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With timely care I'll fow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range the sheaves along the funny land.
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.
What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my
breast ? Or lull’d to Namber by the beating rain, Secure and happy link at last to rest.
Or if the fan in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my DELIA walking fide by fide,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.
What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go !
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!
Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I reft anknown;
Content with what I am, not what I feem,
I live for DELIA, and myself alone.
Ah foolish man! who thus of her poffefs'd,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Noc heed the fickness of his conscious mind.
With ber I scorn the idle breath of praile,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own,
The fmile of fortune might fufpicion raise,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.
STANHOPE, in wisdom as in wit divine,
May sise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws..
Let STANHOPE spee': his lift'ning country's wrong>
My humble voice thall please one partial maid ; For her alone, I pen my tender f.ig, Securely fitting in his friendly fhade.
XIII. STAXkope hall come, and grace his coral friend,
Delia Mall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit coinmend,
And for her husband's patron cell the beft.
Hei's be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am bleft,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone diftinguish'd from the rett.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely stock,
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock..
Ah! what avails to press the fately bed,
And far from her 'midtt tasteless grandeur weep) By warbling fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, drive in vain to sleep!
Delia alone can please and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight,
With her, enjoyment wakens new degre,
And equal rapture glows thro' every night.
Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind ;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense, and reason join'd.
On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er,
And dying, press her with my clay.cold hand.
Thou weep'it already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with Iharper torments kill ;
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Tho’I'am dead, my soul shall love thec fill.
Ob quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed;
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart !
Oh leave me, Delia! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.
But every species of poetry, however serious, may admit of humour and burlesque. Examples of which we have given in the Epigram, and Epitaph, and we shall conclude this chapter with a burlesque elegy, written by Dr. Swift.
An ELEGY on the supposed deatb of M. PARTRIDGE, the
Well ; 'tis as Bickerflaf has guess'd,
Tho' we all took it for a jeft ;
Partridge is dead ; nay more, he dy'd
E're he cou'd prove the good 'Squire ly'd.
Strange, an astrologer shou'd die
Without one wonder in the sky!
Not one of all his crony stars
To pay their duty at his herse!
No meteor, no eclipse appeard !
No comet with a flaming beard !
The fun has rofe, and gone to bed,
Just as if Partridge were not dead :
Nor hid himself behind the moon
To make a dreadful night at noon.
He at fit periods walks thro' Aries,
Howe'er our earthly motion varies :
And twice a year he'll cut th’Equator,
As if there had been no such matter.
Some Wits have wonder'd, what analogy,
There is 'twixt * cobling and affrology :
How Partridge made his optics rise,
From a fooe-fole, to reach the skies.
A list the coblers temples ties
To keep the hair qut of their eyes ;
From whence 'tis plain the diadem,
That princes wear, derives from them.
And therefore crowns are now-a-days
Adorn'd with golden fars and rays, -
Which plainly shews the near alliance
'Twixt cobling and the planets science.
Besides, that flow-pac'd fign Bootes,
(As 'tis miscall'd) we know not who 'tis :-
But Partridge ended all disputes ;
He knew his trade, and call'd it + Boots.
The borned moon, which heretofore,
Upon their shocs the Romans wore,
Whose widepels kept their toes from cores,
And whence we claim our fooing-horns,
* Partridge was a Cobler,
Shews how the art of cobling bears
resemblance to the Spheres. A scrap of parchment hung by geometry (A great refinement in barometry) Can, like the stars, foretell the weather ; And what is parchment else but leather, Which an astrologer might use, Either for Almanacks or shoes?
Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, At once did practice both these arts : And as the boading Owl (or rather The Bat, because her wings are leather) Steals from her private cell by night, And Aies about at candle-light ; So learned Partridge could as well Creep in the dark from leathern cell, And, in his fancy, fly as far To
peep upon a twinkling star.
Besides, he could confound the Spheres,
And set the Planets by the ears ;
To Thew his skill, he Mars could join
To Venus in aspect malign;
Then call in Mercury for aid,
And cure the wounds, that Venus made.
Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip king of Greece was dead,
His soul and spirit did divide,
And each part took a diff'rent side ;
One rose a star, the other fell
Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.
Thus Partridge ftill shines in each art,
The cobling and far-gazing part ;
And is installd as good a star
As any of the Cæsars are.
Triumphant ftar ! some pity Thew
On Coblers militant below,
Whom roguith boys in stormy nights
Torment, by pissing out their lights ;
Or chro' a chink convey their smoak
Inclos'd Artificers to choak !
Thou, high exalted in thy sphere,
May't follow fill thy calling there,