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« • Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
A PASTORAL BALLAD, That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame;
IN FOUR PARTS. 1743. For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame. Arbusta humilesque inyricæ. VIRG.
*** Thus for your sake I shun each human eye;
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu ;
you. *** • Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove,
And let me silent seek some friendly shore :
Be such the meed of some more artful fair;
That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine:
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here?
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
The pride of that valley, is flown;
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
S" • Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;
Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; Not such the parent's board at which I fed !
Not such the precept from his lips I drew !
« • Haply, when Age has silver'd o'er my hair,
Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil ; Envy may slight a face no longer fair ;
And pity, welcome, to my native soil.'
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
’T was with pain that she saw me depart. She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew ;
My path I could hardly discern;
I thought that she bade me return.
“ She spoke
- nor was I born of savage race; Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,
And vow'd to waste her life in prayers for mine.
“ I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend;
I saw her breast with every passion heave; I left her - torn from every earthly friend ;
Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave !
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
And my solace wherever I go.
Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose; The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain ; O'er the tall mast the circling surges close;
My Jessy - floats upon the watery plain! “ And see my youth's impetuous fires decay ;
Seek not to stop Reflection's bitter tear ; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay,
From Jessy floating on her watery bier !"
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow : My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
With her mien she enamours the brave; But with tendrils of woodbine is bound :
With her wit she engages the free; Not a beech's more beautiful green,
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays; But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will sing but a song in her praise, One would think she might like to retire
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Come trooping, and listen the while; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find, To prune the wild branches away.
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind! From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, In ringlets he dresses his hair, What strains of wild melody flow!
And his crook is bestudded around; How the nightingales warble their loves
And his pipe - oh my Phyllis, beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.
'T is his with mock passion to glow, In a concert so soft and so clear,
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, As— she may not be fond to resign.
How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. I have found out a gift for my fair ;
How the nightingales labour the strain, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed :
With the notes of his charmer to vie; But let me that plunder forbear,
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet; Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet. I have heard her with sweetness unfold
“ O Phyllis," he whispers, “ more fair, How that pity was due to a dove:
More sweet than the jessamine's flower! That it ever attended the bold;
What are pinks in a morn to compare? And she call'd it the sister of love.
What is eglantine after a shower?
“ Then the lily no longer is white; Let her speak, and whatever she say,
The rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Methinks I should love her the more.
Then the violets die with despite,
And the woodbines give up their perfume. Can a bosom so gentle remain
Thus glide the soft numbers along, Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs ?
And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
- Yet I never should envy the song, These plains and this valley despise ?
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
So Phyllis the trophy despise: If aught, in her absence, could please.
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. But where does my Phyllida stray?
The language that flows from the heart, And where are her grots and her bowers ?
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
· Yet may she beware of his art, And the shepherds as gentle as ours ?
Or sure I must envy the song. The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare,
IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. But their love is not equal to mine.
Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep; III. SOLICITUDE.
They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep. Why will you my passion reprove ?
Yet do not my folly reprove; Why term it a folly to grieve?
She was fair – and my passion begun; Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She smil'd- and I could not but love; She's fairer than you can believe.
She is faithless — and I am undone
Perhaps I was void of all thought :
Erewhile, in sportive circles round Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; = That a nymph so complete would be sought, From rock to rock pursue his way, By a swain more engaging than me.
And on the fearful margin play.
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell, And the lip of the nymph we admire
She saw him climb my rustic cell ; Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.
She tells with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood; What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze, Beware how you loiter in vain
And then drew near again to gaze.
She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound, Alas! from the day that we met,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound. What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget
His every frolic, light as air, The glance that undid my repose.
Deserves the gentle Delia's care ; Yet time may diminish the pain :
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.
But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless era flies? The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
While violence and craft succeed;
Unfair design, and ruthless deed !
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, High transports are shown to the sight,
And yield her purple gifts no more ; But we 're not to find them our own;
Ah! soon, eras'd from every grove Fate never bestow'd such delight,
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love. As I with my Phyllis had known.
No more those bowers might Strephon see, Oye woods, spread your branches apace;
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee; To your deepest recesses I fly;
No more those beds of flowerets find, I would hide with the beasts of the chase;
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd. I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove Each wayward passion soon would tear With the same sad complaint it begun;
His bosom, now so void of care ; How she smil'd - and I could not but love; And, when they left his ebbing vein, Was faithless — and I am undone!
What, but insipid age, remain?
THE DYING KID,
Then mourn not the decrees of Fate,
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi
The Rev. CHARLES CHURCHILL.
HE Rev. CHARLES CHURCHILL, a poet, once of name. Churchill was now at once raised from great repute, was the son of a curate of St. John's obscurity to eminence; and the Rosciad, which Westminster, in which parish he was born in 1731. have selected as his best work, is, in fact, the e He received his early education at the celebrated one of his numerous publications on which že public school in the vicinity, whence he was sent to bestowed due labour. The delineations are dran Oxford; but to this university he was refused ad- with equal energy and vivacity; the language 3 mission on account of deficient classical knowledge. versification, though not without inequalities, a Returning to school, he soon closed his further superior to the ordinary strain of current poetry, education by an early and imprudent marriage. and many of the observations are stamped Receiving holy orders from the indulgence of sound judgment and correct taste. Dr. Sherlock, he went down to a curacy in Wales, The remainder of his life, though concu where he attempted to remedy the scantiness of his with the period of his principal fame, is little warto income, by the sale of cyder ; but this expedient of notice. He became a party writer, joining only plunged him deeper in debt. Returning to Wilkes and other oppositionists, and employed London, he was chosen, on his father's death, to pen assiduously in their cause. With this vi succeed him as curate and lecturer of St. John's. joined a lamentable defect of moral feeling, His finances still falling short, he took various hibited by loose and irregular manners. Throw methods to improve them ; at the same time he dis- off bis black suit, he decorated his large and does played an immoderate fondness for theatrical ex- person with gold' lace; and dismissing his wife, be hibitions. This latter passion caused bim to think debauched from her parents the daughter of: of exercising those talents which he was conscious tradesman in Westminster. His writings at lenge of possessing; and in March, 1761, he published, became mere rhapsodies; and taking a journey to though anonymously, a view of the excellencies and France for the purpose of visiting Mr. Wika defects of the actors in both houses, which he en- then an exile in that country, he was seized with a titled “ The Rosciad.” It was much admired, fever, which put a period to his life on Novembert and a second edition appeared with the author's | 1764, at the age of 34,
Roscius deceas’d, each high aspiring play'r
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
What can an actor give? In ev'ry age
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
The town divided, each runs sev'ral ways,
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
Whilst to six feet the vig'rous stripling grown,
Who can - - But Woodward came, - Hill slipp'd Declares that Garrick is another Coan. .
away, When place of judgment is by whim supply'd, Melting like ghosts, before the rising day. And our opinions have their rise in pride ;
† With that low cunning, which in fools supplies, When, in discoursing on each mimic elf,
And amply too, the place of being wise, We praise and censure with an eye to self;
Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave All must meet friends, and Ackman bids as fair To qualify the blockhead for a knave; [charms, In such a court, as Garrick, for the chair.
With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance At length agreed, all squabbles to decide, And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms, By some one judge the cause was to be try'd; Which to the lowest depths of guile descends, But this their squabbles did afresh renew,
By vilest means pursues the vilest ends,
For Johnson some, but Johnson, it was fear'd, Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
Which merit and success pursues with hate,
And damns the worth it cannot imitate; Of prudent Age found out that he was young :
With the cold caution of a coward's spleen, For Murphy some few pilf 'ring wits declar'd, Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a skreen, Whilst Folly clapp'd her hands, and Wisdom star’d. Which keeps this
maxim ever in her view To mischief train’d, e'en from his mother's womb, What 's basely done, should be done safely too; Grown old in fraud, though yet in manhood's bloom, With that dull
, rooted, callous impudence, Adopting arts, by which gay villains rise,
Which, dead to shame, and ev'ry nicer sense, And reach the heights which honest men despise ;
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares, Mute at the bar, and in the senate loud,
She blunder'd on some virtue unawares; Dull 'mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud ; With all these blessings, which we seldom find A pert, prim, prater of the northern race,
Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind, Guilt in his heart, and famine in his face,
A motley figure, of the Fribble tribe, Stood forth : — and thrice he wav'd his lily hand Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe, And thrice he twirl'd his tye — thrice strok'd his Came simp’ring on; to ascertain whose sex band
[aim Twelve sage, impanell'd matrons would perplex. " At Friendship's call," (thus oft with trait'rous Nor male, nor female ; neither, and yet both; Men, void of faith, usurp Faith's sacred name) Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth ; " At Friendship's call I come, by Murphy sent,
A six-foot suckling, mincing in its gait;
Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate ;
Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake
Its tender form, and savage motion spread, In his own words his own intentions hear. (born, O'er its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red.
“ Thanks to my friends. — But to vile fortunes Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase, No robes of fur these shoulders must adorn. Of genius and of taste, of play’rs and plays ; Vain
your applause, no aid from thence I draw; Much 100 of writings, which itself had wrote, Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law ?
Of special merit, though of little note ; Twice (curs'd remembrance !) twice I strove to gain For Fate, in a strange humour, had decreed Admittance ʼmongst the law-instructed train, That what it wrote, none but itself should read; Who, in the Temple and Gray's Inn, prepare
Much too it chatter'd of dramatic laws,
Misjudging critics, and misplac'd applause ;
Triumphant seem'd, when that strange savage dame, And plans of far more lib'ral note pursue.
Known but to few, or only known by name, Who will may be a judge — my kindling breast Plain Common Sense appear'd, by Nature there Burns for that chair which Roscius once possess'd. Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair. Here give your votes, your int’rest here exert, The pageant saw, and blasted with her frown, And let success for once attend desert."
To its first state of nothing melted down. With sleek appearance, and with ambling pace, Nor shall the Muse (for even there the pride And, type of vacant head, with vacant face, Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) The Proteus Hill put in his modest plea,
Nor shall the Muse (should Fate ordain her rhymes "Let Favour speak for others, Worth for me.”. Fond, pleasing thought ! to live in after-tiines) For who, like him, his various powers could call With such a trifler's
name her pages blot ; Into so many shapes, and shine in all ?
Known be the character, the thing forgot ;
+ This severe character was intended for Mr. Knows any one so well - - sure no one knows, - Fitzpatrick, a person who had rendered himself reAt once to play, prescribe, compound, compose ? markable by his activity in the playhouse riots of
1763, relative to the taking half prices. He was John Coan, a dwarf, who died in 1764. C. the hero of Garrick's Fribbleriad.