As on the painted turf the shepherd lies, Sleep's downy curtain shades his lovely eyes; And now a sporting breeze his bosom shows, Jolly Health springs aloft at the loud sounding horn, As marble sinooth, and white as Alpine snows: Unlock'd from soft Slumber's embrace; And Joy sings an hymn to salute the sweet Morn, That smiles on the nymphs of the chase: The rage of fell Cupid no bosom profanes, No rancour disturbs our delight, All the day with fresh vigour we sweep o'er the plains, And sleep with contentment all night. RECIT. Their clamour rouse the slighted god of Love: Two quivers fill'd with darts his fell designs declare. AIR. Fond disturber of the heart, From these sacred shades depart: Here's a blooming troop disdains Love, and his fantastic chains. Sisters of the silver bow, Pure and chaste as virgin snow, RECIT. Rage and revenge divide Love's little breast, Whilst thus the angry goddess he addrest: 'Mount Latmos. The goddess gaz'd, in magic softness bound; Love laugh'd, and, sure of conquest, wing'd a dart She feels in ev'ry vein the fatal fire, AIR. Ye tender maids be timely wise! Do blue-ey'd doves, serenely mild, No, no, like fawns, ye virgius fly, AMPHITRION. RECITATIVE. AMPHITRION and his bride, a godlike pair! No gods-they all swore, With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear: Got jovially mellow, In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle beer. Apollo perceiving his talents refine, Repents he drank Helicou water so long: He bow'd, being ask'd by the musical Nine, And gave the gay board an extempore song: But ere he began, He toss'd off his can: There's nought like good liquor the fancy to clear: Then sang with great merit, The flavour and spirit, His godship had found in our Newcastle beer. 'Twas stingo like this made Alcides so bold, It brac'd up his nerves, and enliven'd his pow'rs; And his mystical club, that did wonders of old, Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours, The horrible crew That Hercules slew, Were Poverty-Calumny-Trouble-and Fear: Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid, and pale, Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear; And smoke o'er a tankard of Newcastle beer. THE RESPITE. A PASTORAL. AH, what is 't to me that the grasshopper sings! Ye birds, I'll no longer attend to a lay; Where woodbines and willows inclin'd to unite, And oft has my Damon, with smiles of delight, The roses that crept to our mutual recess, This oak has for ages the tempest defy'd, We call it-the king of the grove; He swore, a light breeze should its centre divide, The shepherd rush'd forth from behind the thick And, clasping the maid, from an heart full of glee, AN IRREGULAR ODE ON MUSIC. Pursues my heated blood through ev'ry vein ; Now wild with fierce desire, When seated in the verdant shade AIR. Hail-hail, from this auspicious morn Shall British glories rise Now are the mighty treasures born, That shall Britannia's fame adorn, And lift her to the skies. A BIRTH-DAY ODE: PERFORMED AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN. RECITATIVE. HARK-how the soul of music reigns, As when the first great birth of Nature sprung, When Chaos burst his massy chains, 'Twas thus the cherubs sung: J. Robertson, an actor belonging to the York company. THE BROKEN CHINA. Soon as the Sun began to peep, And gild the morning skies, Young Chloe from disorder'd sleep Unveil'd her radiant eyes. Earl of Chesterfield, and earl of Harrington, both successively lords lieutenant of Ireland. A guardian Sylph, the wanton sprite "Some shock of Fate is surely nigh," She call'd her Cupid by his name, In dread of some mishap; Wagging his tail, her Cupid came, And jump'd into her lap. And now the best of brittle ware The kettle boil'd, and all prepar'd Well-chatting on, of that and this, With transport he demands the prize; A man must prove himself polite, So Richard strives with all his might But as he strove-O dire to tell! (And yet with grief I must) The table turn'd-the china fell, A heap of painted dust! "O fatal purport of my dream!" "For in a kiss, or two, or three, No mischief could be found! Then had I been more frank and free, My china had been sound.” TO MR. YES, Colin, 'tis granted, you flutter in lace, For folly and fashion you barter good sense, (If sense ever fell to your share) 'Tis enough you could pert petit maitre commence, Laugh-loiter-and lie with an air. No end you can answer, affections you 've none, Like a butterfly, bask'd for a while in the Sun, ON THE LATE ABSENCE OF MAY. (WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1771.) THE rooks in the neighbouring grove Are cover'd no longer by May: Are silent, or plaintive each tone! And, as they chirp, low, to their young, They want of their goddess bemoan. No daisies, on carpets of green, O'er Nature's cold bosom are spread! Not a sweet-briar sprig can be seen, To finish this wreath for my head: Some flow'rets, indeed, may be found, But these neither blooming nor gay; The fairest still sleep in the ground, And wait for the coming of May. December, perhaps, has purloin'd Her rich, though fantastical geer; With Envy the Months may have join'd, And jostled her out of the year: Some shepherds, 'tis true, may repine, To see their lov'd gardens undress'd; But I-whilst my Phillida's mine, Shall always have May in my breast. AN EULOGIUM ON MASONRY. SAY, can the garter, or the star of state, Hail to the Craft, at whose serene command The gentle Arts in glad obedience stand: Whose magic stroke bids fell Confusion cease, And to the finish'd Orders yield its place; Who calls Creation from the womb of Earth, And gives imperial cities glorious birth. To works of art her merit 's not confin'd, She regulates the morals, squares the mind; Nor tease the sweet maid with your jargon of Corrects with care the tempest-working soul, chat, By her side as you saunter along; And points the tide of passions where to roll; On Virtue's tablets marks each sacred rule, Your taste-your complexion-your this-and your And forms her lodge an universal school; that, Nor lisp out the end of your song. Where Nature's mystic laws unfolded stand, And Sense and Science, join'd, go hand in hand. |