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Remoteness of situation, and some other circumstances, have hitherto deprived the author of that happiness he might receive from seeing Mr. Garrick.

'Tis the universal regard his character commands, occasions this address.

It may be thought by many, (at a visit so abrupt as this is) that something highly complimentary should be said on the part of the intruder; but according to the ideas the author has conceived of Mr. Garrick's delicacy and good sense, a single period in the garb of flattery would certainly offend him.

He therefore takes his leave;—and after having stept (perhaps a little too forward) to offer his tribute of esteem, respectfully retires.

NEWCASTLE,
Aug. 1771.

POEMS

OF

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

DAY:

A PASTORAL.

Carpe diem. Hor.

MORNING.

In the barn the tenant cock,
Close to Partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire:

And the peeping sun-beam, now,
Paints with gold the village spire.

Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night; And the lark, to meet the morn,

Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

From the low-roof d cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;

Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale:

Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daisies, in the dewy dale.

From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,
(Restless till her task be done)

Now the busy bee's employ'd
Sipping dew before the Sun.

Trickling through the crevie'd rock,
Where the limpid stream distills,

Sweet refreshment waits the flock
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

Colin, for the promis'd corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)

Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drown his pipe.

Sweet,—O sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossom'd spray!

Nature's universal song
Echoes to the rising day.

MOON.

Fervid on the glitt'ring flood, Now the noon-tide radiance glows:

Dropping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose.

By the brook the shepherd dines;

From the fierce meridian heat Shelter'd, by the branching pines,

Pendent o'er his grassy seat. Now the flock forsakes the glade,

Where, uncheck'd, the sun-beams fall;Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey wall.

Echo in her airy round, O'er the river, rock, and hill,

Cannot catch a single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill.

Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool;

Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.

But from mountain, dell, or stream,
Not a flutt'riug zephyr springs:

Fearful lest the noon-tide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

Not a leaf has leave to stir,

Nature's lull'd—serene—and still!

Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the hearth-clad hill.

432

Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower,

Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flower.

Now the hill—the hedge—is green, Now the warblers' throats in tune!

Blithsome is the verdant scene, Brighten'd by the beams of noon!

CUNNINGHAM'S POEMS.EVENING.

O'er the heath the heifer strays
Free;—(the furrow'd task is done)

Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting Sun.

Now he hides behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky:

Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye?

Trudging as the ploughmen go,
(To the smoking hamlet bound)

Giant-like their shadows grow,
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.

Where the rising forest spreads,
Shelter for the lordly dome!

To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home!

As the lark, with vary'd tune,
Carols to the evening loud;

Mark the mild resplendent Moon,
Breaking through a parted cloud!

Now the hermit Howlet peeps
From the barn, or twisted brake:

And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.

As the trout in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs;To the banks, a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings. Tripping through the silken grass,
O'er the path divided dale, Mark the rose-complexion'd lass,
With her well-pois'd milking pail.

Linnets, with unnumber'd notes,
And the cuckoo bird with two,

Tuning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting Sun adieu.

THE CONTEMPLATIST:

A HIGBT FIECE.

Noxerat

Cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictseque rolucres.

The queen of Contemplation, Night,

Begins her balmy reign; Advancing in their varied light

Her silver-vested train.

'Tis strange, the many marshall'd stars.

That ride yon sacred round,
Should keep, among their rapid cars, A silence so profound!

A kind, a philosophic calm,

The cool creation wears!
And what (/ay drank of dewy balm,

The gent le night repairs.

Behind their leafy curtains hid, The feather'd race how still!How quiet now the gamesome kid, That gainbol'd round the hill!

The sweets, that, bending o'er their banks,

From sultry day declin'd,
Revive in little velvet ranks, And scent the western wind.

The Moon, preceded by the breeze That bade the clouds retire,
Appears amongst the tufted trees, A phoenix nest on fire.

But soft—the golden glow subsides!

Her chariot mounts on high!
And now, in silver'd pomp, she rides

Pale regent of the sky!

Where Time, upon the wither'd tree Hath carv'd the moral chair,
I sit, from busy passions free, And breathe the placid air.

The wither'd tree was once in prime;

Its branches brav'd the sky I
Thus, at the touch of ruthless Time,

Shall youth and vigour die.

I 'in lifted to the blue expanse!

It glows serenely gay!
Come, Science, by my side, advance,

We 'II search the milky way.

Let us descend—the daring flight Fatigues my feeble mind;
And Science, in the maze of I ight,

Is impotent and blind.

What are those wild, those wand'ring fires,

That o'er the moorland ran? Vapours. How like the vague desires

That cheat the heart of man!

But there 's a friendly guide! a flame,

That, lambent o'er its bed, Enlivens, with a gladsome beam, The hermit's osier shed.

Among the russet shades of night,

It glances from afar!
And darts along the dusk; so bright,

It seems a silver star!

In coverts, (where the few frequent)

If Virtue deigns to dwell,
'Tis thus, the little lamp, Content,

Gives lustre to her cell.

THE THRUSH AND PIE.

433

How amooth that rapid river slides

Progressive to the deep!
The poppies, pendent o'er its sides, Have charm'd the waves to sleep.

Pleasure's intoxicated sons!

Ye indolent! ye gay!
Reflect for as the river runs,

Life wings its trackless way.

That hranching grove of dusky green Conceals the azure sky;
Save where a starry space between Relieves the darken'd eye.

Old Errour, thus, with shades impure,
Throws sacred Truth behind:Yet sometimes, through the deep obscure,
She bursts upon the mind. Sleep and her sister Silence reign,
They lock the shepherd's fold;But hark—I hear a lamh complain,
Tu lost upon the wold!

To savage herds, that hunt for prey,

An unresisting prize I
For having trod a devious way,

The little rambler dies.

As luckless is the virgin's lot,
Whom pleasure once misguides;

When hurried from the halcyon cot,
Where Innocence presides

The passions, a relentless train!

To tear the victim run:
She seeks the paths of peace in vain,

Is conquer'd and undone.

How bright the little insects hlaze,
Where willows shade the way:

As proud as if their painted rays
Could emulate the day!

Tis thus, the pigmy sons of Pow'r

Advance their vain parade! Thus, glitter in the darken'd hour,

And like the glow-worms fade!

The soft serenity of night,

Ungentle clouds deform!
The silver host that shone so bright,

Is hid hehind a storm!

The angry elements engage!

An oak (an ivied bower!)
Repels the rough wind's noisy rage.

And shields me from the shower.

The rancour, thus, of rushing fate,

I've learnt to render vain: For whilst Integrity's her seat,

The soul will sit serene.

A raven, from some greedy vault,
Amidst that cloister'd gloom, Bids me, and 'tis a solemn thought!Reflect upon the tomh.
VOL. XIV.

The tomh! the consecrated dome!

The temple rais'd to Peace!
The port, that to its friendly home

Compels the human race!

Yon village, to the moral mind,

A solemn aspect wears; Where sleep hath lull'd the lahour'd hind.

And kill'd his daily cares:

Tis hut the church-yard of the night;

An emhlematic hed I
That offers to the mental sight,

The temporary dead.

From hence, I 'll penetrate, in thought,

The grave's nnmeasur'd deep;
And tutor'd, hence, be timely taught,

To meet my final sleep.

'Tis peace (the little chaos past!)

The gracious Moon restor'd
A breeze succeeds the frightful hlast,

That through the forest roar'd!

The nightingale, a welcome guest!

Renews her gentle strains; And Hope, (just wand'ring from my breast)

Her wonted seat regains.

Yes when yon lucid orb is dark,

And darting from on high; My soul, a more celestial spark,

Shall keep her native sky.

Fann'd by the light—the lenient breeze,

My limbs refreshment find; And moral rhapsodies, like these,

Give vigour to the mind.

THE

THRUSH AND PIE:

A TALE.

Conceat'n within an hawthorn bush,
We 're told, that an experiene'd Thrush
Instructed, in the prime of spring,
Many a neighhouring hird to sing.
She caroll'd, and her various song
Gave lessons to the list'ning throng:
But (the entangling houghs hetween)
'Twas her delight to teach unseen.

At length, the little wond'ring race
Would see their fav'rite face to face;
They thought it hard to be deny'd,
And begg'd that she'd no longer hide.
O'er-modest, worth's peculiar fault,
Another shade the tut'ress sought;
And loth to be too much admir'd,
In secret from the bush retir'd. An impudent, presuming Pie,
Malicious, ignorant, and sly,
Stole to the matron's vacant seat,
And in her arrogance elate,
Rush'd forward—with—" My friends, you see
The mistress of the choir in me:
F f

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