« ForrigeFortsæt »
Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
To have a curious trick in store, His coffers overflow'd with gold ;
Which never was perform'd before. The land all round him was his own.
Thro' all the town this soon got air, With corn his crowded granaries groan.
And the whole house was like a fair; In short, so vast his charge and gain,
But soon his entry as he made, That to possess them was a pain :
Without a prompter, or parade, With happiness oppress'd he lies,
'Twas all expectance, all suspense, And much too prudent to be wise.
And silence gagg'd the audience. Near him there liv'il a beauteous maid,
He hid his head behind his wig, With all the charms of youth array'd;
And with such truth took off a pig, Good, amiable, sincere and free,
All swore'twas serious, and no joke, Her name was Generosity.
For doubtless underneath his cloak, 'Twas hers the largess to bestow
He had conceal'd some grunting elf, On rich and poor, on friend and foe.
Or, was a real hog himself. Her doors to all were open'd wide,
A search was made, no pig was found The pilgrim there might safe abide :
With thund'ring claps the seats resound, For th' hungry and the thirsty crew,
And pit, and box, and galleries roar, The bread she broke, the drink she dreir; With-O rare! bravo! and encore. There Sickness laid her acbing head,
Old Roger Grouse, a country clown, And there Distress cou'd find a bed.
Who yet knew something of the town, Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,
Beheld the mimic and his whim, Diffus'd she blessings round the land :
And on the morrow challeng'd him, Her gifts and glory lasted long,
Declaring to each beau and bunter, And numerous was th'accepting throng.
That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter. At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,
The morrow came—the crowd was greater And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,
But prejudice and rank ill-nature, She found her riches at an end,
Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches, And that she had not made one friend.
Who came to hiss, and break the benches. . .
The mimic took his usual station,
“ Again, encore ! encore !” they cryWhen lo ! to comfort her came Care.
'Twas quite the thing—twas very high : And cry'd, “ My dear, if you will join
Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket, Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;
A real pig beneath his jacketAll will be well—you shall have store,
Then forth be came-and with his nail And I be plagu'd with wealth no more.
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail. Tho' I restraiu your bounteous heart,
The tortur'd pig from out his throat, You still shall act the generous part.”
Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note. The bridal came-great was the feast,
All bellow'd out-twas very sad !
Sure nerer stuff was half so bad !
“Pshaw! Nonsense! blockhead ! Off! Off! Off!» Her face was mix'd of care and glee,
The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse They christend her Economy ;
Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house. And styled her fair Discretion's queen,
“ Soft ye, a word before I go," The mistress of the golden mean.
Quoth honest Hodge—and stooping low Now Generosity confin'd,
Produc'd the pig, and thus aloud Perfectly easy in her mind;
Bespoke the stupid partial croud : Still loves to give, yet knows to spare;
“ Behold, and learn from this poor creature, Nor wishes to be free from Care.
How much you crities know of Nature."
But why these to me, who're his constancy And sing with more than usual glee
To Nancy, who was born for me.
The queen of the immortal grove; She brought me a sun-flow'r_“This, fair one's That she must share her golden fee your due;
With Nancy, who was born for me.
On her to place the palm agree,
The regent of the up-land grange,
In chastity she yields to thee,
0, Nancy, who wast born for me.
Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove, No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,
With all the pow'rs of life and love, Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me be- Tbat I'd disdain to breathe or be, fore;
If Nancy was not born for me.
My Flor 10, wildest of his sex,
(Who sure the veriest saint would vex)
From beauty roves to beauty; And though witlings may scoff, and though rail
Yet, though abroad the wanton roam, lery mocks,
Whene'er he deigns to stay at home, Yet PII sing to my lass with the golden locks.
He always minds his duty. To live and to love, lo converse and be free,
Something to every charming she,
In thoughtless prodigality,
He's granting still and granting; A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
And every madam, every miss; He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.
Yet I find nothing wanting. Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my If haply I his will displease,
sight, Her mien is more stately, her brcast is more white, Tempestuous as th’autumnal seas
He foams and rages ever;
But when he ceases from his ire,
I cry, “Such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever.”
I ne'er want reason to complain;
And every joy grows greater.
[soft pain; She shall ease’my fend heart, and shall sooth my I should not like him half so well,
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell, While thousands of rivals are sigbing in vain ;
If I cou'd make him better. Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like
the fox, While I have the lass with the golden locks.
CHE TALKATIVE FAIR.
ON MY WIFE'S BIRTH-DAY.
From morn to night, from day to day
Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,
Leave her, defenceless and alone,
THE DISTRESSED DAMSEL.
THE SILENT FAIR,
BALLAD VI. From all her fair loquacious kind, So different is my Rosalind, That not one accent can I gain To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain. Ye lovers, who can construe sighs, And are the interpreters of eyes, To language all her looks translate, And in her gestures read my fate. And if in them you chance ta find Aught that is gentle, aught that's kind, Adieu mean hopes of being great, And all the littleness of state. All thonghts of grandeur I'll despise, Which from dependence take their rise ; To serve her shall be my employ, And love's sweet agony my joy.
BALLAD VIII. Of all my experience how vast the amount, Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count ! Was ever a damsel so sadly betray d, To live to these years and yet still be a maid ? Ye heroes, triumphant by land and by sea, Sworn rot'ries to love, but unmindful of me; You can storm a strong fort, or can form a
blockade, Yet ye stand by like dastards, and see me a
maid. Ye lawyers so just, who with slippery tongue, Can do wbat you please, or with right, or with
wrong, Can it be or by law or by equity said, That a buxom young girl ought to die an old
maid. Ye learned physicians, whose excellent skill Can save, or demolish, can cure, or can kill, To a poor, forlorn damsel contribute your aid, Who is sick-very sick-of remaining a maid. Ye fops, I invoke, not to list to my song, Who answer no end-and to no sex belong; Ye echoes of echoes, and shadows of shade For if I had you I might still be a maid.
THE FAIR RECLUSE.
THE FORCE OF INNOCENCE.
TO MISS C****
BALLAD VII. The blooming damsel, whose defence Is adamantinę innocence, Requires no guardian to attend Her steps, for Modesty's her friend; Though her fair arms are weak to wield The glitt'ring spear, and massy shield; Yet safe from force and fraud combin'd, She is an Amazon in mind. With ihis artillery she goes, Not only 'mongst the harmless beaux ; But e'en unhurt and updismay'd, Views the long sword and fierce cockade, Though all a syren as she talks, And all a goddess as she walks, Yet decency each action guides, And wisdom o'er her tongue presides. Place her in Russia's showery plains, Where a perpetual winter reigns, The elements may rave and range, Yet her fix'd mind will never change. Place her, Ambition, in thy tow'rs, ?Mongst the more dang'rous golden show'rs, E'en there she'd spurn the venal tribe, And fold her arms against the bribe,
Ye ancient patriarchs of the wood,
That veil around these awful glooms, Who many a century have stood
In verdant age, that ever blooms. Ye Gothic tow'rs by vapours dense.
Obscur'd into severer state, In pastoral magnificence
At once so simple and so great. Why all your jealous shades on me,
Ye hoary elders, do ye spread? Fair innocence shou'd still be free, Nought shou'd be chain'd, but what we
dread, Say, must these tears for ever flow?
Can I from patience learn content,
And leaves me leisure to lament.
Whuse cruelty is his employ,
And stops each avenue to joy,
ONE OF THE CHICHESTER GRACES.
Preedom of air alone is givin,
And am as raging Barry hot. To aggravate, nor sooth my grief,
True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove, To view th’immensely.distant Heav'n,
But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
Are other names for Harriot,
And tire both houses with your prose,
Though never can you carry aught;
And without bribery convince,
You of the music common weal,
Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal, “YE kills that overlook the plains,
Cantata, air, or ariet ; Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,
You'd burn your cumb'rous works in score, Where Nature's hand by Art is check’d,
And sing, compose, and play no more, And Taste herself is architect ;
If once you heard my Harriot. Ye fallows gray, ye forests brown,
Were there a wretch who dar'd essay, And seas that the vast prospect crown,
Such wond'rous sweetness to betray, Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,
I'd call him an Iscariot ; Nor can she one idea more !"
But her e'en satire can't annoy, I said when dearest of her kind
So strictly chaste, but kindly coy, (Her form, the picture of her mind)
Is fair angelic Harriot.
(Mean appetite of earthly things) She seem'd all nature to comprize,
In all the waste of war riot ; Her lips! her beauteous breasts ! her eyes ! Love's softer duel be my aim, That rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,
Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame, With liquid, languid, living fire!
Are center'd all in Harriot. But then her voice !-how fram'dť endear! I swear by Hymen and the pow'rs The music of the gods to hear!
That haunt love's ever blushing bow'rs, Wit that so piercd, without offence,
So sweet a nymph to marry ought: So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense !
Then may I hug her silken yoke,
I Pallas with Venus play'd her part,
And give the last, the final stroke,
T'accomplish lovely Harriot.
TO JENNY GRAY,
Bring, Phæbus, from Parnassian bow'rs, Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine !
A chaplet of poetic flowers, To save me, the dear task be thine.
That far outbloom the May; Though conquest be the woman's care,
Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free, The angel's glory is to spare.
And all the Muses heraldry,
To blazon Jenny Gray.
Presenting Spring with early bloom,
In ruddy tints how gay !
With such a blithsome, buxom air,
Blooms lovely Jenny Gray.
The merry, chirping, plumy throng Who forms the self succeeding year,
The bushes and the twigs among Thron'd in his amber chariot;
That pipe the sylvan lay,
All hush'd at her delightful voice
And study Jenny Gray.
Ye balmy odour-breathing gales, Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not bums, That lightly sweep the green rob’d vales,
Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot; And in each rose-bush play; I scorn their philosophic strife,
I know you all, you're arrant cheats, And study nature from the life,
And steal your more than natural sweets, (Where most she shines) in Harriot.
From lovely Jenny Gray. When she admits another wooer,
Pomona and that goddess bright, I rave like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,
The florists and the maids delight,
A CRAMBO BALLAD
In vain their charms display;
While a forc'd blush her cheeks inflam'd, The luscious nectarine, juicy peach,
ad seem'd to say she was asham'd. In richness, nor in sweetness reach
No handkerchief her bosom bid, The lips of Jenny Gray.
No tippet from our sight debars To the sweet knot of Graces three,
Her heaving breasts with moles o'erspread, Th’immortal band of bards agree,
Mark’d, little hemispheres, with stars; A tuneful tax to pay ;
While on them all our eyes we more, There yet remains a matchless worth,
Our eyes that meant immoderate love. There yet remains a lovelier fourth,
In every gesture, every air,
Th’ imperfect lisp, the languid eye,
We awkward imitators vie,
And, forming our own from her face,
Strive to look pretty as we gaze.
If e'er she sneer'd, the mimic crowd
Sneerd too, and all their pipes laid down ;
If she but stoop'd, we lowly bow'd,
And sullen if she'gan to frown Full full many a heart, that now is free,
In solemn sidence sat profound
But did she laugh!-the laugh went round.
Iler snuff-box if the nymph pulld out,
Each Johnian in responsive airs
Fed with the tickling dust bis snout,
With all the politesse of bears.
Dropt she her fan beneath her hoop,
Ev'n stake-stuck Clarians strore to stoop.
The sons of culinary Kays
Smoking from the eternal treat,
Lost in ecstatic transport gaze.
As though the fair was good to eat; Tho' this,'tis own'd, be somewhat rude,
Ev'n gloomiest king's men, pleas'd awhile, And Puss by nature be a prude,
“ Grin horribly a ghastly smile.” Yet hence you iras improve, By decent pride, and dint of scoff,
But hark, she cries, “ My mamma calls,” Keep caterwauling coxcombs off,
And straight she's vanish'd from our sight; And ward th' attacks of love.
'Twas then we saw the empty bowls,
'Twas then we first perceiv'd it night; Your Crop a mousing when you see,
While all, sad synod, silent aroan,
Both that she went—and went alone,
THE WIDOW'S RESOLUTION.
TIE PRETTY BAR-KEEPER OF THE
Written at College, 1741,
And to hear the poet talk,
Lay aside your sponge and chalk;
Come, O come, and bring with thee
And all love's soft artillery ;
Not unravish'd you might see
E'er her tongue could set it free,
,” she cry'd,“ ye swains, be mute, Nor with your odious fruitless suit
My loyal thoughts controul ;
The purpose of my soul.
And make me life sustain;
That takes it's rise from pain."