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Idle notes! untimely green'
Why such unavailing haste §
Gentle gales and sky serene
Prove not always winter past.
Cease my doubts, my fears to move—
Spare the honour of my love.
WITH Beauty, with Pleasure surrounded, to languish—
To weep without knowing the cause of my anguish;
To start from short slumbers, and wish for the morning—
To close my dull eyes when I see it returning;
Sighs sudden and frequent, looks ever dejected—
Words that steal from my tongue, by no meaning connected
Ah, say, fellow swains, how these symptoms befel me?
They smile, but reply not—Sure Delia can tell me! to \ s
[Mr. Etough,t of Cambridge University, was a person as remarkable for the eccentricities of his character, as for his personal appearance. A Mr. Tyson, of Bene’t College, made an etching of his head, and presented it to Mr. Gray, who wrote under it the following lines.]
Thus Tophet looked; so grinned the brawling fiend,
Whilst frighted prelates bow’d, and call'd him friend.
Our mother-church, with half-averted sight,
Blush'd as she bless'd her grisly proselyte;’
Hosannas rung through Hell's tremendous borders,
And Satan's self had thoughts of taking orders.
Suggested by a View, in 1766, of the Seat and Ruins of a deceased
Nobleman, at Kingsgate, Kent.
OLD, and abandon'd by each venal friend,
TH d form'd the pious resolution
To smuggle a few years, and strive to mend
A broken character and constitution.
On this congenial spot he fix’d his choice;
Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighb'ring sand;
Here sea-gulls scream, and cormorants rejoice, -
And mariners, though shipwreck'd, dread to land.
Here reign the blustring North and blighting East,
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing;
Yet Nature could not furnish out the feast,
Art he invokes new horrors still to bring.
Here mould'ring fanes and battlements arise,
Turrets and arches nodding to their fall;
Unpeopled monast’ries delude our eyes,
And mimic desolation covers all.
“Ah!” said the sighing peer, “ had B–te been true, Nor M-'s, R–’s, B–’s, friendship vain,
Far better scenes than these had blest our view, f And realized the beauties which we feign.
“Purged by the sword, and purified by fire,
Then had we seen proud London's hated walls;
Owls would have hooted in St Peter's choir,
And foxes stunk and litter'd in St Paul’s.”
o R, THE CAMBRIDGE courTSHIP."
WHEN sly Jemmy Twitcher had smugg’d up his face,
With a lick of court white-wash, and pious grimace,
A wooing he went, where three sisters of old
In harmless society guttle and scold.
Lord! sister, says Physic to Law, I declare,
Such a sheep-biting look, such a pick-pocket air!
Not I for the Indies —You know I’m no prude,-
But his name is a shame, and his eyes are so lewd
Then he shambles and straddles so oddly—I fear—
No—at our time of life 'twould be silly, my dear.
Then his character, Phyzzy, his morals—his life—
When she died, I can’t tell, but he once had a wife.
They say he's no Christian, loves drinking and w
And all the town rings of his swearing and roaring !
His lying and filching, and Newgate-bird tricks;–
Not I—for a coronet, chariot and six.
Divinity heard, between waking and dozing,
Her sisters denying, and Jemmy proposing:
From table she rose, and with bumper in hand,
She stroked up her belly, and stroked down her band—
What a pother is here about wenching and roaring !
Why, David loved catches, and Solomon w—g:
Did not Israel filch from th’ Egyptians of old
Their jewels of silver and jewels of gold 2
The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie;
He drinks—so did Noah;—he swears—so do I:
To reject him for such peccadillos, were odd;
Besides, he repents— for he talks about G**—
Never hang down your head, you poor penitent elf;
TH Rough subterraneous passages they went,
Earth's inmost cells and caves of deep descent;
Onward they pass, where ripening minerals flow,
And embryo metals undigested glow;
Where gems break through the night with glittering beam,
Or paint the margin of the costly stream :
All stones of lustre shoot their vivid ray,
Or mix attempered in a various day :
There the soft emerald smiles, of verdant hue;
There rubies flame with sapphire's heavenly blue;
The diamond there attracts the wond’rous sight,
Proud of its thousand dies and luxury of light!"
P O E M S, ADDRESSED TO, AND IN MEMORY OF,
TO MR. GRAY UPON HIS ODEs. . . . .
RePINE not, Gray, that our weak dazzled eyes
Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
How few can trace the eagle to the skies,
Or, like him, gaze upon the sun'
Each gentle reader loves the gentle Muse,
That little dares and little means;
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,
Or flutters in the Magazines.
No longer now from Learning's sacred store
Our minds their health and vigour draw;
Homer and Pindar are revered no more,
No more the Stagyrite is law.
Though nursed by these, in vain thy Muse appears
To breathe her ardours in our souls;
In vain to sightless eyes and deaden'd ears
The lightning gleams, the thunder rolls:
Yet droop not, Gray, nor quit thy heaven-born art;
Again thy wond’rous powers reveal;
Wake slumb'ring Virtue in the Briton's heart,
And rouse us to reflect and feel !
With ancient-deeds our long-chill'd bosoms fire,
Those deeds that mark Eliza's reign!
Make Britons Greeks again, then strike the lyre,
And Pindar shall not sing in vain.
ON THE DEATH OF MIt. GRAY.
Me quoque Musarum studium sub nocte silenti
Artibus assuetis solicitare solet.—CLAUDIAN.
EN ough of fabling, and th’ unhallowed haunts
Of Dian’ and of Delia, names profane, -
Since not Diana nor all Delia's train
Are subjects that befit a serious song;
May but compare with thee, lamented Gray!
Whose pensive solemn lay
Drew all the list'ning shepherds in a ring,
Well pleased to hear thee sing
Thy moving notes, on sunny hill or plain,
And catch new grace from thy immortal strain.
O wood-hung Menai, and ye sacred groves
Of Delphi, we still venerate your names,
Whose awful shades inspired the Druids’ dreams.
Your recess, though imagined, Fancy loves,
And through these long-lost scenes delighted roves:
So future bards perhaps shall sing of Thames,
And as they sing shall say,
'Twas there of old where mused illustrious Gray!
By Isis’ barsks his tuneful lays would suit
To Pindar's lofty lyre, or Sappho’s Lesbian lute.
Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on,
Till sable Night resumed her ebon throne,
And taught us, in his melancholic mood,
To scorn the great, and love the wise and good;
Told us, 'twas virtue never dies,
And to what ills frail mankind open lies;
How safe through life's tempestuous sea to steer,
Where dang'rous rocks and shelves and whirlpools oft
And when fair Morn arose again to view,
A fairer landscape still he drew,
That blooms like Eden in his charming lays,
The hills and dales, and Heaven's cerulean blue,
Brighten’d o'er all by Sol's resplendent's rays.