Through the grey grove, between those with'ring What then avails Ambition's wide-stretch'd wing, trees, 'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears A marble-imag'd matron on her knees, Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears: Low levell'd in the dust her darling 's laid! Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom; Nor could maternal piety dissuade, Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb. The relics of a mitred saint may rest, Where, mould'ring in the niche, his statue stands; Now nameless as the crowd that kiss'd his vest, And crav'd the benediction of his hands. Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom, Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain, Though to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb, And frown'd defiance on the desp'rate foe; Though deem'd invincible, the conqueror, Time, Levell'd the fabric, as the founder, low. Where the light lyre gave many a soft'ning sound, The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat, Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room, Where the sage matron and her maidens sat, Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom. The schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty's bloom? The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-rob'd king, Levell❜d, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb. The Macedonian monarch, wise and good, "Though glory spread thy name from pole to pole: So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd, While thus the herald cry'd-" This son of Pow'r, Boast of no other spoil but yonder shroud!" Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'd, Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran; And say, while Memory weeps the blood-stain'd field, [man? Where lies the chief, and where the common Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones, He that Love hath never try'd, What are honours, regal wealth, Gentle shepherds, persevere, SAPPHO'S HYMN TO VENUS IMITATED. HALL! (with eternal beauty blest! Break the fond bonds, remove the rankling smart, Once you descended, queen of love, Thy ever glorious sire! I saw thy dusky pinion'd sparrows bear Thy chariot, rolling light, through the rejoicing air. No transient visit you design'd, Your wanton birds depart; And with a look, divinely kind, That sooth'd my flutt'ring heart: “Sappho,” say you, “what sorrow breaks thy rest? How can I give relief to thy conflicting breast? "Is there a youth severely coy, My fav'rite would subdue? Or has she lost some wand'ring boy, To plighted vows untrue? Spread thy soft nets, the rambler shall return, And with new lighted flames, more fond, more fiercely burn. "Thy proffer'd gifts though he deride, And scorn thy glowing charms, Soon shall his every art be try'd To win thee to his arms: Though he be now as cold as virgin snow, The victim, in his turn, shall like rous'd Etna glow." ODE LVIII. As I wove, with wanton care, What the fields had fresh and fine : Glowing with malicious joy, "Urchin," in my rage I cry'd, "What avails thy saucy pride? From thy busy vengeance free, Triumph now belongs to me! Thus I drown thee in my cup; Thus-in wine I drink thee up." Fatal was the nectar'd draught That to murder Love I quaff'd, O'er my bosom's fond domains Now the cruel tyrant reigns: On my heart's most tender strings, Striking with his wanton wings, I'm for ever doom'd to prove All the insolence of love. ODE IX. THE DOVB. "TELL me," said I, "my beauteous Dove "Me, for an hymn, or amorous ode, Through the soft air he bade me glide, When I've my master's leave to stand "Or if he strike the trembling wire, "Go, stranger-to your business-go, I've told you all you wish'd to know: Go, stranger, and I think you'll say, This prattling Dove 's an arrant Jay.” Now I'm in my armour clasp'd, Now the mighty lance is grasp'd, But an Achileian spear Would be ineffectual here, While the poison'd arrows fly Hot, as lightning from the sky. Wounded, through the woods I run, Follow'd still by Beauty's son, Arrows in malignant showers Still the angry urchin pours; Till, exhausting all his store, (When the quiver yields no more) See the god-a living dart, Shoots himself into my heart. Freedom I must, now, resign, Victory, oh Love, is thine! What can outward actions win When the battle burns within! 1 THE DANCE. HARK! the speaking strings invite, On each glowing cheek is spread As the magic numbers rise, Through my veins the poison flies; Raptures, not to be exprest, Revel in my throbbing breast. Jocund as we beat the ground, Love and Harmony go round. Every maid (to crown his bliss) Gives her youth a rosy kiss; Such a kiss as might inspire Thrilling raptures-soft desire Such Adonis might receive, Such the queen of beauty gave, When the conquer'd goddess strove (In the conscious myrtle grove) To inflame the boy with love. Let not pride our sports restrain, Banish hence the prude, Disdain ! Think-ye virgins, if you 're coy, Think-ye rob yourselves of joy; Every moment you refuse, So much ecstasy you lose: Think-how fast these moments fly: If you should too long deny, Love and Beauty both will die. ODE XIV. WHY did I with Love engage! Why provoke his mighty rage! True it is, the wand'ring child Met me with an aspect mild, And besought me, like a friend, At his gentle shrine to bend. True, from my mistaken pride, Due devotion was deny'd, Till (because I would not yield) Cupid dar'd me to the field. FILL me that capacious cup, Let a wreath my temples shield, Fresh from the enamell'd field; These declining roses bow, Blasted by my sultry brow. Flow'rets, by their friendly aid, ODE XXXIII. TO THE SWALLOW. Soon as summer glads the sky, When the seasons cease to smile, Like the Swallow, Love, depart! No, he 'll never leave his nest, Till their noisy chirpings cease, THE PICTURE: A TALE. A PORTRAIT, at my lord's command, "Worse than the first"-the critics bawl; If 'll to morrow deign to call, THE WITCH: A TALE. A WITCH, that from her ebon chair Pluck'd the round Moon, whose radiant light "Give me," the goddess cry'd, "a cause, Search for I'll have creation torn, If there are slaves to pity blind, And the curs'd miscreants meet their doom. When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies, But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers: But know, from your conduct my maxims I drew, MORAL. This law, long ago, did Love's providence make, That ev'ry coquet should be curs'd with a rake. THE SHEEP AND THE BRAMBLE-BUSH: How high the tides of fancy swell, THE FOX and the Cat, as they travell❜d one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way: ""Tis great," says the Fox, " to make justice our guide!" "How godlike is mercy!" Grimalkin reply'd. Whilst thus they proceeded,—a wolf from the Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, [wood, Rush'd forth-as he saw the dull shepherd asleep, And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. "In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat, When mutton's at hand," says the wolf, "I must eat." Expression must despair to tell. A painter call'd,Nicander cries, Descending from the radiant skies, "Draw me a bright, a beauteous boy, The herald of connubial joy! Draw him with all peculiar care, Make him beyond Adonis fair; Give to his cheeks a roseate hue, Let him have eyes of heav'nly blue, Lips soft'ning in nectarious dew; A lustre o'er his charms display, More glorious than the beams of day. Expect, sir, if you can succeed, A premium for a prince indeed." His talents straight the painter try'd, And ere the nuptial knot was ty'd, A picture in the noblest taste Before the fond Nicander plac'd. The lover thus arraign'd his skill, "Your execution 's monstrous ill! A different form my fancy made; You 're quite a bungler at the trade. Where is the robe's luxuriant flow? Where is the cheek's celestial glow? Where are the looks so fond and free? 'Tis not an Hymen, sir, for me." The painter bow'd-with this reply, "My colours an't, your honour, dry; When time has mellow'd ev'ry tint, 'Twill please you-or the deuce is in 't: I'll watch the happy change, and then Attend you with my piece again." In a few months the painter came With a performance-(still the same :) |