'Twas where the alder's close-knit shade entwin'd (What time the dog.star's fires intensely burn),
In gentlest indolence reclin❜d,
Beside your ever-trickling urn
You slept serene; all free from fears,
No friendly dream foretold your harm,
When sudden, see! the tyrant Art appears
To snatch the liquid treasures from thy arm.
Art, Gothic Art, has seiz'd thy darling vase,
That vase which silver-slipper'd Thetis gave,
For some soft story told with grace,
Amid th' associates of the wave;
When in sequester'd coral vales,
While worlds of waters roll'd above,
The circling sea-nymphs told alternate tales
Of fabled changes, and of slighted love.
Ah! loss too justly mourn'd! for now the fiend
Has on yon shell-wrought terras pois'd it high,
And thence he bids its streams descend,
With torturing regularity;
From step to step with sullen sound
The forc'd cascades indignant leap,
'Till pent they fill the bason's measur'd round,
There in a dull stagnation doom'd to sleep.
Lost is the vocal pebble's gurgling song,
The rill soft-dripping from its rocky spring,
No free meander winds along,
Or curls, when Zephyr waves his wing,
These charms, alas are now no more-
Fortune, oh! give me to redeem
The ravish'd vase; oh! give me to restore
Its pristine honours to this hapless stream!
Then, Nymph, again, with all their native ease,
Thy wanton waters, volatile and free,
Shall wildly warble, as they please,
Their soft loquacious harmony.
Where'er they vagrant choose to rove,
There will I lead, not force their way,
Whether to gloom beneath the shady grove,
Or in the mead reflect the sparkling ray.
Not HAGLEY'S various stream shall thine surpass,
Though Nature, and her LYTTLETON ordain
That there the NAIAD band should grace
With every wat'ry charm the plain;
That there the frequent rills should roll,
And health to every flower dispense,
Free as their master pours from all his soul
The gen'rous tide of warm benevolence;
Should now glide sweetly plaintive through the vale
In melting murmurs querulously slow;
Soft as that master's love-lorn tale,
When LUCY calls forth all his woe:
Should now from steepy heights descend,
Deep thund'ring the rough rocks among,
Loud as the praise applauding senates lend,
When England's cause inspires his glowing tongue.
BENEATH A ROW OF ELMS IN A MEADOW NEAR
Belonging to Richard Owen Cambridge, Esq. sept. 1760.
YE green-hair'd Nymphs! whom Pan allows' To guard from harm these favour'd boughs; Ye blue-eyed Naiads of the stream,
That sooth the warm poetic dream;
Ye elves and sprights, that thronging round,
When midnight darkens all the ground,
In antic measures uncontroul'd,
Your fairy sports and revels hold,
And up and down, where'er ye pass,
With many a ringlet print the grass;
If e'er the bard hath hail'd your power
At morn's grey dawn, or evening hour;
If e'er by moonlight on the plain
Your ears have caught th' enraptur'd strain;
From every floweret's velvet head,
From reverend Thames's oozy bed,
From these moss'd elms, where, prison'd deep,
Conceal'd from human eyes, ye sleep,
If these your haunts be worth your care,
Awake, arise, and hear my prayer!
O banish from this peaceful plain
The perjur'd nymph, the faithless swain,
The stubborn heart, that scorns to bow,
And harsh rejects the honest vow:
The fop, who wounds the virgin's ear,
With aught that sense would blush to hear,
Or, false to honour, mean and vain,
Defames the worth he cannot stain:
The light coquet, with various art,
Who casts her net for every heart,
And smiling flatters to the chase
Alike the worthy and the base:
The dame, who, proud of virtue's praise,
Is happy if a sister strays,
And, conscious of unclouded fame,
Delighted, spreads the tale of shame:
But far, O banish'd far be they,
Who hear, unmov'd, the orphan's cry,
Who see, nor wish to wipe away,
The tear that swells the widow's eye; Th' unloving man whose narrow mind Disdains to feel for human-kind,
At others bliss whose cheek ne'er glows, Whose breast ne'er throbs with others woes, Whose hoarded sum of private joys
His private care alone destroys;
Ye fairies cast your spells around,
And guard from such this hallow'd ground!
But welcome all, who sigh with truth,
Each constant maid and faithful youth,
Whom mutual love alone hath join'd,
Sweet union of the willing mind!
Hearts pair'd in heaven, not meanly sold,
Law-licenc'd prostitutes for gold:
And welcome thrice, and thrice again,
The chosen few, the worthy train,
Whose steady feet, untaught to stray,
Still tread where virtue marks the way;
Whose souls no thought, whose hands have known
No deed, which honour might not own;
Who, torn with pain, or stung with care,
In others bliss can claim a part,
And, in life's brightest hour can share
Each pang that wrings another's heart:
Ye guardian spirits, when such ye see,
Sweet peace be theirs, and welcome free!
Clear be the sky from clouds or showers!
Green be the turf, and fresh the flowers!
And that the youth, whose pious care
Lays on your shrine this honest prayer,
May, with the rest, admittance gain,
And visit oft this pleasant scene,
Let all who love the Muse attend!
Who loves the Muse is virtue's friend.
Such then alone may venture here,
Who, free from guilt, are free from fear;
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