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ROBERT EARL OF HOLDERNESSE,

BARON D'ARCY, MENIL AND CONYERS,.

LORD WARDEN OF HIS MAJESTY'S CINQUE PORTS, AND GOVERNOR OF DOVER CASTLE.

Sonnet.

D'ARCY, to thee, whate'er of happier vein, Smit with the love of Song, my youth essay'd, This verse devotes from Aston's secret shade, Where letter'd Ease, thy gift, endears the scene. Here, as the light-wing'd moments glide serene, I weave the bower, around the tufted mead In careless flow the simple pathway lead, And strew with many a rose the shaven green. So, to deceive my solitary days,

With rural toils ingenuous arts I blend, Secure from envy, negligent of praise,

Yet not unknown to fame, if D'Arcy lend His wonted smile to dignify my lays, The Muse's Patron, but the Poet's Friend.

W. MASON.

May 12, 1763.

POEMS

OF

WILLIAM MASON.

MUSEUS'.

A Monody, to the Memory of Mr. Pope.
IN IMITATION OF MILTON'S LYCIDAS.

SORROWING I catch the reed, and call the Muse;
If yet a Muse on Britain's plain abide,

Since rapt Musæus tuned his parting strain:
With him they lived, with him perchance they died.
For who e'er since their virgin charms espied,
Or on the banks of Thames, or met their train
Where Isis sparkles to the sunny ray?
Or have they deign'd to play

Where Camus winds along his broider'd vale,
Feeding each blue bell pale, and daisy pied,
That fling their fragrance round his rushy side?
Yet ah! ye are not dead, Celestial Maids;
Immortal as ye are, ye may not die:

Nor is it meet ye fly these pensive glades,
Ere round his laureate hearse ye heave the sigh.

Mr. Pope died in the year 1744; this poem was then written, and published first in the year 1747.

Stay then a while, oh stay, ye fleeting fair;
Revisit yet, nor hallow'd Hippocrene,

Nor Thespia's grove; till with harmonious teen
Ye sooth his shade, and slowly dittied air.
Such tribute pour'd, again ye may repair
To what loved haunt ye whilom did elect;
Whether Lycæus, or that mountain fair,
Trim Manalus, with piny verdure deck'd.
But now it boots ye not in these to stray,
Or yet Cyllene's hoary shade to choose,
Or where mild Ladon's welling waters play.
Forego each vain excuse,

And haste to Thames's shores; for Thames shall join

Our sad society, and passing mourn,

The tears fast trickling o'er his silver urn.

And, when the Poet's widow'd grot he laves, His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,

His tide no more in eddies blithe shall rove,
But creep soft by with long drawn murmurs slow.
For oft the mighty master roused his waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strain of love:
He must not now in brisk meanders flow
Gamesome, and kiss the sadly silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetic woe.
Say first, Sicilian Muse,

For, with thy sisters thou didst weeping stand
In silent circle at the solemn scene, [wand,
When Death approach'd and waved his ebon
Say how each laurel droop'd its withering green?
How, in yon grot, each silver trickling spring
Wander'd the shelly channels all among;
While as the coral roof did softly ring

Responsive to their sweetly doleful song?
Meanwhile all pale the' expiring Poet laid,
And sunk his awful head,

While vocal shadows pleasing dreams prolong;
For so, his sickening spirits to release,
They pour'd the balm of visionary peace.

First sent from Cam's fair banks, like Palmer
old,

Came Tityrus slow, with head all silver'd o'er,
And in his hand an oaken crook he bore,

And thus in antique guise short talk did hold:
'Grete clerk of Fame' is house, whose excellence
Maie wele befitt thilk place of eminence,
Mickle of wele betide thy houres last,
For mich gode wirkè to me don and past.
For syn the days whereas my lyre ben strongen,
And deftly many a mery laie I songen,
Old Time, which alle things don maliciously
Gnawen with rusty tooth continually,

Gnattrid my lines, that they all cancrid ben,
Till at the last thou smoothen 'hem hast again;
Sithence full semely gliden my rimes rude,
As (if fitteth thilk similitude),

Whannè shallow brook yrenneth hobling on,
Ovir rough stones it makith full rough song;
But, them stones removen, this lite rivere
Stealith forth by, making plesaunt murmere:
So my sely rymes, whoso may them note,
Thou makist everichone to ren right sote;
And in thy verse entunist so fetisely,
That men sayen I make trewe melody,

2 Tityrus, &c.] i. e. Chaucer, a name frequently given him by Spenser. See Shep. Cal. Ec. 2, 6, 12, and elsewhere.

And speaken every dele to myne honoure.
Mich wele, grete clerk, betide thy parting houre!'

He ceased his homely rhyme;

When Colin Clout", Eliza's shepherd swain,
The blithest lad that ever piped on plain,
Came with his reed soft warbling on the way,
And thrice he bow'd his head with motion mild,
And thus his gliding numbers 'gan essay.

"Ah! luckless swain, alas! how art thou lorn, Who once like me couldst frame thy pipe to play! Shepherds devise, and chear the lingering morn: Ne bush, ne breere, but learnt thy roundelay, Ah plight too sore such worth to equal right! Ah worth too high to meet such piteous plight!

But I nought strive, poor Colin, to compare My Hobbin's or my Thenot's rustic skill To thy deft swains', whose dapper ditties rare Surpass aught else of quaintest shepherd's quill. E'en Roman Tityrus, that peerless wight, Mote yield to thee for dainties of delight.

'Eke when in Fable's flowery paths you stray'd, Masking in cunning feints truth's splendent face; Ne Sylph, ne Sylphid, but due tendance paid, To shield Belinda's lock from felon base,

3 Colin Clout,] i. e. Spenser, which name he gives himself throughout his works.

The two first stanzas of this speech, as they relate to Pas. toral, are written in the measure which Spenser uses in the first eclogue of the Shepherd's Calendar: the rest, where he speaks of fable, are in the stanza of the Faery Queene.