For Bourdeaux we with voice unanimous
Declare, (such sympathy's in boon compeers).
He quits the room alert, but soon returns;
One hand capacious glistering vessels bears
Resplendent, the other, with a grasp secure,
A bottle (mighty charge!) upstaid, full fraught
With goodly wine. He, with extended hand
Rais'd high, pours forth the sanguine frothy juice,
O'erspread with bubbles, dissipated soon:
We straight to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs:
Now glasses clash with glasses (charming sound!)
And glorious Anna's health, the first, the best,
Crowns the full glass; at her inspiring name
The sprightly wine results, and seems to smile:
With hearty zeal and wish unanimous,
Her health we drink, and in her health our own.
A pause ensues: and now with grateful chat
We improve the interval, and joyous mirth
Engages our rais'd souls; pat repartee,
Or witty joke, our airy senses moves
To pleasant laughter; straight the echoing room
With universal peals and shouts resounds.
The royal Dane, blest consort of the Queen,
Next crowns the ruby'd nectar, all whose bliss
In Anna's plac'd: with sympathetic flame,
And mutual endearments, all her joys,
Like to the kind turtle's pure untainted love,
Center in him, who shares the grateful hearts
Of loyal subjects, with his sovereign queen;
For by his prudent care united shores
Were say'd from hostile fleets' invasion dire.
The hero Marlborough next, whose vast exploits Fame's clarion sounds; fresh laurels, triumphs new We wish, like those he won at Hockstet's field.
Next Devonshire illustrious, who from race
Of noblest patriots sprang, whose worthy soul
Is with each fair and virtuous gift adorn'd,
That shone in his most worthy ancestors;
For then distinct in separate breasts were seen
Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.
Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal
Frugal, but free and generous of his own,
Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderland,
And Halifax, the Muses' darling son,
In whom conspicuous, with full luster, shine
The surest judgment and the brightest wit,
Himself Mecænas and a Flaccus too;
And all the worthies of the British realm,
In order rang'd succeed; such healths as tinge
The dulcet wine with a more charming gust.
Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye He's fired; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell',
Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes
Piercing, or airy Celia, sprightly maid!
Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours;
Glass succeeds glass, till the Dircean god
Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays
Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye;
All blithe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights
Of Rotund Table, fam'd in old records,
Now most we seem'd-such is the power of Wine!
Thus we the winged hours in harmless mirth
And joys unsullied pass, till humid Night
Has half her race perform'd; now all abroad
Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise
Of coach, or cart, or smoky link-boy's call,
Is heard--but universal silence reigns;
When we in merry plight, airy and gay,
Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly,
With hasty knock, or twang of pendant cord,
Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nod:
Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs
Erroneous, and with busy knuckles plies
His yet clung eyelids, and with staggering reel
Enters confus'd, and muttering asks our wills;
When we with liberal hand the score discharge,
And homeward each his course with steady step
Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft.
O, HEAVENLY born! in deepest dells
If fairer science ever dwells
Beneath the mossy cave;
Indulge the verdure of the woods,
With azure beauty gild the floods,
And flowery carpets lave.
For, Melancholy ever reigns
Delighted in the sylvan scenes
With scientific light
While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales,
Though wrapt from mortal sight.
Yet, goddess, yet the way explore
With magic rites and heathen lore
Obstructed and depress'd;
Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine,
Untaught, not uninspired, to shine,
By Reason's power redress'd.
When Solon and Lycurgus taught
To moralize the human thought
Of mad opinion's maze,
To erring zeal they gave new laws,
Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause,
That blends congenial rays.
Bid bright Astræa gild the morn,
Or bid a hundred suns be born,
To hecatomb the year;
Without thy aid, in vain the poles,
In vain the zodiac system rolls,
In vain the lunar sphere.
Come, fairest princess of the throng,
Bring sweet philosophy along,
In metaphysic dreams:
While raptured bards no more behold
A vernal age of purer gold,
In Heliconian streams.
Drive thraldom with malignant hand,
To curse some other destined land,
By Folly led astray:
Iërne bear on azure wing;
Energic let her soar, and sing
Thy universal sway.
So when Amphion bade the lyre
To more majestic sound aspire,
Behold the mad'ning throng,
In wonder and oblivion drowned,
To sculpture turned by magic sound,
And petrifying song.
FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart:
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
Mourned Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre:
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.
Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH
PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET.
In ancient time, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.
|