Then bring to me my polish'd bow,
And bring the pipe of tuneful breath,
And let me crop the flowers that blow,
And let me twine a fragrant wreath,
So shall I all the joys renew,
Which here in youthful days I knew.
But from the softly-whispering reeds,
And from the stream that glides below,
With plaintive voice a sound proceeds,
Whose tender accents feebly flow,
"Forbear, fond man, it seems to say,
Forbear and chase these dreams away.
The hill, the lawn, the well-known bowers,
The mead and silver stream remain,
The breath of Spring calls forth the flowers,
To crown once more the dewy plain:
But, ah! thy youth on hasty wing
Is flown, nor knows returning Spring.
Thy art may teach the pipe to blow,
Thy hand may grasp the bow once more, But can the pipe or polish'd bow Thy careless youth to thee restore? Or can the flowery garland chace The wrinkles printed on thy face?
Will Lycon now his bed forsake
If thou at dawn shalt wind the horn ? Will Myra at thy call awake
If thy soft flute resound at morn? Ah! no: dark tombs their ashes keep, Within the peaceful grove they sleep.
Then rather go to yon dark towers
Along whose walls pale ivy creeps,
Go thou and deck the spot with flowers,
Where Lycon near thy Myra sleeps,
An aged yew-tree marks the place,
Each tomb pale stones of marble grace.
There sit, and while thy pensive mind
Calls back those golden days again
When Myra to thy love was kind,
When Lycon trod with thee the plain,
Think that thou also soon shalt have
Thy dwelling with them in the grave."
BY THE LATE DR. HORNE, BISHOP OF NORWICH.
We all do fade as a Leaf.
SEE the leaves around us falling,
Dry and wither'd to the ground;
Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,
In a sad and solemn sound;
Sons of Adam, once in Eden
Blighted when like us he fell,
Hear the lecture we are reading,
'Tis, alas! the truth we tell.
Virgins, much, too much, presuming
On your boasted white and red,
View us, late in beauty blooming,
Number'd now among the dead.
Griping misers, nightly waking,
See the end of all your care;
Fled on wings of our own making,
We have left our owners bare.
Sons of honour, fed on praises,
Flutt'ring high in fancied worth,
Lo! the fickle air, that raises,
Brings us down to parent earth.
Learned sophs, in systems jaded,
Who for new ones daily call,
Cease, at length, by us persuaded,
Ev'ry leaf must have its fall!
Youths, tho' yet no losses grieve you,
Gay in health and manly grace,
Let not cloudless skies deceive you,
Summer gives to Autumn place.
Venerable sires, grown hoary,
Hither turn th' unwilling eye,
Think, amid your falling glory,
Autumn tells a winter nigh.
Yearly in our course returning
Messengers of shortest stay,
Thus we preach this truth concerning,
'Heav'n and earth shall pass away.
On the Tree of Life eternal,
Man, let all thy hope be staid,
Which alone, forever vernal,
Bears a Leaf that shall not fade.
SPRING, how delighted * in life's early dawn
I trod each bending vale and breezy lawn,
And mark'd each op'ning flower of freshest hue,
That drinks the genial rain or morning dew!
How pleas'd beneath the noontide's silent sky
I heard the feeble lamb's repeated cry,
While the fond mother anxious ceas'd to feed,
And watch'd my careless footsteps o'er the mead!
How pleas'd the calm and sun-warm lane I trac'd †,
Its sides once more with cheering verdure grac'd,
Where 'mid the varied moss, untaught and wild,
The violet sweet and golden lily smil'd,
The snow-drop meek, in virgin white array'd,
And primrose, tenant of the pathless shade!
How pleas'd I wander'd o'er the landscape still,
When dark'ning shadows wrapt the western hill,
While on the eastern slope's contrasted side
By slow degrees the beam of ev'ning died;
What time 'mid swimming mists the dusky spire
And groves and pleasing dells from view retire;
The reader of Italian may here recollect, and somewhat to my cost, the exquisite " O Primavera" of Guarini.
The grassy lane, so rarely pac'd,
With azure flowerets idly grac'd.
I have received much amusement from the poems of this elegant writer. He has far greater merit than many critics are willing to allow, On the poetical shelf of a man of general taste, Warton must not be omitted. His pleasing rural images are highly grati fying to an observer of nature.
When sleep the fainting breezes on the shore,
And the last tinkling sheep-bell speaks no more!
SPRING, thou return'st with all thy wonted grace,
The woods re-echo to thy tuneful race,
In ev'ry forest walk and mead are seen
Thy flow'ry chaplet and thy robe of green.
Again, by many a fairy dream beguil'd,
I seek the upland path or shaggy wild,
And drink rich odours* from the furze-clad dale,
That scents at intervals the luscious gale,
Or fresh'ning fragrance of new-moisten'd earth,
When shoots the strengthen'd barley into birth,
When cooling drops the thirsty gold-cup fill,
And the lone fisher seeks the mud-stain'd rill.
Or, far from vulgar cares, I trace the stream
With dripping oars, that catch the noonday beam;
While soothing bells in many a varied round
Fling on the liquid tides their silver sound.
Nor, floating slow and careless, do I dread
To cast a backward view on moments fled;
Whate'er of sweet remembrance there appears,
"Tis doubly pleasing through the mist of years.
So when soft vapours, dimming mortal eyes,
Make pale the cloudless blue of summer skies,
The blending groves, and hills of faded green,
And dark-grey battlements more large are seen.
If aught of mournful bleeding mem'ry find,
"Tis not unwelcome to the musing mind;
While drops of milder melancholy born,
Such as Reflection's drooping cheek adorn,
From the moist-sparkling eye unbidden flow,
And all the bosom melts to softer woe.
*Save that by fits the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the transitory gale.
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