LOSS OF HIis father, THE REV.
THOMAS WARTON,
VICAR OF BASINGSTOKE, HANTS,WHO DIED IN 1745.
No more of mirth and rural joys,
The gay description quickly cloys;
In melting numbers, sadly slow,
I tune my alter'd strings to woe;
Attend, Melpomene, and with thee bring
Thy tragic lute, Euphranor's death to sing.
Fond wilt thou be his name to praise,
For oft thou heard'st his skilful lays;
Isis, for him soft tears has shed,
She plac'd her ivy on his head;
Chose him, strict judge, to rule with steady reins
The vigorous fancies of her listening swains.
With genius, wit, and science bless'd,
Unshaken Honour arm'd his breast,
Bade him, with virtuous courage wise,
Malignant Fortune's darts despise;
Him, e'en black Envy's venom'd tongues commend,
As Scholar, Pastor, Husband, Father, Friend.
For ever sacred, ever dear,
O much-lov'd shade! accept this tear;
Each night indulging pious woe,
Fresh roses on thy tomb I strow,
And wish for tender Spenser's moving verse,
Warbled in broken sobs o'er Sidney's herse
Let me to that deep cave resort,
Where Sorrow keeps her silent court;
For ever wringing her pale hands,
While dumb Misfortune near her stands;
With downcast eyes the Cares around her wait,
And Pity sobbing sits before the gate.
Thus stretch'd upon his grave I sung,
When straight my ears with murmur rung;
A distant, deaf, and hollow sound
Was heard in solemn whispers round'Weep not for me, embath'd in bliss above, In the bright kingdoms bless'd of joy and love '.'
NYMPHS of the forests, that young oaks protect
From noxious blasts, and the blue thunder's dart;
O how securely might ye dwell
In Britain's peaceful shades,
Far from grim wolves, or tigers' midnight roar,
Or crimson-crested serpents' hungry hiss,
But that our savage swains pollute
With murder your retreats!
How oft your birds have undeserving bled,
Linnet, or warbling thrush, or moaning dove,
Pheasant with gaily-glistering wings,
Or early-mounting lark!
'Enough, dear Youth!-though wrap'd in bliss above, Well pleas'd I listen to thy lays of love."
Subjoined to the edition of his father's poems, 1748.
While in sweet converse in a round you sit
On the green turf, or in the woodbine-bower,
If chance the thundering gun be heard,
To grots and caves ye run;
Fearful as when Lodona fled from Pan,
Or Daphne, panting, from enamour'd Sol,
Or fair Sabrina to the flood
Her snowy beauties gave:
When will dread Man his tyrannies forego,
When cease to bathe his barbarous hands in blood,
His subjects helpless, harmless, weak,
Delighting to destroy?
More pleasant far to shield their tender young
From churlish swains, that violate their nests;
And, wandering, morn or eve to hear
Their welcome to the Spring.
THOU, that at deep dead of night
Walk'st forth beneath the pale moon's light
In robe of flowing black array'd,
While cypress-leaves thy brows o'ershade;
Listening to the crowing cock,
And the distant sounding clock;
Or sitting in thy cavern low,
Dost hear the bleak winds loudly blow,
Or the hoarse death-boding owl,
Or village mastiff's wakeful howl,
While through thy melancholy room
A dim lamp casts an awful gloom;
Thou, that on the meadow green,
Or daisied upland art not seen,
But wandering by the dusky nooks,
And the pensive falling brooks,
Or near some rugged, herbless rock,
Where no shepherd keeps his flock!
Musing maid, to thee I come,
Hating the tradeful city's hum;
O let me calmly dwell with thee;
From noisy mirth and business free,
With meditation seek the skies,
This folly-fetter'd world despise!
IMITATED FROM HORACE, ODE XIII. BOOK III.
E waves, that gushing fall with purest stream, Blandusian Fount! to whom the products sweet Of richest wines belong,
And fairest flowers of Spring;
To thee, a chosen victim will I slay,
A kid, who glowing in lascivious youth
Just blooms with budding horn,
And with vain thought elate
Yet destines future war: but ah! too soon
His reeking blood with crimson shall enrich
Thy pure translucent flood,
And tinge thy crystal clear.
Thy sweet recess the sun in mid-day hour Can ne'er invade, thy streams the labour'd ox Refresh with cooling draught,
And glad the wandering herds.
Thy name shall shine with endless honours grac'd,
While on my shell I sing the nodding oak,
That o'er thy cavern deep
Waves his embowering head.
MR. WEST'S TRANSLATION OF PINDAR.
ALBION exult! thy sons a voice divine have heard,
The Man of Thebes hath in thy vales appear'd;
Hark! with fresh rage and undiminish'd fire,
The sweet enthusiast smites the British lyre';
The sounds that echoed on Alpheus' streams,
Reach the delighted ear of listening Thames :
Lo! swift across the dusty plain
Great Theron's foaming coursers strain!
What mortal tongue e'er roll'd along
Such full impetuous tides of nervous song?
The fearful, frigid lays of cold and creeping Art,
Nor touch, nor can transport the' unfeeling heart;
Pindar, our inmost bosom piercing, warms
With glory's love, and eager thirst of arms:
When Freedom speaks in his majestic strain,'
The patriot-passions beat in every vein:
We long to sit with heroes old,
Mid groves of vegetable gold,
Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell2,
And still of daring deeds and dangers tell.
Away, enervate bards, away,
Who spin the courtly, silken lay,
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