And social Nature's ties ;
The plan the genius of each state,
Its int'rest and its pow'rs, relate,
Its fortunes and its rise.
Thro' private life pursue thy course,
Trace ev'ry action to its source,
And means and motives weigh;
Put tempters, passions, in the scale,
Mark what degrees in each prevail,
And fix the doubtful sway.
XII.
That last best effort of thy skill,
To form the life and rule the will,
Propitious Pow'r, impart ;
Teach me to cool my passions' fires,
Make me the judge of my desires,
The master of my heart.
Raise me above the vulgar's breath,
Pursuit of fortune, fear of death,
And all in life that's mean:
Still true to reason be my plan,
Still let my actions speak the man
Thro' ev'ry various scene.
Hail! queen of Manners, light of truth ;
Hail! charm of age and guide of youth,
Sweet refuge of distress;
In bus'ness thou exact, polite;
Thou giv'st retirement its delight,
Prosperity its grace.
Of wealth, pow'r, freedom, thou the cause;
Foundress of order, cities, laws,
Of arts inventress, thou!
Without thee what were humankind?
How vast their wants, their thoughts how blind,
Their joys how mean, how few!
Sun of the soul! thy beams unveil ;
Let others spread the daring sail
On Fortune's faithless sea,
While undeluded happier I
From the vain tumult timely fly
And sit in peace with thee.
To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call
Actæa, daughter of the neighb'ring stream,
This cave belongs. The figtree and the vine
Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot
Were plac'd by Glycon: he with cowslips pale, 5
Primrose and purple lychnis, deck'd the green
Before my threshold, and my shelving walls
With honeysuckle cover'd. Here at noon
Lull'd by the murmur of my rising fount
I slumber here my clust'ring fruits I tend,
Or from the humid flow'rs at break of day
Fresh garlands weave, and chase from all my
Each thing impure or noxious. Enter in
O Stranger! undismay'd; nor bat nor toad
Here lurks; and if thy breast of blameless thoughts
Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread
My quiet mansion, chiefly if thy name
Wise Pallas and th' immortal Muses own.
II. FOR A STATUE OF CHAUCER
SUCH was old Chaucer, such the placid mien
Of him who first with harmony inform'd
The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt
For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls
Have often heard him while his legends blithe
He sang of love or knighthood, or the wiles
Of homely life, thro' each estate and age
The fashions and the follies of the world
With cunning hand portraying. Tho' perchance 9
From Blenheim's tow'rs, O Stranger! thou art come
Glowing with Churchill's trophies, yet in vain
Dost thou applaud them if thy breast be cold
To him this other hero, who in times
Dark and untaught began with charming verse
To tame the rudeness of his native land.
WHOE'ER thou art whose path in summer lies
Thro' yonder village, turn thee where the grove
Of branching oaks a rural palace old
Imbosoms; there dwells Albert, gen'rous lord
Of all the harvest round! and onward thence
A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
Fast by a silent rivulet. Humbly walk
O Stranger! o'er the consecrated ground,
And on that verdant hillock which thou seest
Beset with osiers let thy pious hand
Sprinkle fresh water from the brook, and strew
Sweet-smelling flow'rs, for there doth Edmund rest,
The learned shepherd, for each rural art
Fam'd, and for sons harmonious, and the woes
Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave
In manhood's prime ; but soon did righteous Heaven
With tears, with sharp remorse and pining care,
Avenge her falsehood; nor could all the gold
And nuptial pomp which lur'd her plighted faith 20
From Edmund to a loftier husband's home
Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside
The strokes of Death. Go, Traveller! relate
The mournful story; haply some fair maid
May hold it in remembrance, and be taught
That riches cannot pay for truth or love.
O YOUTHS and Virgins! O declining Eld!
O pale Misfortune's slaves! O ye who dwell
Unknown with humble Quiet ye
In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings,
O sons of Sport and Pleasure! O thou Wretch
That weepst for jealous love, or the sore wounds
Volume II.
|