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• Doom'd here my errour to deplore, 'And from this lake to rise no more. 'Sorrow shall travel at his side,
'Who makes not Temperance his guide! 'Struck with my crime, I here abjure
* The system false of Epicure;
'Go, preach it down, and render wise
He said; —The syrup choak'd the rest;
So he who rolls on Pleasure's bed,
Jackson of Exeter, a man whose various talents made all who knew him remember hira with regret, designed to re-publish the little collection of Bampfylde's Sonnets, with what few of his pieces were still unedited, and to prefix to them an account of the authour, who was truly a man of genius. From him I heard an interesting and melancholy history, all of which he would not have communicated to the publick—what he thought allowable to publish, may, perhaps, exist among his papers. Those poems which are here first printed were transcribed from the originals in his possession.
Bampfylde published his Sonnets at a very early age; they are some of the most original in our language. He died in a private mad-house, after twenty years confinement.
TO THE EVENING.
What numerous votaries'neath thy shadowy wing,
First, to the grove his lingering fair to bring,
Sighs oft for thee — And next the boisterous string Of school-imps, freed from Dame's all dreaded sight,
Round Village-Cross, in many a wanton ring,
Wishes thy stay—Then too with vasty might, From steeple's side to urge the bounding ball, The lusty hinds await thy fragrant call; I, friend to all by turns, am join'd with all, Lover, and Ellin gay, and harmless Hind; Nor heed the proud to real wisdom blind, So as my heart be pure, and free my mind.
ON A WET SUMMER.
All ye who far from town, in rural hall, Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field, Enjoying all the sunny-day did yield,
With me the change lament, in irksome thrall, By rains incessant held; for now no call
From early swain invites my hand to wield
The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd, And mark the lessening sand from hour glass fall;
Or 'neath my window view the wistful train Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves
Shelter no more.—Mute is the mournful plain, Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch, And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves.
(The two following poems have never been printed.)
TO THE RIVER TEIGN.
Saltern remoto dcs, Pater, angulo
0 Thou, the guardian of each flowret pale That decks thy lonely brim, whether thy car Hoarse murmuring from afar
Foams down the dark and solitary vale,
Thou shun'st the noon-tide ray,
Sicken'd with pleasure's draught this aking heart,
Thy freshening streams impart,
But if, led on by Heaven's decree to explore
1 trust the faithless main,
Torn from thy desart caves and solemn roar: Give me at length from storms secure, and woes,
Of latest age to lose the silent hours,
Cold is the senseless heart that never strove, With the mild tumult of a real flame; Rugged the breast that beauty cannot tame, Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love
The pathless vale, the long-forsaken grove, The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, With ivy mantled o'er—For empty fame, Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove In search of plunder far to western clime.
Give me to waste the hours in amorous play With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, And all that prodigality of charms Form'd to enslave my heart and grace my lay.