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The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
J9That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good heaven! whatso.-rowsgloom'dthatparting
day, That call'd them from th iir native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 20 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 21The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
"That only] 'Thy shady groves
Only relieve the heats, and cover loves,
Sheltering no other thefts, or cruelties.'
v. Nicholls' Poems, ii. 80. 'Often in amorous thefts of lawless love!'
v. Nicholls' Poems, ii. 278. x Compare Quinctiliani Declam. xiii. p. 272. 'Quod cives pascebat, nunc divitis unius hortus est. /Kquaup solo villas, et excisa patria sacra, et cum conjugiljus, parvisque liberis, respectantes patrium larcm migraverunt veteres coloni,' &c. Jl good old sire] 'The good old sire!'
v. Dryden's Ovid, vol. iii. p. 302. And ' The good old sire unconscious of decay! The modest matron clad in homespun gray.'
v. Threnod. August, E
His lovely daughter,\Jovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms. Wi*- !With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.
. O. luxury! thou curst by heaven's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!How do thy potions with insidious joy Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own. At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness are there;
And piety with wishes plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well;
Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain:
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON,
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXV.