Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe smile,
Though low my numbers, and though rude my
Ne quit for Acidale fair Albion's happy isle.
Come then, Ianthe! milder than the Spring,
And grateful as the rosy month of May,
O come; the birds the hymn of Nature sing,
Enchanting wild, from every bush and spray :
Swell the green germs and teem along the vine,
A fragrant promise of the future wine,
The spirits to exalt, the genius to refine!
Let us our steps direct where father Thames,
In silver windings, draws his humid train,
And pours, where'er he rolls his naval stream,
Pomp on the city, plenty o'er the plain.
Or by the banks of Isis shall we stray,
(Ah, why so long from Isis' banks away!)
Where thousand damsels dance, and thousand
shepherds play?
Or choose you rather Theron's calm retreat,
Embosom'd, Surrey, in thy verdant vale,
At once the Muses' and the Graces' seat!
There gently listen to my faithful tale.
Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove,
Or taste the odours of the mazy grove:
Hark how the turtles coo: Ilanguish too with love.
Amid the pleasaunce of Arcadian scenes,
Love steals his silent arrows on my breast;
Nor falls of water nor enamel'd greens
Can soothe my anguish or invite to rest.
You, dear Ianthe, you alone impart
Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my smart:
The apple of my eye, the life-blood of my heart.
With line of silk, with hook of barbed steel,
Beneath this oaken umbrage let us lay,
And from the water's crystal bosom steal
Upon the grassy bank the finny prey:
The perch, with purple speckled manifold;
The eel, in silver labyrinth self-roll'd,
[gold. And carp, all burnish'd o'er with drops of scaly
Or shall the meads invite, with Iris hues
And Nature's pencil gay diversified
(For now the Sun has lick'd away the dews),
Fair flushing and bedeck'd like virgin bride?
Thither (for they invite us) we'll repair,
Collect and weave (whate'er is sweet and fair)
A posy for thy breast, a garland for thy hair.
Fair is the lily, clad in balmy snow;
Sweet is the rose, of Spring the smiling eye;
Nipp'd by the winds, their heads the lilies bow;
Cropp'd by the hand, the roses fade and die.
Though now in pride of youth and beauty dress'd,
O think, Ianthe, cruel Time lays waste
The roses of the cheek, the lilies of the breast.
Weep not; but, rather taught by this, improve
The present freshness of thy springing prime:
Bestow thy graces on the god of Love,
Too precious for the wither'd arms of Time.
In chaste endearments, innocently gay,
Ianthe! now, now love thy Spring away;
Ere cold October blasts despoil the bloom of May.
Now up the chalky mazes of yon hill,
With grateful diligence, we wind our way;
What opening scenes our ravish'd senses fill,
And wide their rural luxury display!
Woods, dales, and flocks, and herds, and cots, and
Villas of learned clerks and gentle squires;
The villa of a friend the eyesight never tires.
If e'er to thee and Venus, May, I strung
The gladsome lyre, when livelood* swell❜d my
veins,
And Eden's nymphs and Isis' damsels sung
In tender elegy †, and pastoral strains ;
Collect and shed thyself on Theron's bowers,
O green his gardens, O perfume his flowers,
O bless his morning walks and soothe his evening
hours.
Long, Theron, with thy Annabel enjoy
The walks of Nature, still to Virtue kind,
For sacred solitude can never cloy;
The wisdom of an uncorrupted mind!
O very long may Hymen's golden chain
To earth confine you and the rural reign;
Then soar, at length, to heaven! nor pray, O
Muse, in vain.
Where'er the Muses haunt, or poets muse,
In solitary silence sweetly tired,
Unloose thy bosom, May! thy stores effuse,
Thy vernal stores, by poets most desired,
Of living fountain, of the woodbine shade,
Of Philomela, warbling from the glade.
Thy bounty, in his verse, shall certes be repaid.
Stella; sive Amores: Elegiarum Tres Libri. Written in the year 1736.
Six Pastorals: written in the year 1734.
On Twit'nam bowers (Aonian Twit'nam bowers!)
Thy softest plenitude of beauties shed,
Thick as the Winter stars or Summer flowers;
Albe* the tuneful Master (ah!) be dead.
To Colin next he taught my youth to sing,
My reed to warble, to resound my string :
The king of shepherds he, of poets he the king.
Hail, happy scenes, where Joy would choose to dwell;
Hail, golden days, which Saturn deems his own;
Hail, music, which the Muses scant + excel;
Hail, flowerets, not unworthy Venus' crown.
Ye linnets, larks, ye thrushes, nightingales;
Ye hills, ye plains, ye groves, ye streams, ye gales,
Ye ever happy scenes! all you your Poet hails.
All hail to thee, O May! the crown of all!
The recompense and glory of my song:
Ne small the recompense, ne glory small,
If gentle ladies and the tuneful throng,
With lover's myrtle and with poet's bay
Fairly bedight ‡, approve the simple lay,
And think on Thomalin whene'er they hail thee,
IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales;
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed;—
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening May not unseemly with its stillness suit; [vale ; As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs, &c.
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