TO THE NYMPH OF THE SPRING. Written near a Spring between two Hillocks, in the Neighbourhood of the River Tivy, in Pembrokeshire. BY THE LATE SIR W. JONES. WHY should old Tivy, boys, claim all our duty paid, And no just homage be to charming youth and beauty said? See where the Nymph of the Spring sits inviting us, With charming waters crystalline, refreshing and delighting us. What, tho' his margin broad be rocky, oak'd and willowy? And what, tho' his ozier banks be spacious, deep, and billowy? She, from her sweet paps, lilied and roseal, Lies feeding all her laughing buds, with dew-drops ambrosial. Then, with sweet melody, carol to the fountain nymph, Far sweeter than a sea nymph, and milder than a mountain nymph. Long may her streams gush, lucid and nectarious, And long may her banks be deck'd with flow'rets multifarious; Long o'er her arched grot may purple-winged Zephyrus Come leading on his wanton bands of breezes odoriferous. Yearly to the Naiad shall the roundelay repeated be, And by the chorus jubilant her liquid silver greeted be. Say, can we better, boys, chace dull idle Care away, Than thus by passing hours of mirth in harmony and roundelay ? Stretch'd on that green hillock's bank, around her rosy nipple, boys, We merrily will sing and laugh, and merrily we'll tipple, boys. Drinking to damsels, lovely and delicious; Oh! heav'ns, would they smile on us, like deities propitious. And, mark! if any rebel here shall miss the cup or mutiny, Amerc'd shall be the miscreant without appeal or scrutiny. ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ. FROM THE LATIN OF BELLAY. I WEEP upon thy grave-thy grave my child! REFLECTIONS ON A SUNDAY MORNING'S WALK. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. balm of hurt minds Prime nourisher in life's feast! МАСВЕТи. On that blest day, when weekly labour ends, On such dark thoughts, with downward looks intent, Forth to the fields my wand'ring steps I bent; } I blest th' unseen hand that sooth'd my care, Yet shall we say, that with impartial skill Yet here, even here, is Nature's bounty shown; The wrong is Fortune's, the redress her own. Full well she knew the baseness of mankind, What various woes assail the tender mind, That, like a wild-flower mid the ripening corn, By peasant hands is rudely pluck'd and torn; And form'd the country with mysterious art, One great asylum for the human heart. The sufferer, here releas'd from city strife, Imbibes new patience for the ills of life; Nobly erect beneath the frown of fate, Yet think, my friend, how vain were Nature's care, Have you not seen a youth, whose lib'ral mind, For brighter hopes and higher aims design'd, Was snatch'd from Science, by a hapless doom, To plod with Traffic in his dungeon gloom? Wak'd from the sullen lethargy of Grief, That seeks entire despair, and spurns relief, Alarm'd he sees the wings of Dulness spread To wrap for ever his devoted head; And dead to Hope, yet still alive to Shame, Defrauds of needful rest his weary frame; Struggling with sleep and whelming cares, to save Some wrecks of knowledge from Oblivion's wave. |