Wrapt in mute wonder, though in Error's chain,
Feels a new spirit, and is born again.
Thus, my lov'd Hawkstone, when I come to thee, An opening Paradise on earth I see;
Above the visible diurnal sphere,
The devious path contemplate and revere.
† At the Windmill, then one of the very dearest inns upon the Bath road.
The beautiful residence of the antient Family of HILL.
Till, musing on the charm thy scenes bestow,
My thoughts expand, and my conceptions glow;
Spring to thy summits with congenial height,
Or in thy cavern's gloom suspend the light,
With fearless prospect of the solar ray,
Whose temper'd beams the virgin's blush display.
With slow degrees of beautiful surprize,
The scene is open'd, and the curtains rise;
The shadows, half dispers'd with glimmering lights,
Present the mystic Druid's fabled rites.
His wizard spells, enlighten'd, we disdain;
But love the solitude's religious chain.
Remote from all that vain delights can give,
To Contemplation's brighter scene we live;
Till, half-inspir'd, and with hallow'd feet,
We
pass the Hermit's venerable seat;
With elevated zeal of strength renew'd,
And led as by a Genius of the Wood.
WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN ANTIENT Abbey.
MONASTIC fraud can cheat no more,
For Luther has unbarr'd the door.
The Abbeys fall — but, in their stead,
A Rector lifts his plodding head;
Inquisitor of hook and scythe,
He notes the victims of his tithe;
His Curate starves-his Patron cheats-
And with devotion drinks or eats;
Or plies the Patriarchal trade,
In planting children with his maid:
His flock no disciplines enthrall,
For he corrects them—not at all.
Himself alone his Gospel feeds;
And leaves the Parish to the weeds.
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