Admit the hateful form of black despair,
Wan with the gloom of superstitious care ?
In pity-moving lays, with earnest cries,
She call'd on heaven to close her weary eyes,
And, long on earth by heart-felt woes opprest,
Was borne by friendly death to welcome rest.
In nervous strains, lo! Madan's polish'd taste Has poetry's successive progress trac❜d,
From ancient Greece, where first she fix'd her reign,
To Italy, and Britain's happier plain.
Praise well-bestow'd adorns her glowing lines,
And manly strength with female softness joins.
So female charms and manly virtues grace,
By her example form'd, her blooming race,
And, fram'd alike to please our ears and eyes,
There new Conelias and new Gracchi rise.
O that you now, with genius at command,
Would snatch the pencil from my artless hånd,
And give your sex's portraits, bold and true,
In colors worthy of themselves and you!
Now in ecstatic visions let me rove,
By Cynthia's beams, through Brackley's glimmering
Where still each night, by startled shepherds seen,
Young Leapor's form flies shadowy o'er the green.
Those envied honors nature lov'd to pay
The briar-bound turf, where erst her Shakspere lay,
Now on her darling Mira she bestows,
There o'er the hallow'd ground she fondly strows
The choicest fragrance of the breathing spring,
And bids each year her favourite linnet sing.
Let cloister'd pedants, in an endless round,
Tread the dull mazes of scholastic ground;
Brackley unenvying views the glittering train
Of learning's useless trappings idly vain;
For, spite of all that vaunted learning's aid,
Their fame is rivall'd by her rural maid.
So, while in our Britannia's beechen sprays
Sweet Philomela trills her mellow lays,
We to the natives of the sultry line
Their boasted race of parrots pleas'd resign:
For tho' on citron boughs they proudly glow
With all the colors of the watery bow,
Yet thro' the grove harsh discord they prolong,
Tho' rich in gaudy plumage, poor in song.
Now bear me, Clio, to that Kentish strand,
Whose rude o'erhanging cliffs and barren sand
May challenge all the myrtle-blooming bowers
Of fam'd Italia, when, at evening hours,
Thy own Eliza muses on the shore,
Serene, tho' billows beat, and tempests roar.
Hail, Carter, hail! your favorite name, inspires
My raptur'd breast with sympathetic fires;
Even now I see your lov❜d Ilyssus lead
His mazy current thro' th' Athenian mead;
With you I pierce thro' academic shades,
And join in Attic bowers th' Aonian maids;
Beneath the spreading plane with Plato rove,
And hear his morals echo thro' the grove.
Joy sparkles in the sage's looks, to find
His genius glowing in a female mind;
Newton admiring sees your searching eye
Dart thro' his mystic page, and range the sky
By you his colors to your sex are shown,
And Algarotti's name to Britain known.
While, undisturb'd by pride, you calmly tread
Thro' life's perplexing paths, by wisdom led;
And, taught by her, your grateful muse repays
Her heavenly teacher in nocturnal lays.
So when Prometheus from th' Almighty Sire,
As sings the fable, stole celestial fire,
Swift thro' the clay the vital current ran,
In look, in form, in speech resembling man;
But in each eye a living lustre glow'd,
That spoke the heavenly source from whence it flow'd.
"What magic powers in Celia's numbers dwell, Which thus th' unpractis'd breast with ardor swell
To emulate her praise, and tune that lyre,
Which yet no bard was able to inspire!
"With tears her suffering virgin we attend,
And sympathize with father, lover, friend!
What sacred rapture in our bosom glows,
When at the shrine she offers up her vows!
Mild majesty and virtue's awful power
Adorn her fall, and grace her latest hour."
Transport me now to those embroider'd meads, Where the slow Ouze his lazy current leads! There, while the stream soft-dimpling steals along, And from the groves the green-hair'd Dryads throng,
Clio herself, or Ferrar tunes a lay,
Sweet as the darkling Philomel of May.
Haste, haste, ye Nine, and hear a sister sing,
The charms of Cynthia, and the joys of spring:
See! night's pale goddess with a grateful beam
Paints her lov'd image in the shadowy stream,
While, round his votary, spring profusely showers
"A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers."
O happy nymph, tho' winter o'er thy head,
Blind to that form, the snow of age shall shed;
Tho' life's short spring and beauty's blossoms fade,
Still shall thy reason flourish undecay'd;
Time, tho' he steals the roseate bloom of youth, Shall spare the charms of virtue and of truth, And on thy mind new charms, new bloom bestow, Wisdom's best friend, and only beauty's foe.
Nor shall thy much-lov'd Pennington remain
Unsung, unhonor'd in my votive strain.
See where the soft enchantress, wandering o'er
The fairy ground that Philips trod before,
Exalts her chymic wand, and swift behold
The basest metals ripen into gold.
Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye,
We view vile copper with pure sterling vie;
Nor shall the farthing, sung by her, forbear
To claim the praises of the smiling fair;
Till chuck and marble shall no more employ
The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.
Returning now to Thames's flowery side, See how his waves in still attention glide! And, hark! what songstress shakes her warbling throat ?
Is it the nightingale, or Delia's note ?
The balmy Zephyrs, hovering o'er the fair,
On their soft wings the vocal accents bear;
Thro' Sunbury's low vale the strains rebound,
Even neighbouring Chertsey hears the cheerful
|