ADDRESSED TO MISS PELHAM,

On the Death of her Father'.

DEIGN, mournful maid, while o'er yon sacred bier Thy streaming eyes with duteous sorrows flow; Deign, mournful maid, to lend a listening ear To strains that swell with sympathetic woe. Attend that Muse, who late in happier hour Heard thy soft voice its tuneful powers employ, Where D'Arcy call'd to Chiswick's social bower Mild mirth and polish'd ease and decent joy. How did bleak Winter smooth his rugged frown! What genial zephyrs fann'd each budding spray! How glow'd the Sun, as if in haste to crown

The sullen brows of March with wreaths of May! Ah! did we think, while on thy warbling strain Our rapt attention hung with mute delight, That fell disease, that agonizing pain,

That Death then sail'd upon the wings of night, To strike that stroke, which not thy breast alone, But every Briton's honest heart must rend, At which a nation's tears must join thy own,

And, whilst you wept a father, weep a friend?

He died March 6, 1754. This poem was presented to her soon after. At the very beginning of that month the lady had been with a select party at a small villa in Chiswick, then rented by the Earl of Holdernesse. The author was at the time advised by several of his friends to publish it; but an Ode, written by Mr. Garrick on the same subject (see Dodsley's Miscellany, vol. iv. page 198), had got the start of him. He therefore retained it in manuscript, being by this time sufficiently apprized, that a poem, whose merit rested chiefly on picturesque imagery, and what is termed pure (or mere) poetry, was not calculated to vie, in point of popularity, with what was written in a plainer and less figurative mode, and conveyed in a more familiar style and stanza.

Yet such the' irrevocable doom of Jove.

Let then that Muse who shared thy happier hour Now lead thee pensive to the cypress grove, Where pansies spring and each funereal flower. There, while thy tender hand, his grave to strew, The modest snowdrop's vernal silver bears, The violet sad of pallid purple hue,

The crocus glistening with the morn's first tears; My bolder arm shall crop the laureate shade; By me the olive and the palm be borne, And from the British oak's majestic head A civic wreath for his illustrious urn. But, see! while in the solemn task we join, Soft gleams of lustre tremble through the grove, And sacred airs of minstrelsy divine

Are harp'd around, and fluttering pinions move. Ah, hark! a voice, to which the vocal rill, The lark's ecstatic harmony is rude; Distant it swells with many a holy trill,

Now breaks wide warbling from yon orient cloud!

Rise, Patriot Shade, on seraph wing upborne! Behold, we waft thee to the realms of rest! Glory is thine, and Heaven's eternal morn;

Ascend and share thy blessings with the bless'd. Whoe'er on earth, with conscious honour, dared Beyond the flight of these inglorious days, Lords of themselves here find their bright reward; And these shall crown thee with congenial rays. Whoe'er through private life's domestic scene Taught social love to spread its cheerful reign, Friends of mankind, here bathe in joys serene, And these shall hail thee mid their gentle train.

The few, who bright with public virtue shone, Who shot the beams of peace from land to land, Fathers of countries, round the sapphire throne

Shall bow, and welcome Pelham to their band. Rise, Patriot Shade, on seraph wing upborne, Behold, we waft thee to the realms of rest! Glory is thine, and Heaven's eternal morn; Ascend and share thy blessings with the bless'd!'

WRITTEN IN

THE GARDEN OF A FRIEND.

WHILE o'er my head this laurel-woven bower
Its arch of glittering verdure wildly flings,
Can fancy slumber? can the tuneful power
That rules my lyre neglect her wonted strings?
No; if the blighting east deform'd the plain,
If this gay bank no balmy sweets exhaled,
Still should the grove reecho to my strain,
And friendship prompt the theme where
beauty fail'd.

For he, whose careless art this foliage dress'd,
Who bade these twisting braids of woodbine

bend,

He first with truth and virtue taught my breast

Where best to choose, and best to fix a friend. How well does Memory note the golden day, What time,reclined in Margaret's studious glade, My mimic reed first tuned the Dorian lay1,

6

Unseen, unheard, beneath a hawthorn shade?' 1 Masæus, the first poem in this collection, written while the author was a scholar in St. John's College in Cambridge.

Twas there we met; the Muses hail'd the hour; The same desires, the same ingenuous arts Inspired us both; we own'd and bless'd the power That join'd at once our studies and our hearts. Oh! since those days, when Science spread the feast,

When emulative youth its relish lent,

Say, has one genuine joy e'er warm'd my breast?
Enough; if joy was his, be mine content.
To thirst for praise his temperate youth forbore;
He fondly wish'd not for a poet's name;
Much did he love the Muse, but quiet more,
And, though he might command, he slighted
Fame.

Hither in manhood's prime he wisely fled

From all that folly, all that pride approves; To this soft scene a tender partner led;

This laurel shade was witness to their loves. Begone (he cried), Ambition's airdrawn plan; Hence with perplexing pomp, unwieldy wealth, Let me not seem, but be the happy man,

Possess'd of love, of competence, and health.' Smiling he spake, nor did the Fates withstand;

In rural arts the peaceful moments flew: Say, lovely lawn! that felt his forming hand, How soon thy surface shone with verdure new; How soon obedient Flora brought her store,

And o'er thy breast a shower of fragrance flung: Vertumnus came; his earliest blooms he bore, And thy rich sides with waving purple hung: Then to the sight he call'd yon stately spire, He pierced the'opposing oak's luxuriant shade; Bade yonder crowding hawthorns low retire, Nor veil the glories of the golden mead.

Hail, silvan wonders, hail! and hail the hand Whose native taste thy native charms display'd, And taught one little acre to command

Each envied happiness of scene and shade. Is there a hill whose distant azure bounds

The ample range of Scarsdale's proud domain, A mountain hoar that yon wild peak surrounds, But lends a willing beauty to thy plain? And, lo! in yonder path I spy my friend; He looks the guardian genius of the grove, Mild as the fabled form that whilom deign'd, At Milton's call, in Harefield's haunts to rove, Bless'd Spirit, come! though pent in mortal mould, I'll yet invoke thee by that purer name; Oh, come, a portion of thy bliss unfold,

2

From Folly's maze my wayward step reclaim. Too long, alas, my inexperienced youth,

Misled by flattering Fortune's specious tale, Has left the rural reign of peace and truth,

The huddling brook, cool cave, and whispering Won to the world, a candidate for praise, [vale. Yet, let me boast, by no ignoble art,

Too oft the public ear has heard my lays,

Too much its vain applause has touch'd my heart; But now, ere Custom binds his powerful chains, Come, from the base enchanter set me free; While yet my soul its first, best taste retains, Recall that soul to reason, peace, and thee.

2 See the description of the Genius of the Wood in Milton's Arcades.

For know, by lot from Jove, I am the power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower;
To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, &c,