And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast,
Convulsions intermitting! does declare
His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust behest,
And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd.
His face besprent, with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face, that seems a purple flower;
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower.
O the hard bosoms of despotic Power!
All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour;
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall claim, If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.
Behind some door, in melancholy thought,
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines,
Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught,
But to the wind all merriment resigns,
And deems it shame if he to peace inclines;
And many a sullen look askance is sent,
Which for his dame's annoyance he designs;
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent,
The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past resent.
Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be!
But if that pride it be, which thus inspires,
Beware, ye dames! with nice discernment see
Ye quench not, too, the sparks of nobler fires:
Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres,
All coward arts, is valour's gen'rous heat;
The firm fix'd breast which fit and right requires,
Like Vernon's patriot soul! more justly great
Than craft that pimps for ill, or flowery, false deceit.
Yet, nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
Even now sagacious foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die!
Though now he crawl along the ground so low,
Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high,
Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.
And this, perhaps, who, censuring the design,
Low lays the house which that of cards doth build,
Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fates incline,
And many an epic to his rage shall yield,
And many a poet quit th' Aonian field;
And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear,
As he who now, with 'sdainful fury thrill'd,
Surveys mine work, and levels many a sneer,
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here!"
But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky,
And Liberty unbars her prison door,
And like a rushing torrent out they fly,
And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o'er
With boisterous revel rout and wild uproar ;
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run,
Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I implore!
For well may Freedom, erst so dearly won,
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun.
Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade,
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers;
For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid,
For never may ye taste more careless hours,
In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers.
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing!
But most in courts, where proud Ambition towers : Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king?
See in each sprite some various bent appear!
These rudely carol most incondite lay:
Those sauntering on the green with jocund leer,
Salute the stranger passing on his way;
Some building fragile tenements of clay;
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play;
Thilk to the huxster's savoury cottage tend,
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.
Here, as each season yields a different store,
Each season's stores in order rangèd been,
Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er,
Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen,
And gooseberry, clad in livery red or green;
And here of lovely dye the Catherine pear,
Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice I ween:
O may no wight e'er pennyless come there,
Lest smit with ardent love, he pine with hopeless care!
See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
With thread so white in tempting posies tied,
Scattering like blooming maid their glances round,
With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside,
And must be bought, though penury betide,
The plum all azure and the nut all brown;
And here each season do those cakes abide,
Whose honour'd names th' inventive city own,
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known.
Admired Salopia! that with venial pride
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave,
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried,
Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave;
Ah! 'midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave
Whose art did first these dulcet cakes display!
A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave,
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray,
Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.
HE dews of summer night did fall, The moon (sweet regent of the sky) Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
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