The morn, the noon in play he pass'd, And faintness seiz'd his little frame. The bosom of a flower he sought, The tints that stream'd with glossy gold, At evening's fall, his fair to meet; When stealing near her orient breast, Than felt the fond enamour'd bee, When first the golden bloom he prest. Ah! pity much his youth untry'd, His heart in beauty's magic spell! So never passion thee betide, But where the genial virtues dwell. In vain he seeks those virtues there; No soul-sustaining charms abound: No honey'd sweetness to repair The languid waste of life is found. An aged bee, whose labours led Thro' those fair springs, and meads of gold, His feeble wing, his drooping head Beheld, and pitied to behold, That courts thine eye with fair attire; The simple clothing of the skies- FABLE VI. THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW The honours of his birth and name. In all the pomp of eastern state, Each flower of humbler birth obey. To flowers that bloom'd in Britain's clime! Through purple meads, and spicy gales, Where Strymon's' silver waters play, While far from hence their goddess dwells, She rules with delegated sway. That sway the Crown Imperial sought, A rival call'd the Meadow's Queen. "In climes of orient glory born, Where beauty first and empire grew; Where first unfolds the golden morn, Where richer falls the fragrant dew: "In light's ethereal beauty drest, Behold," he cried, "the favour'd flower, Which Flora's high commands invest With ensigns of imperial power! "Where prostrate vales, and blushing meads, And bending mountains own his sway, While Persia's lord his empire leads, And bids the trembling world obey; "While blood bedews the straining bow, And conquest rends the scatter'd air, 'Tis mine to bind the victor's brow, And reign in envy'd glory there. "Then lowly bow, ye British flowers! Confess your monarch's mighty sway, And own the only glory yours, When fear flies trembling to obey." Or fond to bear a regal name, Or feel one joy in Nature's fall, The wish that flies to inis'ry's aid; The balm that stops the crimson tide", And heals the wounds that war has made." Their free consent by zephyrs borne, 'The Ionian Strymon. ́ 2 The property of that flower. FABLE VII. THE WALL-FLOWER. " Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, To live in death's deserted shade! My banks for life and beauty made." A voice in hollow murmurs broke, The flower that crowns their former toil! "Nor deem that flower the garden's foe, 'Tis Nature tells her to bestow Her honours on the lonely dead. "For this, obedient zephyrs bear Her light seeds round yon turret's mould, "Nor shall thy wonder wake to see Such desert scenes distinction crave; Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave. Startles how still their hearts will lie! "Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, No more the smiling day shall view, And stop to pluck the frequent flower? To deck thy Nancy's honour'd shrine ! ""Tis Nature pleading in the breast, Fair memory of her works to find; And when to fate she yields the rest, She claims the monumental mind. "Why, else, the o'ergrown paths of time Would thus the letter'd sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb, And on the doubtful sculpture pore? "Why seeks he with unwearied toil Through death's dim walks to urge his way, Reclaim his long-asserted spoil, And lead oblivion into day? "Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear Unmov'd, to range through death's domain: The tender parent loves to hear Her children's story told again. "Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours, FABLE VIII. THE TULIP AND THE MYRTLE. 'Twas on the border of a stream A gaily-painted Tulip stood, And sure, more lovely to behold, In streaks of fairest symmetry. And thus in empty fancy swells: "O lustre of unrivall'd bloom! Fair painting of a hand divine! Superior far to mortal doom, The hues of Heav'n alone are mine! "Away, ye worthless, formless race! Ye weeds, that boast the name of flowers? No more my native bed disgrace, Unmeet for tribes so mean as yours! "Shall the bright daughter of the Sun Associate with the shrubs of Earth? Ye slaves, your sovereign's presence shun! Respect her beauties and her birth. "And thou, dull, sullen ever-green! Shalt thou my shining sphere invade ? My noon-day beauties beam unseen, Obscur'd beneath thy dusky shade !" "Deluded flower!" the Myrtle cries, Shall we thy moment's bloom adore? The mean'st shrub that you despise, The meanest flower has merit more. "That daisy, in its simple bloom, Shall last along the changing year; Blush on the snow of Winter's gloom, And bid the smiling Spring appear. "The violet, that, those banks beneath, Hides from thy scorn its modest head, Shall fill the air with fragrant breath, When thou art in thy dusty bed. "E'en I, who boast no golden shade, Shall bloom on many a lovely breast. And walk regardless o'er thy grave. "Deluded flower, the friendly screen That hides thee from the noon-tide ray, And mocks thy passion to be seen, Prolongs thy transitory day. And yield thee to thy darling Sun." The curling leaves the breast disclos'd; And ev❜ning came, with dews so cold; The wanton beauty ceas'd to blow, And sought her bending leaves to fold. Those leaves, alas! no more would close; Relax'd, exhausted, sick'ning, pale, They left her to a parent's woes, FABLE IX. THE BEE FLOWER'. COME, let us leave this painted plain; Shall please in plainer majesty. Through those fair scenes, where yet she owes This is a species of the orchis, which is found in the barren and mountainous parts of Lincolnshire, Worcestershire, Kent, and Herefordshire. Nature has formed a bee apparently feeding on the breast of a flower with so much exactness, that it is impossible at a very small distance to distinguish the imposition. For this purpose she has observed an economy different from what is found in most other flowers, and has laid the petals horizontally. The genius of the orchis, or satyrion,she seems professedly to have made use of for her paintings, and on the different species has drawn the perfect forms of different insects, such as bees, flies, butterflies, &c. Through those fair scenes we'll wander wild, The Sun far-seen on distant towers, And clouding groves and peopled seas, And ruins pale of princely bowers On Beachb'rough's airy heights shall please. Nor lifeless there the lonely scene; The little labourer of the hive, See, on that flowret's velvet breast From thence we plan the rule of all; We rank, and these her sports we call. Th' unhallow'd term, the thought profane, As conscious that affection grows, Mark, how that rooted mandrake wears She seems e'en with herself at strife, Still many a shining pebble bear, Where oft her studious hand engraves The perfect form, and leaves it there. O long, my Paxton3, boast her art; And long her laws of love fulfil: To thee she gave her hand and heart, To thee, her kindness and her skill! 2 The well-known fables of the Painter and the Statuary that fell in love with objects of they own creation, plainly arose from the idea of that attachment, which follows the imitation d agreeable objects, to the objects imitated. 3 Au ingenious portrait-painter in Rathbone Place. FABLE X. THE WILDING AND THE BROOM. Shepherds we'll trust our flocks to stray. And steal from care one summer-day. In characters that cannot fade; "What airy sounds invite Of death denies attention. Rous'd by her, Or swells on Summer's breast, or loads the lap The queen of flowers, shall sweeter save for thee. And Nature's love, and every mortal charm Whatever charms the ear or eye, FABLE XI. THE MISLETOE AND THE PASSION- In this dim eave a druid sleeps, Where stops the passing gale to moan; The holy hermit's passion-flower. Pensive I laid, in thought profound. I hear it still-dost thou not hear? Does not thy haunted fancy start? Unlike to living sounds it came, Unmix'd, unmelodis'd with breath; I hear it still" Depart," it cries; Who was not nurs'd at Nature's breast, O'er human victims held the knife, I see him still-Dost thou not see Dart through the sable shade of hair? With eye that rues th' invading day; The mind to pale remorse a prey? Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense. Though Nature lent him powers to aid G g 1 Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts, Whose cell's the sepulchre of time; Though many a holy hymn he chants, His life is one continu'd crime. "And bear them hence, the plant, the flower No symbols those of systems vain! They have the duties of their hour; THE COUNTRY JUSTICE. BY ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S JUSTICES OF THE PEACE FOR THE COUNTY OF SOMERSET. PART THE FIRST. TO RICHARD BURN, LL. D. ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S JUSTICES OF THE PEACE FOR THE COUNTIES OF WESTMORLAND AND CUMBERLAND. DEAR SIR, A POEM written professedly at your request, naturally addresses itself to you. The distinction you have acquired on the subject, and your taste for the arts, give that address every kind of propriety. If I have any particular satisfaction in this publication, beside what arises from my compliance with your commands, it must be in the idea of that testimony it bears to our friendship. If you believe that I am more concerned for the duration of that than of the Poem itself, you will not be mistaken; for I am, DEAR SIR, IN Richard's days, when lost his pastur'd plain, share, By Saxon, Dane, or Norman, banish'd there! Were thoughts like these the dreams of ancient Despising still, their freeborn souls unbroke, Yet while the patriot's gen'rous rage we share, Her woods her mountains one wild scene of prey! Fair Peace from all her bounteous vallies fled, And Law beneath the barbed arrow bled. In happier days, with more auspicious fate, The far-fam'd Edward heal'd his wounded state; Dread of his foes, but to his subjects dear, These learn'd to love, as those are taught to fear, Their laurell'd prince with British pride obey, His glory shone their discontent away. With care the tender flower of love to save, And plant the olive on Disorder's grave, For civil storms fresh barriers to provide, He caught the fav'ring calm and falling tide. THE APPOINTMENT, AND ITS PURPOSES. The social laws from insult to protect; To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, To smooth the bed of penury and pain; The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore; The thoughtless maiden, when subdu'd by art, To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; Wild riot's voice with dignity to queil, Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, For this fair Justice rais'd her sacred arm; For this the rural magistrate, of yore, Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. ANCIENT JUSTIce's hall. Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, On silver waves that flow thro' smiling vales, In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade, With many a groupe of antique columns crown'd, In Gothic guise such mansion bave I found. Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, Ye cits that sore bedizen Nature's face, Of the more manly structures here ye view ; They rose for greatness that ye never knew! With Venus, and the Graces on your green! Ye reptile cits, that oft have mov'd my spleen, Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, But, spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, Ye cits, that sore bedizen Nature's face. Would lay the realms of Sense and Nature Ye royal architects, whose antic taste, waste; Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, Of Thibet's dogs, or China's perroquets; |