There held in holy paffion still
Forget thyfelf to marble, till
With a fad leaden downward caft
Thou fix them on the earth as fast :
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Faft, that oft with Gods doth diet, And hears the muses in a ring
Ay round about Jove's altar fing: And add to these retired Leifure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; But first, and chiefeft, with thee bring, Him that yon foars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hift along, 'Lefs Philomel will deign a fong, In her sweetest, sadaest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently o'er th' accuftom'd oak.
Sweet bird that shann'ft the noise of folly, Moft mufical, moft melancholy!
Thee chauntress oft the woods among I woo to hear thy even-fong; And milling thee, I walk unfeen On the dry fmooth-fhaven green, To behold the wand'ring moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led aftray Through the heav'n's wide pathlefs way, And oft, as if her head the bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cload. Oft on a plat of rifing ground, I hear the far off curfeu found, Over fome wide water'd fhore, Swinging flow with fullen roar; Or if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the belman's droufy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm : Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be feen in fome high lonely tow'r, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unfphere The fpirit of Plato to unfold
What worlds, or what vaft regions hold The immortal mind that hath forfook Her manfion in this fleshy nook : And of thofe Demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whofe power hath a true confent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In fcepter'd pall come fweeping by, Prefenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But, O fad virgin, that thy power Might raise Mufæus from his bower, Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing Such notes as, warbled to the ring, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made hell grant what love did feek ; Or call up him that left half told The ftory of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarfife, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glafs, And of the wond'rous horse of brass On which the Tartar king did ride; And if ought elfe great bards befide In fage and folemn tunes have fung, Of turnies and of trophies hung, Of forefts, and inchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear, Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil fuited Morn appear,
Not trickt and flounc't as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ufher'd with a shower still, When the guft hath blown his fill, Ending on the rufsling leaves
With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the fun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddefs, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax with heavy stroke Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt; There in close covert by fome brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flow'ry work doth fing, And the waters murmuring, With fuch confort as they keep Entice the dewy feather'd Sleep;
And let fome strange myfterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture difplay'd, Softly on my eye-lids laid:
And, as I wake, fweet mufic breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by fome spirit to mortals good, Or th' unfeen genius of the wood. But let my dew-feet never fail To walk the ftudious cloysters pale, And love the high-embowed roof, With antique pillars mafly proof, And ftoried windows richly dight, Cafting a dim religious light : There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voic'd choir below, In fervice high, and anthems clear, As may with fweetnefs through mine ear Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes,
And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown, and moffy cell, Where I may fit and rightly spell Of every ftar that heav'n doth fhew, And every herb that fips the dew; Till old experience do attain To fomething like prophetic ftrain. Thefe pleafures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will chufe to live.
Thefe poems are to be admired, as well for their clofe, fignificant, and expreffive defcriptions, as for the frequent and beautiful ufe the poet has made of the figure called Projopopia; by which he has perfonified almost every object in his view, raised a great number of pleafing images, and introduced qualities and things inanimate as living and rational beings.
We cannot quit this fubject without taking some notice of that excellent poem, left us by Mr. Thomfon, intituled the Seafons; which, notwithstanding fome parts of it are didactic, may with propriety be inferted under this head.
In this work, the author has given us a poetical, philo fophical, and moral defcription of the four seasons, viz. Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter.
Under Spring, he has described the season as it usually affects the various parts of nature, afcending from the lower to the higher, and confidered the influence of the Spring on inanimate matter, on vegetables, on brute animals, and on man ; after which he concludes with a diffuafive from the wild and irregular paffion of love, and recommends that of a pure and happy kind. The whole is embellished with fuitable digreffions, and moral reflections; and wrought up with wonderful art. His Addrefs to heaven in favour of the farmer, and what follows in praise of agriculture, is extremely beautiful.
Be gracious, HEAVEN! for now laborious man Has done his part. Ye foftering breezes, blow Ye foft'ning dews, ye tender fhowers, defcend ! And temper all, thou world-reviving fun, Into the perfect year! nor ye who live In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,
Think thefe, loft themes unworthy of your ear: Such themes as these the rural MARO fung To wide-imperial ROME, in the full height Of elegance and taste, by Greece refin'd. In antient times, the facred plough employ'd The kings, and awful fathers of mankind : And fome, with whom compar'd your infect-tribes Are but the beings of a fummer's day,
Have held the scale of empire, rul'd the ftorm Of mighty war; then, with victorious hand, Difdaining little delicacies, feiz'd
The plough, and greatly independent liv'd.
His defcription of a gentle refreshing rain, and of the rainbow is, I think, inimitable.
The north-east spends his rage; he now, fhut up Within his iron cave, th'affusive south
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers diftent. At first a dufky wreath they feem to rife, Scarce ftaining ether; but by fwift degrees, In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour fails Along the loaded fky, and mingling deep Sits on th' horizon round a fettled gloom. Not fuch as wintry-ftorms on mortals shed, Oppreffing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope and every joy, The wish of nature. Gradual finks the breeze Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath Is heard to quiver thro' the closing woods, Or ruffling turn the many-twink'ling leaves Of afpin tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd In glaffy breadth, seem thro' delufive lapse Forgetful of their courfe. "Tis filence all, And pleafing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry fprig, and mute imploring eye The falling verdure. Hufh'd in short fufpenfe The plumy people ftreak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off; And wait th' approaching fign to strike, at once, Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales, And forefts feem, impatient, to demand
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