Puslapio vaizdai
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What are the lays of artful Addison,
Coldly correct, to Shakespear's warblings wild ?
Whom on the winding Avon's willow'd banks
Fair Fancy found, and bore the smiling babe
To a close cavern : (still the shepherds Thew
The sacred place, whence with religious awe
They hear, returning from the field at eve,
Strange whisp'rings of sweet music thro' the air)
Here, as with honey gather'd from the rock,
She fed the little prattler, and with songs
Oft' sooth'd his wond'ring ears, with deep delight
On her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds..

Oft near fome crowded city would I walk,
Listening the far-off noises, rattling cars,
Loud fhouts of joy, fad fhrieks of forrow, knells.
Full slowly tolling, instruments of trade,
Striking mine ears with one deep-swelling hum.
Or wand'ring near the sea, attend the sounds
Of hollow winds, and ever-beating waves.
Ev'n when wild tempests swallow up the plains...
And Boreas' blasts, big hail, and rains combine
To shake the groves and mountains, would I sit,..
Pensively muling on th' outrageous crimes
That wake heav'n's vengeance : at such solemn hours,
Dæmons and goblins thro' the dark air fhriek,
While Hecat, with her black-brow'd fifters nine,
Rides o'er the earth, and scatters woes and death..

Then too, they fay, in drear Ægyptian wilds.
The lion and the tiger prowl for prey
With roarings loud ? the list'ning traveller
Starts fear-struck, while the hollow-echoing vaults
Of pyramids increase the deathful sounds.

But let me never fail. in cloudless nights,
When filent Cynthia in her filver car
Thro' the blue concave slides, when shine the hills,
Twinkle the ftreams, and woods look tipt with gold;.
To seek fome level mead, andthere.invoke
Old Midnight's fifter, Contemplation sage,
(Queen of the rugged brow, and stern-fix'd eye)
To lift my soul above this little earth,
This folly-fetter'd world: to purge my ears,
That I may hear the rolling planet's fong,
And tuneful turning spheres: if this be barr'd; en
*The little Fayes that dance in neighbouring dales;;

Sipping

Sipping the night-dew, while they laugh and love,
Shall charm me with aërial notes.-As thus
I wander musing, lo, what aweful forms
Yonder appear! sharp-ey'd Philosophy
Clad in dun robes, an eagle on his wrist,
First meets my eye; next, virgin Solitude
Serene, who blushes at each gazer's fight;
Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch in hand,
Trembling, and bent with age; laft Virtue's self
Smiling, in white array'd, who with her leads
Sweet Innocence, that prattles by her side,
A naked boy!-Harrass'd with fear I stop,
I gaze, when Virtue thus-Whoe'er thou art,

Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld
In these my midnight-walks; depart, and say
• That henceforth I and my immortal train,

Forsake Britannia's ifle; who fondly stoops
“To vice, her favourite paramour.'-She spoke,
And as she turn'd, her, round and rofy neck,
Her flowing train, and long ambrosial hair,
Breathing rich odours, I enamour'd view.

( who will bear me then to western climes,
(Since Virtue leaves our wretched land) to fields,
Yet unpolluted with Iberian swords:
The isles of innocence, from mortal view
Deeply retir'd, beneath a plantane's shade,
Where Happiness and Quiet fit enthron'd,
With simple Indian swains, that I may hunt
The boar and tiger thro' Savannahs wild,
Thro’ fragrant desarts, and thro' citron groves.
There fed on dates and herbs, would I despise
The far-fetch'd .cates of Luxury, and hoards
Of narrow-hearted Avarice; nor heed
The distant din of the tumultuous world.
So when rude whirlwinds rouze the roaring main,
Beneath fair Thetis fits, in coral caves,
Serenely gay, nor sinking failors' cries
Disturb her sportive nymphs, who round her form
The light fantastick dance, or for her hair
Weave rosy crowns, or with according lutes
Grace the soft warbles of her honied voice..

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O DE

то; F ANCY.

TJ. WHARTON.]
PARENT of each lovely Mule,

Thy fpirit o'er my soul diffufe,
O'er all my artless fongs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer; at thy turf-built thrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.

O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'a,
Waving in thy fnowy hand
An all-coinmanding magic wand.
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren snow.
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
While the vast various landskip lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes !
O lover of the defart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathlefs vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Mid falls of water you reside,
'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and graffy dales between,
'Mid forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear’d,
Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear’d,
Where Nature seems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whofe top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her neft,
Each evening warbling thee to rest :

Then

Then lay me by the haunted ftream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spencer thro' a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awoke, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad foul in bliss is drown'd
By the sweetly-foothing found !

Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob’d Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads :
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads ;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Liftning to the shepherd's fong.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ:
Hafte, Fancy, from these scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh !
Let us with filent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each fad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek;
Or to some Abby's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,
The naked beggar fhiv'ring lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles left the tott'ring wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder trike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpets' clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear,
Give me another horse, I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;

Whence

Whence is this rage? What spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where mad with pain the wounded iteed.
Tramples the dying and the dead:
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fullen joy surveys the ground,
And pointing to th’ ensanguin'd field
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-fhield !

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-archd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to Thun
The fervours of the mid-day sun;.
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canft fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss.

When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws-
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And Itains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold,
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy folemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
warm,

enthusiastic maid
Without thy pow'rful, vital aid, ..
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd strain,
Nor dare to touch the facred string,
Save when with smiles thou bid'it me singo

O hear our prayer, Ohither come
From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,
On which thou lov'st to fit at eve,
Mufing o'er thy darling's grave;
O Queen of numbers, once again... 055 3!
Animate some chosen Swain,

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