Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 13

30 Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay, Till up the welkin rose the day, Then deem'd the dole was o'er; But wot ye well his harder lot?

His seely back the bunch has got Which Edwin lost afore.

31 This tale a Sybil-nurse aread; She softly stroked my youngling head, And when the tale was done, Thus some are born, my son, (she cries,) With base impediments to rise, And some are born with none.

32 But virtue can itself advaunce To what the favourite fools of chaunce By fortune seem'd design'd; Virtue can gain the odds of Fate, And from itself shake off the weight Upon the unworthy mind.

TO MR POPE.

To praise, yet still with due respect to praise, A bard triumphant in immortal bays, The learn'd to show, the sensible commend, Yet still preserve the province of the friend, What life, what vigour, must the lines require, What music tune them, what affection fire!

Oh! might thy genius in my bosom shine, Thou shouldst not fail of numbers worthy thine; The brightest ancients might at once agree To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10

Horace himself would own thou dost excel In candid arts, to play the critic well.

Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream; On silver feet, with annual osier crown'd, She runs for ever through poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, Made by thy Muse the envy of the fair!

Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess[1] wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before; 20 Here courtly trifles set the world at odds, Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for G.o.ds, The new machines in names of ridicule, Mock the grave frenzy of the chymic fool.

But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart: The Graces stand in sight; a Satyr train Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the scene.

In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits Enshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits, 30 And sits in measures, such as Virgil's Muse To place thee near him might be fond to choose.

How might he tune the alternate reed with thee, Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he, While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!

Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains, And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.

Indulgent nurse of every tender gale, Parent of flowerets, old Arcadia, hail! 40 Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread, Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head, Still slide thy waters soft among the trees, Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze, Smile all thy valleys in eternal spring, Be hush'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil sing.

In English lays, and all sublimely great, Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat; He shines in council, thunders in the fight, And flames with every sense of great delight. 50 Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown, Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne, In all the majesty of Greek retired, Himself unknown, his mighty name admired; His language failing, wrapp'd him round with night, Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.

So wealthy mines, that ages long before Fed the large realms around with golden ore, When choked by sinking banks, no more appear, And shepherds only say, The mines were here: 60 Should some rich youth (if Nature warm his heart, And all his projects stand inform'd with Art) Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein; The mines, detected, flame with gold again.

How vast, how copious are thy new designs!

How every music varies in thy lines!

Still as I read, I feel my bosom beat, And rise in raptures by another's heat.

Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the days, When Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70 Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest, And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest: The shades resound with song--oh softly tread!

While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my friend--and when a friend inspires, My silent harp its master's hand requires, Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound; For fortune placed me in unfertile ground, Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning--far, oh far from thee! 80 Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf, Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf; Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet, Rocks at their side, and torrents at their feet, Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood, Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud.

Yet here Content can dwell, and Learned Ease, A friend delight me, and an author please; Even here I sing, while Pope supplies the theme, Show my own love, though not increase his fame. 90

[Footnote 1: 'Egypt's princess:' Cleopatra.]

HEALTH: AN ECLOGUE.

Now early shepherds o'er the meadow pa.s.s, And print long footsteps in the glittering gra.s.s, The cows neglectful of their pasture stand, By turns obsequious to the milker's hand, When Damon softly trode the shaven lawn, Damon a youth from city cares withdrawn; Long was the pleasing walk he wander'd through, A cover'd arbour closed the distant view; There rests the youth, and while the feather'd throng Raise their wild music, thus contrives a song. 10

Here wafted o'er by mild Etesian air, Thou country G.o.ddess, beauteous Health, repair!

Here let my breast through quivering trees inhale Thy rosy blessings with the morning gale.

What are the fields, or flowers, or all I see?

Ah! tasteless all, if not enjoy'd with thee.

Joy to my soul! I feel the G.o.ddess nigh, The face of Nature cheers as well as I; O'er the flat green refreshing breezes run, The smiling daisies blow beneath the sun, 20 The brooks run purling down with silver waves, The planted lanes rejoice with dancing leaves, The chirping birds from all the compa.s.s rove To tempt the tuneful echoes of the grove: High sunny summits, deeply shaded dales, Thick mossy banks, and flowery winding vales, With various prospect gratify the sight, And scatter fix'd attention in delight.

Come, country G.o.ddess, come! nor thou suffice, But bring thy mountain sister, Exercise! 30 Call'd by thy lovely voice, she turns her pace, Her winding horn proclaims the finish'd chase; She mounts the rocks, she skims the level plain, Dogs, hawks, and horses crowd her early train; Her hardy face repels the tanning wind, And lines and meshes loosely float behind.

All these as means of toil the feeble see, But these are helps to pleasure join'd with thee.

Let Sloth lie softening till high noon in down, Or lolling fan her in the sultry town, 40 Unnerved with rest, and turn her own disease, Or foster others in luxurious ease: I mount the courser, call the deep-mouth'd hounds; The fox unkennell'd, flies to covert grounds; I lead where stags through tangled thickets tread, And shake the saplings with their branching head; I make the falcons wing their airy way, And soar to seize, or stooping strike their prey: To snare the fish I fix the luring bait; To wound the fowl I load the gun with fate. 50 'Tis thus through change of exercise I range, And strength and pleasure rise from every change.

Here beauteous for all the year remain; When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.

Oh come, thou G.o.ddess of my rural song, And bring thy daughter, calm Content, along!

Dame of the ruddy cheek and laughing eye, From whose bright presence clouds of sorrow fly: For her I mow my walks, I plait my bowers, Clip my low hedges, and support my flowers; 60 To welcome her, this summer seat I dress'd, And here I court her when she comes to rest; When she from exercise to learned ease Shall change again, and teach the change to please.

Now friends conversing my soft hours refine, And Tully's Tusculum revives in mine: Now to grave books I bid the mind retreat, And such as make me rather good than great; Or o'er the works of easy Fancy rove, Where flutes and innocence amuse the grove: 70 The native bard that on Sicilian plains First sung the lowly manners of the swains; Or Maro's Muse, that in the fairest light Paints rural prospects and the charms of sight; These soft amus.e.m.e.nts bring Content along, And Fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song.

Here beauteous Health for all the year remain; When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.

THE FLIES: AN ECLOGUE.

When the river cows for coolness stand.

And sheep for breezes seek the lofty land, A youth whom aesop taught that every tree, Each bird and insect, spoke as well as he, Walk'd calmly musing in a shaded way, Where flowering hawthorn broke the sunny ray, And thus instructs his moral pen to draw A scene that obvious in the field he saw.

Near a low ditch, where shallow waters meet, Which never learn'd to glide with liquid feet, 10 Whose Naiads never prattle as they play, But screen'd with hedges slumber out the day, There stands a slender fern's aspiring shade, Whose answering branches, regularly laid, Put forth their answering boughs, and proudly rise Three storeys upward in the nether skies.

For shelter here, to shun the noonday heat, An airy nation of the flies retreat; Some in soft air their silken pinions ply, And some from bough to bough delighted fly, 20 Some rise, and circling light to perch again; A pleasing murmur hums along the plain.

So, when a stage invites to pageant shows, (If great and small are like) appear the beaux; In boxes some with spruce pretension sit, Some change from seat to seat within the pit, Some roam the scenes, or turning cease to roam; Preluding music fills the lofty dome.

When thus a fly (if what a fly can say Deserves attention) raised the rural lay:

Where late Amintor made a nymph a bride, 30 Joyful I flew by young Favonia's side, Who, mindless of the feasting, went to sip The balmy pleasure of the shepherd's lip; I saw the wanton where I stoop'd to sup, And half resolved to drown me in the cup; Till, brush'd by careless hands, she soar'd above: Cease, beauty, cease to vex a tender love!

Thus ends the youth, the buzzing meadow rung, And thus the rival of his music sung: 40

When suns by thousands shone in orbs of dew, I, wafted soft, with Zephyretta flew; Saw the clean pail, and sought the milky cheer, While little Daphne seized my roving dear.

Wretch that I was! I might have warn'd the dame, Yet sate indulging as the danger came, But the kind huntress left her free to soar: Ah! guard, ye lovers, guard a mistress more!

Thus from the fern, whose high projecting arms, The fleeting nation bent with dusky swarms, 50 The swains their love in easy music breathe, When tongues and tumult stun the field beneath, Black ants in teams come darkening all the road; Some call to march, and some to lift the load; They strain, they labour with incessant pains, Press'd by the c.u.mbrous weight of single grains.

The flies, struck silent, gaze with wonder down: The busy burghers reach their earthy town, Where lay the burdens of a wintry store, And thence, unwearied, part in search of more. 60 Yet one grave sage a moment's s.p.a.ce attends, And the small city's loftiest point ascends, Wipes the salt dew that trickles down his face, And thus harangues them with the gravest grace

Ye foolish nurslings of the summer air!

These gentle tunes and whining songs forbear, Your trees and whispering breeze, your grove and love, Your Cupid's quiver, and his mother's dove; Let bards to business bend their vigorous wing, And sing but seldom, if they love to sing: 70 Else, when the flowerets of the season fail, And this your ferny shade forsakes the vale, Though one would save ye, not one grain of wheat Should pay such songster's idling at my gate.

He ceased: the flies, incorrigibly vain, Heard the mayor's speech, and fell to sing again.