Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderlan 1, 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 abroa 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.
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.
Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'T was still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry, "What ar't!" Then softly turn'd aside, to view Whether the lights were burning blue. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their etand: "Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd; While you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes."
They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
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