THOU child of Nature, Genius strong,
Thou master of the Poet's song,
Before whose light, Art's dim and feeble ray
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day:
Thou lov'st to steal along the secret shade,
Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Awaits thee with her thousand charms,
And revels in thy wanton arms.
She to thy bed, in days of yore,
The sweetly warbling Shakspere bore;
Whom every muse endow'd with every skill,
And dipt him in that sacred rill, Whose silver streams flow musical along, Where Phoebus' hallow'd mount resounds with rap
Forsake not thou the vocal choir,
Their breast revisit with thy genial fire,
Else vain the studied sounds of mimic art,
Tickle the ear, but come not nigh the heart.
Vain every phrase in curious order set,
On each side leaning on the [stop-gap] epithet.
Vain the quick rhime still tinkling in the close,
While pure description shines in measur❜d prose.
Thou bear'st aloof, and look'st with high disdain,
Upon the dull mechanic train;
Whose nerveless strains flag on in languid tone,
Lifeless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowzy drone.
No longer now thy altars blaze,
No poet offers up his lays;
Inspir'd with energy divine,
To worship at thy sacred shrine.
Since Taste with absolute domain,
Extending wide her leaden reign,
Kills with her melancholy shade,
The blooming scyons of fair fancy's tree;
Which erst full wantonly have stray'd
In many a wreath of richest poesie.
For when the oak denies her stay,
The creeping ivy winds her humble way;
No more she twists her branches round,
But drags her feeble stem along the barren ground.
Where then shall exil'd genius go?
Since only those the laurel claim,
And boast them of the poet's name.
Whose sober rhimes in even tenour flow;
Who prey on words, and all their flowrets cull,
Coldly correct, and regularly dull.
Why sleep the sons of Genius now?
Why, Wartons, rest the lyre unstrung?
And thou, blest Bard! around whose sacred brow, Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung:
Arise, and snatch the majesty of song
From dullness' servile tribe, and art's unhallow'd throng.
BY ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, ESQ.
COME, rosy Health, celestial maid,
On Zephyr's silken wing convey'd,
In smiles thy heavenly features drest,
Descend thou sweet enchanting guest
All charming, whether you appear
In STAMERS's lovely form and air,
Or her's who yonder shines from far
Fair as the morning's silver star,
In youth's soft prime and beauty's pride,
On Shannon's flower-enamell'd side,
By shepherds, in each amorous tale,
Yclept the Lily of the vale.
Bright daughter of the blushing dawn, Nymph of the wood, and daisied lawn, Who fliest the busy, full resorts Of peopled cities, revelling courts,
But, clad in russet, lov'st to dwell
With Temperance in the rural cell,
Attend the sheep-boy at his stand,
Or ploughman o'er the furrow'd land,
Or wait, at spring of fragment morn,
The opening hound, and chearing horn:
Ever chearful, ever gay,
Hither come and chase away
Sorrow of dejected eye,
The plaintive tear, the struggling sigh,
Disease with sickly yellow spread,
And Pain that holds the hanging head;
And in their stead conduct along
Fantastic Dance, and airy Song,
Wit, of taste correct and fine,
Frolic Mirth, that waits on wine,
Hope that fans the lover's fires,
Pleasing Follies, gay Desires;
For these are thine, a sprightly train,
Without thee lifeless, joyless, vain.
'Tis you who pour o'er Beauty's face The artless bloom, the native grace; You robb'd the bashful rose, and shed Its soft, refin'd, delicious red On WALLER'S cheek; 'tis you bestow On MANSEL'S lips the ripening glow, With quickening spirits you supply The trembling lustre of her eye.
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