Thou wak'st to life the torpid mind,
To deathful slumbers else consign'd:
And pleas'd to share thy tranquil smile,
Man with new vigour meets his toil.

Betimes the sprightly traveller wakes:
The sturdy ox his stall forsakes,
Patient his sinewy neck to bow,
And bear the yoke, and drag the plough;
His fleecy charge the shepherd leads
To graze beneath the sylvan shades.

Lull'd in his fair one's gentle arms,
The lover if thy voice alarms;
If with regret the attractive couch
He leaves, and blames thy near approach,
Still let him deem thy call unkind,
And cast the lingering look behind.'

His be the illusive joys of night;
My boast shall be the cheerful light:
Give me to watch the orient ray,
And hail the glad return of day;—
And long, oh long-ye Pow'rs divine,
May such reviving joys be mine!

THE RESOLVE. (Supposed to be written by SAPPHO *.)

Y

[From Mr. G. DYER'S POEMS.]

"ES! I have lov'd: yet often have I said,
Love in thy breast shall never revel more;
But I will listen to wild Ocean's roar;

Or, like some outcast solitary shade,
Will cling upon the howlings of the wind,
Till I grow deaf with list'ning, cold and blind.
But ah! enchantress, cease that tender lay,
Nor tune that lyre to notes thus softly slow;

Those eyes, oh! take those melting eyes away,
Nor let those lips with honey'd sweets o'erflow;
Nor let meek Pity pale that lovely cheek,
Nor weep, as wretches their long suffering speak:
With forms so fair endow'd, oh! Venus, why
Are Lesbian maids, or with such weakness I?
Do Lesbian damsels touch the melting lyre;
My lyre is mute, and I in silence gaze;

* See her celebrated ode in Longinus.

As

As tho' the Muse did not this breast inspiré,
I lose in tenderer loves the love of praise.
Oh! Sappho, how art thou imprison'd round,
Beauty's weak captive, fast-enchain'd with sound,
Frail, frail resolve, vain promise of a day!

I see, I hear, and feel, and melt away.

PERAMBULATORY MUSINGS from BLENHEIM HOUSE, in OXFORDSHIRE, to TITLEY, HEREFORDSHIRE

WE

[From the Same.]

*

HERE Blenheim's turrets rise to view,
And where, at length to Nature true,
Grave Vanbrugh, wearying long his head,
Soften'd down his house of lead †,

And where, as bends the spacious dome,
The rival arts of Greece and Rome

Still live in Rysbrac's free design,
And still in Rubens' colouring shine;

Where Marlborough's valour, Marlborough's praise,
The fair-wrought tapestry displays,

Mid varying pleasure through the day,

Who might not linger life away?
Or now, as spreads the fair domain,
O'er lake or lawn, o'er hill or plain,

Thro' woods, and groves, or vista clear,
The crystal riv'let sparkling near,

Still loit'ring idly gay along,

Muse, as inspir'd, the sylvan song!?

How vain the wish! how quick the change!
Thro' simpler scenes my footsteps range,
Where Nature smiles in peerless grace,

And Art but claims the second place;

* This poem intends to show the effect of variety on the human mind, as well as the pleasure of female society, and not to compare together with the most discriminating accuracy the different places alluded to, though discrimination is not entirely overlooked.

The general style of Vanbrugh is here alluded to, and not the character of this particular building. After some observations on the Greek and Roman architecture, Gilpin well remarks of Blenheim, "Vanbrugh's attempt seems to have been an effort at genius; and if we can keep the imagination apart from the five orders, we must allow, that he has created a magnificent whole, which is invested with an air of grandeur, seldom seen in a more regular kind of building. What made Vanbrugh ridiculous,' was his applying to small houses a style of architecture, that could not possibly succeed but in a large one?" Observations relative chiefly to Picturesque Beauty, part ii. chap. iii.

The scenery, on entering the great gate from Woodstock, is the master-piece of the great improver Brown, who used to say, alluding to the lake, "the Thames would never forgive what he had done at Blenheim." Price, however, in his Essay on the Picturesque, has minutely criticised it.

1801.

P

Scenes,

Scenes, trimm'd by Shenstone, neat and gay,
Where Faunus' self might pipe all day:
So simple, too, that not a swain

But there might wake his rudest strain.
Hail, Leasowes*! now I climb thy hill,
Now bless the babbling of each rill,
Now wander down the fairy glade,
Till rous'd I hear the hoarse cascade,
And glows again thro' ev'ry grove
The soul of Poesy and Love;
Then soft I sigh in pastoral strain †,
Nor dream of Blenheim-house again.

Sometimes sad, and sometimes gay,
Like careless pilgrim still I stray,
Till soon arriv'd at Hagley bow'r ‡,
I sigh to linger there an hour
Where Lyttelton, in learned ease,
Polish'd his verse, and prun'd his trees;
Where Pope, the tuneful groves among,
Soft, as at Twickenham, pour'd the song:
And Thomson fix'd in colours clear
The changeful seasons of the year.
Hail, classic scenes! the willing Muse
Her flowers of many-mingling hues
Might here entwine, and once again
Hagley bloom forth in cheerful strain.
Then farewell Shenstone's simpler scene;
The rustic seat, the meadow green,
Willows that near the riv'let weep,
The murm'ring bees, the milk-white sheep;
When Hagley's beauties rise to view,
Yes! I could bid you all adieu §!

Ever musing, ever ranging,
Ever pleas'd, yet ever changing,
Murni'ring onward still I go,

As brooks thro' winding valleys flow,
That sparkle still, and still complain,
That ev'ry rude restraint disdain,

*The residence, properly the adorned farm, of the late William Shenstone, the poet.

It was intended somewhat to characterise Shenstone's poetry in these lines. It has been well done by Gray. "But then there is Mr. Shenstone, who trusts to nature, and simple sentiment; -why does he not do better? He goes on hopping abest his own gravel walks; and never deviates from the beaten paths, for fear of being lost." Gray's Letter to Warton, in Mason's Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Gray.

The seat of lord Lyttelton,

The design however at Hagley is allowed to be more obscure, minute, and trading, as well as possessed of less variety, than the Leasowes-the author's object should be kept in view, which is to delineate the effect of variety on the mind.

And

And, gliding on some latent ore,
Steal something not possess'd before;
Then flow along in headlong haste,
And babble o'er the ferny waste.

Ah! then does Nature deck in vain
The hill and vale, the grove and plain?
And can her curious hand supply
Nothing to fix this vagrant eye?
Shall art still vary, still improve
The winding walk, the tapering grove,
And yet man's restless heart implore
With miser-mutt'rings something more?

Thus onward slow I bend my way,
Till soon to Titley-house I stray;
And now delights me most of all
The fair retreat of Titley-hall,
Where near fair Eywood's seat is seen,
And Oxford smiles like Beauty's queen,
Where Shobden's terrace glitters high,
And varying mountains meet the sky.
But when such num'rous charms invite,
Why most does Titley-house delight?
Eliza there, melodious maid,
Such measures to my ear convey'd,
As, had Cecilia been but near,
Cecilia had not scorn'd to hear:
Softly sad, or sweetly strong,
She directs the varied song,

To native scenes new charms can give,
And bid the breathing landscape live;
Or, as the sports and loves inspire,
Wakes the soul-subduing lyre:-
Hence I welcom'd most of all
The fair retreat of Titley-hall.

Vocal groves, and tuneful streams,
Kindling wild poetic dreams,

Where Dryad nymphs are wont to stray,
Or Naïads swim in wanton play;
Mounts that climb Jove's vaulted sky,
While Ocean's god rolls thundering by;
Valleys rich, and meadows fair,
Touch'd with Flora's pencil rare,
Rare, as when the nymph was led

By Zephyrus to his bridal bed,

*The seat of the carl and countess of Oxford.

P 2

(Then

(Then pencil'd did the fields appear
In all the glories of the year :)
Widest glens, and deepest glades,
Curving walks, and hoarse cascades,
All that Nature loves t' impart,
Or owns the plastic charm of Art;
All that Fancy durst conceive,

Or Fiction's various hand can weave;
All must cloy the sated eye

Till Beauty's lovely form be nigh:

Where Woman walks, there seems t' appear
The Venus of the smiling year;

Far from her we feed on sighs,
Tho' roving fields of Paradise.

ODE for HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY.

[BY HENRY JAMES PYE, ESQ. POET-LAUREAT.]

TILL, still, must War's discordant note

STILL

Usurp the Muse's votive lay?

Must the shrill clarion's brazen throat

Proclaim our monarch's natal day?

While the stern foe, with haughty brow,

Frowns on the olive's sacred bough,
Throws from his land the proffer'd gift of Peace,
Nor bids the raging storm of desolation cease!

O Britain! not from abject fear,

Or pale mistrust, or weaken'd power,
Springs in thy breast the vow sincere,
Which woos fair Concord's lenient hour;
Uncheck'd by threats of vengeful foes,

Thy breast with warlike ardour glows;
Thy sons with unabated force

Right onward keep their daring course.

The chief, who from Canopus' sultry shore

The burning meed of conquest bore,

Now through the Baltic's freezing surge
Bids his bold prows their way resistless urge;

And while Britannia's ensign flies

Aloft in Hyperborean skies,

Denmark astonish'd, from her threaten'd tow'rs,

Yields up her naval boast to Albion's happier pow'rs.

And