« ZurückWeiter »
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forfaken, wanders o’er the heath.
The bleak wind whistles round her head;
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of fhelter, food, and friend,
She views the fhades of night descend,
And, stretch’d beneath inclement fkies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd,
Whom neighb’ring foes in constant terror hold,
And trumpets break their flumbers, never found :
While, calmly poor, I trifle life away,
Enjoy fweet leifure by my chearful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, -
But cheaply bless'd i'll fcorn each vain defire.
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 fheaves along the funny land.
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wand’rer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtlefs dam.
Or if the fun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my De Lia walking fide by fide,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.
With her I fcorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own,
The fnuile of fortune might fufpicion raife,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.
ST A N Ho P e, in wisdom as in wit divine, -
May rife, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly fenfe the deep attention draws.
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 stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tastelefs grandeur weep,
By warbling fountains lay the pensive head, *
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!
DELIA alone can please and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight,
With her, enjoyment wakens new defire,
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 fenfe, and reafon join'd.
On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er,
And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand
Thou weep'ït 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 sharper torments kill ;
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Tho' I am dead, my foul fhall love thee still.
Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart !
Oh leave me, DE LIA ! ere thou fee me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corfe 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 ferious, 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. Swif?.
Well ; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,
Tho’ we all took it for a jest ;
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 herfe !
No meteor, no eclipse appear'd !
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 thęre had been no fuch matter.
Some Wits have wonder’d, what analogy,
There is 'twixt * cobling and astrology:
How Partridge made his optics rife,
From a /boe/ole, to reach the fkies.
A list the coblers temples ties
To keep the hair out 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 stars and rays,
Which plainly shews the near alliance
'Twixt cobling and the planets science.
Besides, that flow-pac’d sign Boctes,
(As 'tis mifcall'd) we know not who 'tis :
But Partriage ended all disputes ;
He knew his trade, ąnd call'd it + Boots.
The horned moon, which heretofbre,
Upon their fhoes the Romans wore,
Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,
And whence we claim our/booing-borns,
* Partridge was a Cobler. † See his Almanack,