Imágenes de página

The woes of Troy once more she begg'd to hear, Once more the mournful tale employ'd his tongue, While in fond rapture on his lips she hung.


In shrill-ton'd murmurs sang the twanging bow.


Whate'er when Phoebus bless'd the Arcadian plain,
Eurotas heard, and taught his boys the strain.
The senior sung Virg.

Say, heavenly muse,their youthful frays rehearse,
Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse;
Exulting rocks have own'd the power of song,
And rivers listen'd as they flow'd along.


The wave that bore him, backward shrank appal'd.


But Turnus, chief amidst the warrior train,
In armour towers the tallest on the plain.
The Ganges thus, by seven rich streams supplied,
A mighty mass, devolves in silent pride.
Thus Nilus pours from his prolific urn,
When from the fields o'erflow'd, his vagrant streams
return. Virg.

So Philomela from the umbrageous wood In strains melodious mourns her tender brood. Snatch'd from the nest by some rude Phrygian's hand, On some lone bough the warbler takes her stand; The livelong nights she mourns the cruel wrong, And hill and dale resound the plaintive song.

For as a watchman, from some rock on high, O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye, Through such a space of airwith thundering sound, At every leap the immortal coursers bound.


So joys the lion, if a branching deer,
Or mountain goat, his bulky prize appear.
In vain the youths oppose, the mastiffs bay,
The lordly savage rends the panting prey.
Thus fond of vengeance, with a furious bound,
In clanging arms he leaps upon the ground.1


East, west, and south engage with furious sweep, And from its lowest bed upturn the foaming deep.


The sail then Boreas rends with hideous cry,
And whirls the maddening billows to the sky.

VIRG. 1 These lines altered from Pope.


The window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That feebly show'd the state in which he lay.
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The game of goose was there exposed to view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons fram'd with listing, found a place,
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp black face.
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
A rusty grate, unconscious of a fire:
An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board

Not with that face, so servile, and so gay,
That welcomes every stranger that can pay;
With sulky eye he smok'd the patient man,
Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began:

'Of all the fish that graze beneath the flood,
He only ruminates his former food.'2

1 See Goldsmith's Life, p. 64. ed. 1821.

2 See Goldsm. An. Nat. vol iii. p. 6.

[ocr errors]

Addison, in some beautiful Latin lines inserted in the Spectator, is entirely of opinion that birds observe a strict chastity of manners, and never admit the caresses of a different tribe. —(«. vol. vi. No. 412.)

Chaste are their instincts, faithful is their fire,
No foreign beauty tempts to false desire;
The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown,
The simple plumage, or the glossy down
Prompt not their loves—the patriot bird pursues
His well acquainted tints, and kindred hues.
Hence through their tribes no mix'd polluted flame,
No monster breed to mark the groves with shame;
But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true,
Thinks black alone is beauty's favourite hue.
The nightingale, with mutual passion blest,
Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the rest.
While the dark owl to court its partner flies.
And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes,

3 See Goldsni. Anim. Nat. vol. v. p. 212.

[ocr errors]

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning, Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,

Gives genius a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians; Their quis, and their quses, and their quods,

They're all but a parcel of pigeons.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

When methodist preachers come down,

A preaching that drinking is sinful, I'll wager the rascals a crown,

They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence,

For a slice of their scurvy religion, I'll leave it to all men of sense,

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

Then come, put the jorum about,

And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout,

Here's the three jolly pigeons for ever.

1 See ' She stoops to Conquer,' p. 147.

« AnteriorContinuar »