TO INDOLENCE.
No sounds inelegant and rude
Her sacred solitudes profane,
Unless her candour not exclude
The lowly shepherd's votive strain, Who tunes his reed amidst his rural cheer, Fearful, yet not averse, that Somerset should hear.
AH! why for ever on the wing
Persists my wearied soul to roam?
Why, ever cheated, strives to bring
Or pleasure or contentment home?
Thus the poor bird that draws his name
From Paradise's honour'd groves,
Careless fatigues his little frame,
Nor finds the resting place he loves.
Lo! on the rural mossy bed
My limbs with careless ease reclined;
Ah, gentle Sloth! indulgent spread
The same soft bandage o'er my mind.
For why should lingering thought invade,
Yet every worldly prospect cloy?
Lend me, soft Sloth! thy friendly aid,
And give me peace, debarr'd of joy.
Lovest thou yon calm and silent flood,
That never ebbs, that never flows,
Protected by the circling wood
From each tempestuous wind that blows?
An altar on its bank shall rise,
Where oft thy votary shall be found; What time pale Autumn lulls the skies, And sickening verdure fades around. Ye busy race! ye factious train!
That haunt Ambition's guilty shrine, No more perplex the world in vain,
But offer here your vows with mine.
And thou, puissant queen! be kind :
If e'er I shared thy balmy power,
If e'er I sway'd my active mind
To weave for thee the rural bower:
Dissolve in sleep each anxious care,
Each unavailing sigh remove;
And only let me wake to share
The sweets of friendship and of love.
SOMEWHAT TOO SOLICITOUS ABOUT HER MANNER OF
SURVEY, my fair! that lucid stream
Adown the smiling valley stray;
Would Art attempt, or Fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way?
So pleased I view thy shining hair
In loose dishevel'd ringlets flow;
Not all thy art, not all thy care,
Can there one single grace bestow.
Survey again that verdant hill,
With native plants enamel'd o'er; Say, can the painter's utmost skill
Instruct one flower to please us more?
As vain it were, with artful dye,
To change the bloom thy cheeks disclose; And, oh! may Laura, ere she try, With fresh vermilion paint the rose.
Hark how the woodlark's tuneful throat
Can every studied grace excel;
Let Art constrain the rambling note,
And will she, Laura, please so well?
Oh! ever keep thy native ease,
By no pedantic law confined;
For Laura's voice is form'd to please,
So Laura's words be not unkind.
BRING, Flora, bring thy treasures here,
The pride of all the blooming year,
And let me thence a garland frame
To crown this fair, this peerless, dame!
But, ah! since envious Winter lowers,
And Hewell meads resign their flowers,
Let Art and Friendship's joint essay
Diffuse their flowerets in her way.
Not Nature can herself prepare
A worthy wreath for Lesbia's hair,
Whose temper, like her forehead, smooth,
Whose thoughts and accents form'd to sooth,
Whose pleasing mien, and make refined,
Whose artless breast, and polish'd mind,
From all the nymphs of plain or grove
Deserved and won my Plymouth's love!
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi
Prima fugit
Ah! wretched mortals we!-our brightest days
On fleetest pinion fly.
A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring and flowery mead
Must in his prime of life recede!
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.
Pleased on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell,
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.
She tells, with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood,
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze,
And then drew near again to gaze.
She tells me, how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound
And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound.
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