By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts, And health, and peace, and contemplation dwell. There study shall with solitude recline; And friendship pledge me to his fellowswains; And toil and temperance sedately twine The slender cord that fluttering life sustains: And fearless poverty shall guard the door; And taste unspoil'd the frugal table spread; And industry supply the humble store; And sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed; White-mantled sprite, innocence, ethereal Shall chase far off the goblins of the night; And Independence o'er the day preside, Propitious power! my patron and my pride. ODE TO LEVEN WATER. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood And hedges flower'd with eglantine. seen: And lasses chanting o'er the pail, The blessings they enjoy to guard! MARK AKENSIDE. 1721-1770. [BORN November 9, 1721; studied medicine at Edinburgh and Leyden; practised as a physician at Northampton; received from his friend Jeremiah Dyson an annual allowance of £300: removed to London, 1748; appointed one of the Physicians to the Queen; wrote various medical tracts and lectures; died June 23, 1770. The Pleasures of Imagination was published in January, 1744; Odes on Several Subjects, 1745. The unfinished recast of The Pleasures of Imagination appeared after Akenside's death in his Poems, 1772.] THE MINGLED PAIN AND PLEASURE ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS EMOTIONS. [From Pleasures of the Imagination.] BEHOLD the ways Of Heaven's eternal destiny to man, For ever just, benevolent, and wise: That Virtue's awful steps, howe'er pur sued By vexing Fortune and intrusive Pain, Should never be divided from her chaste, Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge Thy tardy thought through all the various round Of this existence, that thy soft'ning soul At length may learn what energy the hand Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide Of passion swelling with distress and pain, To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops Of cordial Pleasure? Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise Of Care and Envy, sweet Remembrance soothes, With Virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture, — Ask the crowd, Which flies impatient from the village walk To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast Some hapless bark; while sacred Pity melts The gen'ral eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; While ev'ry mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and, pointing where the waves Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud, As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms For succor, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down. O! deemest thou indeed No kind endearment here by Nature giv'n To mutual Terror and Compassion's tears? No sweetly-swelling softness, which attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs To this their proper action and their end? Ask thy own heart; when, at the midnight hour, Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye, Led by the glimm'ring taper, moves around The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame For Grecian heroes, where the present pow'r Of heav'n and earth surveys th' immortal page, E'en as a father blessing, while he reads The praises of his son; if then thy soul, Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days, Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame: Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view, When rooted from the base, heroic states Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown Of curs'd Ambition; band when the pious The big distress? or wouldst thou then exchange Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod, And bears aloft his gold-invested front, And says within himself, "I am a king, And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of Woe Intrude upon mine ear?"-The baleful dregs Of these late ages, this inglorious draught Of servitude and folly, have not yet, Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world! Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame The native honors of the human soul, Nor so effac'd the image of its sire. ON TASTE. [From Pleasures of the Imagination.] SAY, what is Taste, but the internal pow'rs Active and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick dis gust From things deform'd, or disarrang'd, or gross In species? This nor gems, nor stores of gold, Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain Who journeys homeward from a summer-day's Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds O'er all the western sky! Full soon, I ween, His rude expression, and untutor'd airs, Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold The form of Beauty smiling at his heart, How lovely! how commanding! But though Heav'n In every breast hath sown these early seeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, Without enliv'ning suns and genial show'rs, And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Or yield the harvest promis'd in its spring. |