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“ '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 bis long-asserted spoil,
And lead oblivion into day? “'Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear
Unmov'd, to range through death's domains The tender parent loves to hear
Her children's story told again. - Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours,
If haply near these haunts h: stray; Nor take the fair enlivening flowers
That bloom to cheer his lonely way."
To waste her solitary day?
The grove and genial garden call, Will she her fragrant soul exhale,
Unheeded on the lonely wall? “ Por vever sure was beauty born
To live in death's deserted shade ! Come, lovely flower, 'my banks adorn,
My banks for life and beauty made." Thus Pity wak'd the tender thought,
And by her sweet persuasion led, To seize the hermit-flower I sought,
And bear her from her stony bed. I sought-but sudden on mine ear
A voice in hollow murmurs broke, And smote my heart with holy fear
The Genius of the Ruin spoke. " From thee be far th' angentle deed,
The honours of the dead to spoil, Or take the sole remaining meed,
The flower that crowns their former toil! “ Nur deem that flower the garden's foe,
Or fond lo grace this barren shade ; '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, And undispers'd by tempests there,
They rise in vegetable gold. “ Nor shall thy wonder wake to see
Sucb desert scenes distinction crave; Oft have they been, and oft shall be
Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave. “Where longs to fall that rifted spire,
As weary of th' insulting air;
The lover's sighs are sleeping there. “ When that too shakes the trembling ground,
Borne down by some tempestuous sky, And many a slumbering cottage round
Startles—how still their hearts will lie ! “ Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told ;
For many a terder thought is due. “ Hast thou not seen some lover pale,
When evening brought the pensive hour, Step slowly o'er the shadowy vale,
And stop to pluck the frequent flower? “ Those flowers he surely meant to strew
On lost affection's lowly cell;
Forgotten, from his hand they fell. “ Has not for thee the fragrant thorn
Becn taught her first rose to resign? With rain but pious fondness borne
To deck thy Napcy's honour'd shrine !
THE TULIP AND THE MYRTLE. 'Twas on the border of a stream
A gailypainted Tulip stood, And, gilded by the morning beam,
Survey'd her beauties in the food. And sure, more lovely to behold,
Might nothing meet the wistful eye,
In streaks of fairest symmetry.
Ah me! that pride with beauty dwells !
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?
Respect her beauties and her birth. “And thon, 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,
Through those fair scenes we'll wander wild, Hides from tby scorn its modest bead,
And on yon pastur'd mountains rest; Shall fill the air with fragrant breath,
Come, brother dear! come, Nature's child! When thou art in thy dusty bed.
With all her simple virtues blest. " E'en I, who boast no golden shade,
The Sun far-seen on distant towers, Am of no sbining tipts possess'd,
And clouding groves and peopled seas, When low thy lucid form is laid,
And ruins pale of princely bowers Shall bloom on many a lovely breast.
On Beachb'rough's airy heights shall please. “ And he, whose kind and fostering care
Nor lifeless there the lonely scene; To thee, to me, our beings gave,
The little labourer of the hive, Shall near his breast my flowrets wear,
From flower to flower, from green to green, And walk regardless o'er thy grave.
Murmurs and makes the wild alive, “ Deluded flower, the friendly screen
See, on that flowret's velvet breast That hides thee from the noon-tide ray,
How close the busy vagrant lies! And mocks thy passion to be seen,
His thin-wrought plume, his downy breast, Prolongs thy transitory day.
Th'ambrosial gold that swells his thighs! “ But kindly deeds with scorp repaid,
Regardless, while we wander near, No more by virtue need be done :
Thrifty of time, his task he plies ; I now withdraw my dusky shade.
Or sees he no intruder near? And yield thee to thy darling Sun.”
And rest in sleep his weary eyes? Fierce on the flower the scorching beam
Perhaps his fragrant load may bind With all its weight of glory fell;
His limbs ;-we'll set the captive free-The flower exulting caught the gleam,
I sought the living Bee to bind, And lent its leaves a bolder swell.
And found the picture of a Bee. Expanded by the searching fire,
Attentive to our triling selves, The curling leaves the breast disclos'd;
From thence we plan the rule of all; The mantling bloom was painted higher,
Thus Nature with the fabled elves And every latent charm expos’d.
We rank, and these her sports we call. But when the Sun was sliding low
Be far, my friend, from you, from me, And ev'ning came, with dews so cold;
Th’uphallow'd term, the thought profane, The wanton beauty ceas'd to blow,
That life's majestic source may be And sought her bending leaves to fold.
In idle fancy's trifling vein. Those leaves, alas! no more would close; Remember still, 'tis Nature's plan Relax'd, exhausted, sick’ning, pale,
Religion in your love to find; They left her to a parent's woes,
And know, for this, she first in man
Inspir'd the imitative mind.
Pleas'd with the pencil's mimic power,
That power with leading hand she shows,
And paints a Bee upon a flower.
Mark, how that rooted mandrake wears
His human feet, his human hands!
Oft, as his shapely form he rears,
Aghast the frighted ploughman stands.
See where, in yonder orient stone, Through those fair scenes, where yet she owes
She seems e’en with herself at strife,
While fairer from her hand is shown
The pictur'd, than the native life.
Helvetia's rocks, Sabrina's waves,
Still many a shining pebble bear, "This is a species of the orchis, which is found Where oft her studious hand engraves in the barren and mountainous parts of Lincoln
The perfect form, and leaves it there. shire, Worcestershire, Kent, and Herefordshire. O long, my Paxton), boast ber art; Nature bas formed a bee apparently feeding on And long her laws of love fulfil : the breast of a flower with so much exactness, To thee she gave her hand and heart, that it is impossible at a very small distance to To thee, her kindness and her skill! distinguish the imposition. For this purpose she has observed an economy different from what is · The well-known fables of the Painter and the foued in most other flowers, and has laid the Statuary that fell in love with objects of their petals horizontally. The genius of the orchis, or own creation, plainly arose from the idea of that satyrion,she seems professedly to have made use of attachment, which follows the imitation of for her paintings, and on the different species has agreeable objects, to the objects imitated. drawn the perfect forms of different insects, such 3 Au ingenious portrait-painter in Rathbone as bees, fies, butterflies, &c.
Whatever charms the ear or eye,
Shepherds we'll trust our flocks to stray.
And steal from care one summer-day. Prom him 'whose gay and graceful brow
Fair-handed Hume with roses binds, We'll learn to breathe the tender vow,
Where slow the fairy Portba winds. And oh! that he whose gentle breast
In Nature's softest mould was made, Who left her smiling works imprest
In characters that cannot fade; That he might leave his lowly shrine,
Tho' softer there the seasons fall-
-“.What airy sounds invite
-“Not in vain"-
“ Of moral uses take the strife ; Leave me the elegance of life.
Where stops the passing gale to moan;
And cold drops wear the fretted stone.
An hermit's holy ashes rest :
Which many a formal matin blest.
When here I brought, in stolen hour,
The holy hermit's passion-flower.
Pensive I laid, in thought profound.
Issued, and froze me to the ground.
Does not thy haunted fancy start?
The horrour rushes on my heart,
Unmix'd, unmelodis'd with breath;
Creak'd from the bony lungs of death.
“ No tribute bear to sbades unblest :
Who was not purs'd at Nature's breast.
O’er human victims held the knife,
Sinil'd grimly o'er its quiv'ring life.
Erect !-his dark, fix'd, murd'rous eye!”
And my heart died—I felt it die.
The haggard eye-ball's hallow glare?
Dart through the sable shade of hair ?
With eye that rues th' invading day;
The mind to pale remorse a prey?
“Boy, bear these idle honours heuce!
Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense.
The moral cause, the mutual weal;
The desp'rate suicide of zeal.
1 William Hamilton of Bangour,
Thomson. VOL, XVI.
" Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts,
Despising still, their freeborn souls uubroke, Whose cell's the sepulchre of time;
Alike the Gallic and Ligurian yoke. Though many a holy hymn he chants,
Yet while the patriot's gen'rous rage we share, His life is one continu'd crime.
Still civil safety calls us back to care ; " And bear them hence, the plant, the flower
To Britain lost io either Henry's day,
Her woods her mountains one wild scene of prey! No symbols those of systems vain !
Fair Peace from all her bounteous sallies fled, They have the duties of their hour;
And Law beneath the barbed arrow bled. Some bird, some insect to sustain."
In happier days, with more auspicious fate,
Dread of his foes, but to his subjects dear,
Their laurell'd prince with British pride obey, BY ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S JUSTICES OF THE PEACE
His glory shone their discontent away.
With care the tender flower of love to sare,
And plant the olive on Disorder's grave,
He caught the fav'ring calm and falling tide,
THE APPOINTMENT, AND ITS PURPOSES. THE COUNTIES OF WESTMORLASD AND CUMBERLAND. The social laws from insult to protect;
To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; DEAR SIR,
The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, A room written professedly at To smooth the led of penury and pain ; your request, naturally addresses itself to you. The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, The distinction you have acquired on the subject, The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore and your taste for the arts, give that address The thoughtless maiden, when subdu'd by art, every kind of propriety. If I have any particu-To aid, and bring her rover to her heart i Jar satisfaction in this publication, beside what wild riot's voice with dignity to quelle arises from my compliance with your commands, Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, it must be in the idea of that testimony it bears Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, to our friendship. If you believe that I am more For this fair Justice rais'd her sacred arm; concerned for the duration of that than of the
For this the rural magistrate, of yore,
ANCIENT JUSTICE'S HALL
Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails,
On silver waves that flow thro'smiling Fales,
THE AUTHOR. In Harewood's groves, where long my youth Fas Somersetshire,
laid, April 25, 1774.
Unsoen beneath their ancient world of shade,
In Gothic guise such mansion have I found.
Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, INTRODUCTION.
Ye cits that sore bedizen Nature's face, In Richard's days, when lost his pastur'd plain,
Of the more manly structures here ye view; The wand'ring Briton sought the wild wood's They rose for greatness that ye never knek! With great disilain beheld the feudal hord, [ reign, with Venus, and the Graces on your green!
Ye reptile cits, that oft have mor'd my spleen, Poor life.Jet vassals of a Norman lord;
Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, And, what no brave man ever lost, poseess'd Himself—for Freedom bound him to her breast. The shopman, Janus, with his double looks,
Let Mercury,the thriving god of stealth, Lov'st thou that Freedom ? By her holy shrine, Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! If yet one drop of British blood be thine, See, I conjure thee, in the desert shade,
But, spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace,
Ye cits, that sore bedizen Nature's face. His bow unstrung, his little household laid, Some brave forefather; while his belds they would lay the reaims of Sense and Nature
Ye rugal architects, whose antic taste, share,
waste; By Saxon, Dane, or Norman, banish'd there! And think he tells thee, as his soul withdraws,
Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, As his heart swells against a tyrant's laws,
That folly only points each other way; The war with fate, though fruitless to maintain,
Here, tho' your eye no courtly creature sees ; To guard that liberty he lor'd in vain.
Snakes on the ground, or monkies in the trees;
Yet let not too severe a censure fall,
On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. And does not Nature thoughts like these impart,
For tho' no sight your childish fancy meets,
Of Thibet's dogs, or China's perroquets;
Tho' apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail,
And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; That point to Paoli with no plausive hand;
Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed;
APOLOGY FOR VAGRANTS.
Known to no human love, no bunan care,
Th' enormous antlers here recall the day For the poor vagrant, feel, wbile he complains, That saw the forest-monarch forc'd away; Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Who, many a flood, and many a mountain past, Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Nor finding those, nor deeming these the last, Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; O’er floods, o'er mountains yet prepar d to fly, Believe with social mercy and with me, Long ere the death-drop fill'd bis failing eye! Folly's misfortune in the first degree. Here, fam'd for cunning, and in crimes grown Perhaps on some inhospitable shore old,
The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore, Hangs his grey brush, the felon of the fold. Who, then, no more by golden prospects led, Oft, as the rent feast swells the midnight cheer. Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed, The maudling farmer kens him o'er his beer, Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, And tells bis old, traditionary tale,
Perhaps that parent mourn’d her soldier slain; Tho'known to every tenant of the vale.
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolv'd in dew, Here, where, of old, the festal ox has fed, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are Gave the sad presage of his future years, spread :
The child of misery, baptiz'd in tears !
APOSTROPHE TO EDWARD THE THIRD.
O Elward, here thy fairest laurels fade! To thee, tho' oft the ruin of the chair.
And thy long glories darken into shade ; These, and such antique tokens, that record
While yet the palms thy hardy veterans won, The manly spirit, and the bountcous board, The deeds of valour that for thee were done, Me more delight than all the gew-gaw train, While yet the wreaths for which they bravely bled, The whims and zigzag of a modern brain, Fir'd thy high soul, and Norrish'd on thy head, More than all Asia's marmosets to view
Those veterans to their native shores return'd, Grin, frisk, and water, in the walks of Kew, Like exiles wander'd and like exiles mourn'd;
Or, left at large no longer to bewail,
Were vagrants deem'd and destin'd to a jail ! Thro' these fair vallies, stranger, hast thou Were there no royal, yet uncuitur'd lands, stray'd,
No wastes that wanted such subiluing hands? By any chance to visit Harewood's shade, Were Cressy's heroes such abandon'd things ? And seen with honest, antiquated air,
O fate of war and gratitude of kings!
The gypsey-race my pity rarely move;
Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love. Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting Not Wilkes, our freedom's holy martyr, more; shade;
Nor bis firm phalanx, of the common shore. Justice, that, in the rigid paths of law,
For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves, Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, The tawny father with his offspring roves; Bend o'er her urn with many a gen'rons fear,
When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear ; Fair Equity, and Reason, scorning art,
In mossy caves, where welling waters play, And all the sober virtues of the heart
Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky,
With this in ragged luxury they lie. These sate with Herbert, these shall best avail,
Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain Where statutes order, or where statutes fail.
The sable eye, then, snugging, sleep again ;
Oft, as the dews of cooler evening fall,
For their prophetic mother's mantle call.
He whom the mighty master of this ball, From ber to bear, in evening's friendly shade, We fondly deem, or farcically call,
Of future fortune, flies the village-unaid, To own the patriarch's truth however loth, Draws her long-hoarded copper front its hold; Holds but a mansion crush'd before the moth. And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold.
Frail in his genius, in his heart, too, frail, But, ah! ye maids, beware the gypsey's lures ! . Rorn but to err, and erring to bewail;
She opens not the womb of Timne, but yours. Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, And give to life one human weakness more? Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung !