I then might tune the harp, and sing
Of Beauty's reign, and Nature's spring;
And call the forms of soft delight,
With silky pinions, plum'd for flight;
And call the forms of fond desire,
With lips ambrosial, eyes of fire;
And love should tremble in the chords,
To dearest thoughts, and sweetest words;
While lute, and lyre, the song, the dance,
That Beauty's blithesome reign advance-
The senses charm and banish reason.
Youth is Pleasure's vernal season.
Full fifty years have o'er me fled,
And cast their snows upon my head.
Jemima, I am rather old :
Yet age shall never make me cold.
And you have more than I can paint,
To make a Sinner of a Saint.
Your eyes far softer things can say,
Than ever flow'd in Poet's lay;
And callous, surely, were the heart,
That found their glances vainly dart.
Yet, these I see, and these commend,
With all the calmness of a friend.
I shall not praise your shape, and air:
I shall not tell you, you are fair.
Your Mirror, better far than I,
Can all such compliments supply.
But let this honest paper bear
The wishes of a friend sincere.
Soon may the void within your mind
A tenant worth the mansion find!
With manly sense, and open heart,
Dis claiming selfish aim, and art.
The stock of Love, that lies concealed
Within your heart, may be revealed!
Like treasures hid beneath the plains,
You know not yet what it contains.
You know not all the hidden worth,
Expansive feeling may call forth.
So form'd to love, and to be lov'd,
Already in the daughter prov'd,
The sister kind, the friend sincere,
We can discern your proper sphere;
Apt, for each claim, of social life,
To shine, the fond and tender wife.
STILL at her name Remembrance sighs;
The heart's flood gushes from mine eyes,
I never can that name forget:
If Anger parted, Friendship cries-
"Alas! we once in kindness met !"
And yet for her, I know, are vain
The heartfelt sigh, the anguish'd strain:
Though precious in her sight before,
Unheard, unpitied I complain;
She lives but lives to me no more!
In the Garden at Drakelowe, the Seat of Sir Nigel Bowyer Gresley, Bart. in the Year 1789, where the Author had spent a few Weeks with the Family.
BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.
WHEN next, ye Naiads, to this blest retreat,
Where Drakelowe's Genius fixed her ancient seat,
Your steps resort, to Gresley's ear convey
This grateful strain, that Friendship springs to pay:
On that fair altar let the Muse impart
The sweet, the sacred incense of the heart,
Whose odours with unfading fragrance rise,
To Virtue dear, delightful to the skies.
Here as I sit, and muse o'er all the scene,
These founts of silver, and these shades of green,
The mighty owner fills the Poet's mind :----
His free-born spirit breathes in every wind:
His ample bounty, blessing every vale,
Flows to mankind, nor shall the blessing fail.
As Plenty's hand the full abundance pours,
Peace guides his flocks, and Honor guards his bowers.
The rural Graces at his gate attend,
And welcome with a smile th' approaching friend.
Prompt at his call, around his table stand
Mirth's social Household-Gods, a jocund band:
Blithe Hospitality, a blooming Lar,
Leads the gay train, and shines the British star.
Shaking ambrosial odours from his wings,
Festivity the sumptuous banquet brings;
The Ganymede that waits on Drakelowe's Lord,
Nor Jove's own feasts a brighter guest afford.
And see! yon rosy, yellow-tressed boy,
His head with chaplets crowned, light-hearted Joy,
In large libations pours the generous bowl,
That speaks the greatness of its master's soul.
These, Gresley, are thine own. O might the Muse,
As her rapt fancy the fond theme pursues,
Tell all thy worth, and to the world proclaim
The graceful lustre of her Gresley's name;
Mark the strong vigor of thy manly mind,
With spirit elegant, with force refin'd;
Through each hereditary virtue run,
The father's worth reflected in the son ;-
This song should live; nor wholly vain should flow.
Th' impassion'd verse, by Friendship taught to glow.
And thou, O Trent, whose liquid tributes lave
These happy walls with many a lingering wave,
As loth like me to part, like me to go;—
Let the lov'd partner of his fortunes know,
Not the calm mirror of thy crystal stream
Smiles with so placid, so serene a beam,
As her mild brow: where Temper, thron'd a Grace,
Smooths the fair heaven that lights her cloudless face.
Clear as thy flood, that silent steals along,
Flows her deep sense, as lucid, and as strong:
And thy gay bosom, glitt'ring to the sun,
When Noon's bright beams in rushing splendours run,
But half the lustre of her wit displays,
Her wit, that shines with never-failing rays.
Nor these alone could animate the bard,
Did not the Muse superior claims regard;
Th' attentive friend, solicitous to please
With chearful grace, and hospitable ease;
The wife, that wins by each endearing art,
That holds the strong dominion of the heart;
The mother, watchful of her infant care,
Their pains, their pleasures, fond alike to share.
And these, as virtue dignifies the song,
The strain of grateful rapture should prolong,
Could the fond Muse the parting tear repel,
And mix her praises with her sad Farewell.
FEBRUARY, 1789.
BENEATH the turf where thou art laid,
This troublous dream of Being past,
Beneath that turf, regretted Maid!
May my worn heart repose at last!
Though wrung by keenest pangs my breast,
How fondly o'er thy tomb I dwell!—
O! were it mine thy hallowed rest,
Nor mine again the sad "Farewel!"
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