The tuneful Pan retires; the vocal hills Resound no more, and all Arcadia mourns. Yet here we fondly dreamt of lasting joys: In sweet oblivion wrapt, by Damon's verse, Romantic wish! In vain frail mortals trace Oh! teach me then, like you, my friend, to raise To moral truths my grovelling song; for, ah! Too long, by lawless Fancy led astray, Where all the Sister-Graces gay, That shap'd his walk's meandering way, Stark-naked, or but wreath'd with flowers, Lie slumbering soft beneath his bowers. Wak'd by the stock-dove's melting strain, Behold them rise! and, with the train Of nymphs that haunt the stream or grove, Or o'er the flowery champain rove, Join hand in hand-attentive gaze→ And mark the dance's mystic maze. "Such is the waving line," they cry, "For ever dear to Fancy's eye! Yon stream that wanders down the dale, The spiral wood, the winding vale, The path which, wrought with hidden skill, Slow twining scales yon distant hill With fir invested-all combine To recommend the waving line. "The wreathed rod of Bacchus fair, The ringlets of Apollo's hair, Of nymphs and groves I'vedreamt, and dancing fauns The wand by Maïa's offspring borne, Or Naïad leaning o'er her tinkling urn. Oh! could I learn to sanctify my strains The smooth volutes of Ammon's horn, The structure of the Cyprian dame, With hymns, like those by tuneful Meyrick sung-And each fair female's beauteous frame, Or rather catch the melancholy sounds VERSES WRITTEN AT The gardens of WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQUIRE, NEAR BIRMINGHAM, 1756. Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes Angulus ridet. WOULD OULD you these lov'd recesses trace, What though no pageant trifles here, No proud reserve shuts up his gate; Which prompts the friendly generous part, HOR. Show, to the pupils of design, Then gaze, and mark that union sweet, But if thy soul such bliss despise, Avert thy dull incurious eyes; Go fix them there, where gems and gold, Improv'd by art, their power unfold; Go try in courtly scenes to trace A fairer form of Nature's face: Go, scorn Simplicity- but know, That all our heart-felt joys below, That all which virtue loves to name, Which art consigns to lasting fame, Which fixes wit or beauty's throne, Derives its source from Her alone. ARCADIO. TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. IN HIS SICKNESS. BY MR. WOODHOUSE. YE flowery plains, ye breezy woods, Ye bowers and gay alcoves, Ye falling streams, ye silver floods, Ye grottocs, and ye groves! Alas! my heart feels no delight, Though I your charms survey; While he consumes in pain the night, In languid sighs the day. The flowers disclose a thousand blooms, In vain display their hues. Restrain, ye flowers, your thoughtless pride, Embrace your humid beds. Tall oaks, that o'er the woodland shade, Ah, why, in wonted charms array'd, For lo, the flowers as gaily smile, And though I sadly plain the while, Ah, should the Fates an arrow send, Who, who shall then your sweets defend, But hark, perhaps, the plumy throng And some sad dirge, or mournful song, Ah, no! they chant a sprightly strain, And his uncertain fate. But see, these little murmuring rills With fond repinings rove; And trickle wailing down the hills, Oh, mock not, if beside your stream, Or aid with sighs your mournful theme, Ye envious winds, the cause display, Why did your treacherous gales convey Did he not plant the shady bower, Where you so blithely meet? The scented shrub, and fragrant flower, To make your breezes sweet? And must he leave the wood, the field, Can neither verse nor virtue shield Must he his tuneful breath resign, That round his brow their laurels twine, Preserve him, mild Omnipotence ! Blest power, who calm'st the raging deep, His valued health restore, Nor let the sons of genius weep, Nor let the good deplore! But if thy boundless wisdom knows For happy, happy were the change, And though, to share his pleasures here, VERSES LEFT ON A SEAT, THE HAND UNKNOWN. O EARTH! to his remains indulgent be, Who so much care and cost bestow'd on thee! Who crown'd thy barren hills with useful shade, And cheer'd with tinkling rills each silent glade; Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom, And there enliven'd Nature's vernal bloom. Propitious earth! lie lightly on his head, And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories spread! CORYDON, A PASTORAL. TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. COME, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse, Yet let the sad tribute be paid. He mark'd in his elegant strain On purpose he planted yon trees, That birds in the covert might dwell; His manners as mild as your own. No bloom on the blossoms appear; And Winter discolour the year. And poets came round in a throng; But which of them equal'd his song? |