Nor venal senator that's in,

The gods and heroes own'd a passion Disturb this amiable retreat:

For wives and daughters of the swains, Only a Muse, a Love, or Grace,

And heroines, whilst 'twas the fashion, In this calm senate have a seat.

Ridotto'd on the rural plains. Such representatives are free.

The 'squires were then of heav'nly race, No Muse has lately been at court,

The parsons fashionable too, Nor are the Graces better for't;

Young Hermes had at court a place, Nor have the Loves septennially,

Venus and Mars were folks one knew. A borough-int’rest to support,

But long long since those times are o'er, Mortgag'd their healths or property:

No goddess trips it o'er the lea, Led by unerring Nature's voice,

The gods and heroes are no more, I haunt retirement's silent shade,

Who danc'd to rural minstrelsy. Contentment's bumble lot and choice,

Detested are these sad abodes Where on the mossy sopba laid,

By modern dames of mortal make, I see, thro' contemplation's eye,

And peers, who rank not with such gods, The white-wing’d cherub innocence,

Their solitary seats forsake. Each blessing of her native sky

For now 'tis quite another case, To sympathetic hearts dispense.

The country wears a diff'rent face. Here, undebauch'd by spurious art,

When sometimes, (oh! the cruel Lent!) Great Nature reigns in ev'ry part,

Thither her ladyship is sent, Both when refulgent Titan's beam

As Sul thro' Taurus morints the sky, In high meridian splendour glows,

Or George prorogues his parliament, And when pale Cynthia's maiden gleam

Her beauteous bosom heaves a sigh, O'er night a silver mantle throws.

Five months in rustic banishment. The natives of the neighb'ring grove

Thither, alas! no viscounts rove, Their nuptials chaunt on vernal sprays;

Nor heart-bewitching col’nels come, Untaught by Ovid how to love,

Dull is the music of the grove, True passion modulates their lays.

Unheeded fades the meadow's bloom. From no Propertius' polish'd strain,

The verdant copse may take the birds, The linnet forms her temp'rate note;

The breath of morn and evening's dow From no Tibullus learns to plain

To bleating flocks and lowing herds The widow'd turtle's faithful throat.

Be pleasant and be wholesome too; Each feather'd libertine of air,

But how can these ('tis out of nature) Gay as Catullus, loves and sings;

Have charms for any human creature!" Free as the Teian sage from care,

Such are the sentiments, I own, The goldfinch claps his gilded wings,

Of all that lazy loitering race, And wooes his female to repair

From daily ushers to his grace, To shady groves and crystal springs.

Who never leave the guilty town; Here bless'd with freedom and content,

But in the purlieus of the court, Untaught by devious thought to stray

By koaves are spanic'd up and down, Thro' fancy's visionary way,

To fetch and carry each report. These silvan bards of sentiment

Far other images arise Warble the dictates of the heart

To those who inward turn their eyes Uninterrupted as they flow,

To view th’inhabitants of mind; Unmeasur'd by the rules of art,

Where solitude's calm vot'ries find Now strongly high, now sweetly low.

Of knowledge thi' inexhausted prize; Such scenes the good have ever lov'd,

And truth, immortal truth bestows, The great have sought, the wise approv'd:

Clad in etherial robes of light, Here legislators plann'd of old

Pure as the fakes of falling snows, The pandects of immortal laws;

Unenvied unreprov'd delight. And mighty chiefs and heroes bold,

On me, my lord, on bumble me Withdrawn from popular applause,

The intellectual train attends; First having left their countries free

Science oft seeks my company, From savage and from human pests,

And Fancy's children are my friends. Gain'd a more glorious victory

Here bless'd with independent ease, O'er the fierce tyrants of their breasts.

I look with pity on the great, Metbinks, I hear some couitier say,

For who, that with enjoyment sees " Such cbarms ideal ill agree

The Laughs and Graces at his gate, With moderniz'd gentility;

And little Loves attending nigh, For now the witty, great, and gay,

Or fondly hov'ring o'er his head, Think what so charms your rural sense,

To wing his orders thro' the sky, Only a clown's fit residence.

Whilst warbling Muses round him shed In former days a country life,

Sweet How'rs, which on Parnassus blow, For so time-honour'd poets sing,

Would wish those thorny paths to tread, Free from anxiety and strife,

Which slaves and courtiers ouly know. Was blandish'd by perpetual spring.

Thanks to my ancestors and Heav'n, There the sweet Graces kept their court,

To me the happier lut is givin, The Nymphs, the Fauns, and Dryads play'd, In calm retreat my time to spend Thither the Muses would resort,

With far far better company, Apollo luv'd the sylvan shade.

Than those who on the court attend

In honourable drudgery.

The oak-fring'd mountain's hoary brow, Warriors and statesmen of old Rome

Whose streams, united in the vale, Duly observe my levée-day,

O’er pebbled beds loquacious flow, And wits from polish'd Athens come,

Tun'd to the sad melodious tale Occasional devoirs to pay.

In murmurs querulously slow. With me great Plato often holds

And, whilst iminers'd in thought I lie, Discourse upon immortal pow'rs,

From ages past and realms unseen, And Attic Xenophon unfolds

There moves before the mental eye Rich honey from Lycéum flow'rs;

The pleasing melancholy scene Cæsar and Tully often dine,

Of nymphis and youths unfortunate, Anacreon rambles in my grove,

Whose fame shall spread from shore to shore, Sweet Horace drinks Falernian wine,

Preserv'd by bards from death and fate, Catullus makes on haycocks love.

Till time itself shall be no more. With these, and some a-kin to these,

Thus, not by black misanthropy The living few who grace our days,

Impella, to caves or rocks 1 fly; I live in literary ease,

But when, by chance or humour led, My chief delight their taste to please

My wand'ring feet those regions tread, With soft and unaffected lays.

Taught by philosophy so sweet Thus, to each vot'ry's wish, kind fate

To shun the fellowship of care, Divides the world with equal line,

Far from the world I go to meet She bids ambition, care, and state,

Such pleasures as inhabit there. Be the high portion of the great,

With rebel-will I ne'er oppose
Peace, friendship, love, and bliss be mine. The current of my destiny,

But, pliant as the torrent flows,
Receive my course implicitly.
As, from some shaded river's side

If chance a tenderosier's blown,

Subject to the controuling tide,

Thiobedient shrub is carried down.

Awhile it floats upon the streams,

By whirlpools now is forc'd below,

Then mounts again where Titan's beams
Luo me cunque rapit tempestas deferor hospes.

Upon the shining waters glow.

Sweet Aow'ry vales it passes by,
I've oft, Melissa, heard you say,

Cities, and solitudes by turns, “ The world observes I never wear

Or where a dreary desert burns An aspect gloomy or severe,

In sorrowful obscurity. That, constitutionally gay,

For many a league the wand'rer's bome, Whether dark clouds obscure the sky,

By forest, wood, meail, mountain, plain, Or Phoebus gilds the face of day,

Till, carried never to return, In pleasur.'s true philosophy

'Tis buried in the boundless main. I pass the winged years away.”

Thus Aristippus forms his plan; In most, 'tis true, the human sense

To ev'ry change of times and fates Is subjected to smiles, or tears,

His temper he accommodates; To swelling pride, or trembling fears,

Not where he will, but where he can, " By ev'ry skyey influence.”

A daily bliss he celebrates. Cameleon-like their souls agree

An osier on the stream of time, With all they hear and all they see,

This philosophic wanderer Or, as one instrument resounds

Floating thro' ev'ry place and clime, Another's unison of sounds,

Finds some peculiar blessing there. Their mutable complexions carry

Where e'er the winding current strays The looks of anger, hope, and joy;

By prosp'rous mount or adverse plain, Just as the scenes around 'em vary,

He'll sport, till all his jocund days Pleasures delight, or pains annoy.

Are lost in life's eternal main. But I, by philosophic mood,

Let worldlings hunt for happiness Let the wise call it happy folly,

With pain, anxiety and strife, Educe from ev'ry evil good,

Thro' ev'ry thorny path of life, And rapture e'en from melancholy.

And ne'er th' ideal fair possess! When in the silent midnight grove,

For who, alas! their passions send Sweet Philomela swells her throat

The fleeting image to pursue, With tremulous and plaintive note,

Themselves their own designs undo, Expressive of disastrous love,

And in the means destroy the end! I with the pensive Pleasures dwell,

But I a surer clue have found, And in their calm sequester'd cell

To guide me o'er the mazy ground; Listen with rapturous delight

For knowing that this deity
To the soft songster of the night.

Must ever rove at liberty
Here Echo, in her mossy cave,
Symphonious to the love-lorn song,

"See the Chartreuse of Gresset, from whence this Warbles the vocal rocks among,

passa e is imitated; but the subsequent particulaı Whilst gently-trickling waters lave

application to Aristippus is this author's.

* ES2.

Thro' Fancy's visionary road,

But should you ask me, why I choose, I never wisdom's schemes employ

Of all the laurel'd sisterhood To find her in one fix'd abode,

Th' inhabitants of Pindus' wood, But where I meet her I enjoy ;

The least considerable Muse. And being free from strise and care,

The vi'lets round the mountain's feet, Am sure to meet her ev'ry where.

Whose humble gems unheeded blow,
Are to the shepherd's smell more sweet
Tban lofty cedars on its brow.

Let the loud Epic sound th' alarms

Of dreadful war, and heroes sprung

From soine inmortal ancestry,

Clad in impenetrable arms

By Vulcan forg'd, my lyre is strong TO •**

With softer chords, my Muse more free

Wanders thro' Pindus' humbler ways D'autres font des vers par etude

In amiable simplicity : J'en fais pour me desennuyer.

Unstudy'd are her artless lays,

She asks po laurel for her brows;

Careless of censure or of praise,
SHOULD supercilious censors say,

She haunts where tender myrtle grows; “ His youth is waiving, 'tis not time

Fonder of happiness than fame,
For Aristippus now with rhime
To while the useless hours away;"

To the proud bay prefers the rose,

Nor barters pleasure for a name. I might reply, I do no more

On Nature's lap, reclin'd at ease, Than what my betters did before;

I listen to her hear’nly tongue, That u hat at first ny fancy lcd

From her derive the pow'r to please, This idle business to pursue,

From her receive th' harmonious time, Still makes me prosecute the trade,

And what the goddess makes my soug Because l've nothing else to do;

n unpreineditated rhyme But to the candid, Tom, and you,

Mellifluous flows, whilst young Desire, A better reason I could give,

Cu!ld from th' elysian bloom of spring, To whom a better reason's due,

Strews flow'rs immortal round my lyre, That in these measures I convey

Aud Fancy's sportive children bring, My gentle precepts, how to live,

From blossom'd grove and lilied mead, Clearer than any other way.

Fresh fragrant chaplets for For in the pow'rs of poetry,

The most, tho' softest of the Nine, Wit, truth, and pleasure blended lie.

Euterpe, muse of gaiety As, in Italia's fertile vales,

Queen of heart-soft'ning melody, On the same tree, whilst blossomis blow,

Allures my ear with notes divine. The ripen'd! fruits nectareous grow,

In my retreat Euierpe plays, Fed by warm suns and fresh'ning yales.

Where Science, garlanded with flow'rs, Divinest art to mortals gir'n!

Enraptur'd listens to her lays By thee, the brave, the good, the wise,

Beneath the shade of myrtle bow'rs. The sair, the learn'd, and witty, rise From earth's dull sod, and people heav'n.

This pleasing territory lies

Unvisited by common eyes, Nor be't to thee imputer) blaine,

Far from the prude's affected spleen, That ever-barking calumny,

Or bigot's surly godliness, And filthy-mouth'd obscenity,

Where no coquettes, no jilts are seen, Hare oft usurp'd thy injur'd name!

Nor folly-fetter'd fops of dress; Alas! the drops which Morning sheds

Far from the vulgar high and low, With dewy fingers on the meads,

The pension'd great man's littleness; The pink's and vi'lets tubes to ill,

Or inose, who, prone to slav'ry, grow Alike the noxious juices feed

Fit tools of others tyranny, Of deadly hemlock's pois'nous weed,

And, with a blind devotion, b And give 'em fatal pow'r to kill!

To wooden blocks of quality; Imagination loves to trace

Far from the land of Argument, Reason's immortal lineaments

Where deep within their murky cells, In Fiction's necromantic face,

Figures and bloated Tropes are pent, When Probability assents.

And three-legg'd Syllogism dwells; The fairest features Fiction wears,

Far from the bubble-blowing race, When most like Truth th'inchantress looks,

The school-men subtle and retin'd, As sweet Narcissa's shade appears,

Who fill the thick skull's brainless space, In silent lakes and crystal brooks,

With puffs of theologic wind; So like the life, we scarcely know

And all the grave pedantic train, Where last to fix our wav'ring love,

Which fairy Genius longs to biud Whether upon the form below,

Hard with a cominent's iron chain. Or on the real nymph above.

But, whilst such drones are drix'n away, In each we see an angel's face,

In my belov'd retreat remain
Tho' for the substance breathe our sigbs,

The fair, the witty, and the gay.
Whilst we the shadowy image trace
In the clear wave with longing cyes.

See Les Ombres of Gresset,

my head,

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Here the soft patriarch of the Loves,

Than these much greater bards, I ween, Honey'd Anacreon, with the doves

Whenever they will condescend Of Venus futt'ring o'er his head,

Th' inferior Muses to attend, (Whilst ivy-crowned Hours around

Immortalize this humble scene: The laughter-loving Graces lead

Shakespear's and Drayton's Fairy crews In sportive ringlets to the sound

In midnight revels gambol round, Of Paphian flutes) the Muse invites

And Pope's light Sylphids sprinkle dews To festive days and am'rous nights.

Refreshing on the magic ground. Here tender Moscus loves to rove

Nor 'sdains the Dryad train of yore, Along the meadow's daisied side,

And green-hair'd Naiads of the flood, Under a cool and silent grove

To join with Fancy's younger brood, Where brooks of dimpling waters glide.

Which brood the sweet enchantress bore Rapt in celestial ecstasy

To British bards in after-times, Sappho, whom all the Nine inspire,

Whose fame shall bloom in deathless rhymes, Varies her am'rous melody,

When Greece and Britain are no more. The chords of whose Idalian lyre,

Whilst such the feasts of fancy give, As changeful passions ebh or flow,

Careless of what dull sages know, Struck with bold haud now vibrate high,

Amidst their banquets I will live, Now, modulated to a sigh,

And pitying, look on pow'r below. Tremble most languishingly low.

If still the cynic censor says, Horace, mild sare, refin'd with ease,

That Aristippus' useless days Whose precepts whilst they counsel, please, Pass in melodious foolery, Without the jargon of the schools

This is my last apology: And fur-gown'd pedant's bookish rules,

“ Whatever has the pow'r to bless, Here keeps his lov'd academy;

By living having learnt to prize, His art so nicely he conceals,

Since wisdom will afford me less That wisdom on the bosom steals,

Than what from harmless follies rise, And men grow good insensibly.

I cannot spare from happiness
From cool Valclusa's lilied meads

A single moment to be wise."
Soft Petrarch and his Laura come,
And e'en great Tasso sometimes treads
Thcse flow'ry walks, and culls the bloom
Of rural groves, where heretofore
Each Muse, each Grace, beneath the shade

Of myrtle bow'rs, in secret play'd
With an Idalian paramour.

From silver Seine's transparent streams,
With roses and with lilies crown'd,

Breathing the same heart-easing themes,

AXAPIC AE TIC NEOTK12C And tun'd in amicable sound,

ΜΕΘΕΤΩ ΠΟΙΗΜΑ Sweet bards, of kindred spirit, blow

ODE HENR. STEPHANI: Soft Lydian notes on Gallic reeds, Whose songs instruct us how to know

O THOU, for whom the British bays Truth's flow'rs from affectation's weeds.

Bloom in these unpoetic days, Chapelle leads up the festive band;

Whose early genius glow'd to follow La Farre and Chaulieu, hand in hand,

The arts thro' Nature's ancient ways, Close follow their poetic sire,

Twofold disciple of Apollo! Hot with the Teian grape and fire.

Shall Aristippus' easy lays, But hark! as sweet: as western wind

Trifles of philosophic pleasure Breathes from the vi'let's fragrant beds,

Compos'd in literary leisure, When balmy dews Aurora sheds,

Aspire to gain thy deathless praise? Gresset's clear pipe, distinct behind,

If thy nice ear attends the strains Symphoniously combines in one

This careless bard of Nature breathes Each former bard's mellifluent tone.

On Cyprian flute in Albion's plains, Gresset! in whose harmonius verse

By future poets inyrtle wreaths The Indian bird shall never die,

Shall long be scatter'd o'er bis urn Tho' death may perch on Ver-Vert's hearse,

In annual solemnity, Fame's tongue immortal shall rehearse

And marble Cupids, as they mourn, His variable loquacity.

Point where his kindred ashes lie. Nor wanting are there bards of Thames,

Whilst thro' the tracks of endless day On rural reed young Surry plays,

Thy Muse shall, like the bird of Jove, And Waller wooes the courtly dames

Wing to the source of light her way With gay and unaffected lays,

And bring from cloudless realms above, His careless limbs supinely laid

Where Truth's seraphic daughters glow, Beneath the plantane's leafy shade.

Another Promothéan ray Prior his easy pipe applies

To this benighted globe below, To sooth his jealous Cloe's breast,

Mine, like soft Cytherea's dove, And eren Sacharissa's eyes

Contented with her native grove, To brighter Cloe's yield the prize

Shall fondly sooth th' attentive ears Of Venus' soul bewitching cest.

Of life's way-wearied travellers,


And, from the paths of'fancied woes,

A wand'rer from bis native grores, Lead 'em to the serene abode

A like regard the British Loves Where real bliss and real good

To me their future poet bore, In sweet security repose;

Nor left me guardianless alone, Or, as the lark with matin notes,

For tho' no Nymph or Faun appear'd, To youth's new voyagers, in spring,

Nor piping Satyr was there heard, As over head in air she floats,

And here the Dryads are unknown; Attendant on unruffed wing,

Yet, natives true of English ground, Warbles inartificial joy,

Sweet Elves and Fays in mantles green, My Muse in tender strains shall sing

By shepherds oft in moonlight seen, The feats of Venus' winged boy,

And dapper Fairies danc'd around. Or how the nimble-footed Hours,

The nightingale, her love-loru lay With the three Graces knit in dance,

Neglecting on the neighb'ring spray, Follow the goddess Elegance

Strew'd with fresh flow'rs my turfy bed, To Hebe's court in Paphian bow'rs.

And, at the first approach of morn, Nor let the supercilious wise

The red-breast stript the fragrant thors And gloomy sons of melancholy

On roses wild to lay my head. These unaffected lays despise

Thus, as the wond'ring rustics say, As day-dreams of melodious folly.

In smiling sleep they found me laid Reason a lovelier aspect wears

Beneath a blossom'd hawthorn's shade, The Smiles and Muses when between,

Whilst sportive bees, in mystic play, Than in the stoic's rigid mien

With boney fill'd my little lips With beard philosophiz'd by years;

Blent with each sweet that Zephyr sips And Virtue moaps not in the cell

From fow'ry cups in balıny May. Where cloister's Pride and Penance dwell,

From that bless'd hour my bosom glowd But, in the chariot of the Loves,

Ere vanity or fame inspir'd, She triumphs inocently gay,

With unaffected transports fir’d, Drawn by the yok'd Idalian doves,

And from my tongue untutor'd flow'd, Whilst young Affections lead the way

In childhood's inattentive days, To the warm regions of the heart,

The lisping notes of artless lays. Whence selfish fiends of Vice depart,

Nor have these dear enchantinents ceas'd, Like spectres at th' approach of day.

For what in innocence began Should any infidel demand,

Still with increasing years increas'd, Who sneers at our poetic Heav'a,

And youth's warm joys now charm the man. Whether from ordination given

Perhaps this fondly-fuster'd flame, By prelates of the Thespian land,

E’en when in dust my body's laid, Or inspiration from above,

Will o'er the tomb preserve its fame, (is modern methodists derive

And glow within my future shade. Their light from no divine alive)

If thus, as poets have agreed, I hold the great prerogative

The soul, when from the body freed, T'interpret saye Anacreon's writ,

In t' other world confines her bliss Or gloss upon Catullus' wit,

To the saine joys she lor'd in this, Prophets that heretofore were sent,

Thine, when she's pass'd the Stygian flood, And finally require to see

Shall, ʼmidst the patriot cbiefs of old, Credentials of my embassy,

The wise, the valiant, and the good, Before luis faith could yield assent,

(Great names in deathless archives roll'a!) Convincing reasons I would give

Strike with a master's migbty hand From a short tale scarce credible,

Thy golden lyre's profoundest chords, But yet as true and plausible,

And fascinate the kindred band As some which catholics believe,

With magic of poetic words. That I was call'd by Jove's bebest

Ravish'd with thy mellifuent lay A Paphian and a Delpbian priest,

Plato and Virgil shall entwine Once when by Treut's pellucid streams,

Of olive and the Mantuan bay In days of prattling infancy,

A never-fading crown for thee, Led by young wond'ring Ecstasy,

And learn's Lucretius shall resigo, To view the Sun's refulgent beams

Among the foll'wers of the Nine, As on the sportive waves they play'd

His philosophic dignity. Too far I negligently stray'd,

For tho' his faithful pencil drew 'The god of day his lamp withdrew,

Nature's external symmetry, Evening her dusky mantle spread,

Yet to the mind's capacious view, And from her moisten'd tresses shed

That unconfin'd expatiates Refreshing drops of pearly dew,

O'er mighty Nature's wond'rous whole, Close by the borders of a wood,

Thy nicer stroke delineates Where an old ruin'd abbey stood,

The finer features of the soul. Far from a fondling mother's sight,

And, whilst the Theban bard to thee With toil of childish sport oppress'd

Shall yield the heart-elating lyre, My tender limbs sunk down to rest

Horace shall hear attentively 'Midst the dark horrours of the night.

Thy finger touch his softer wire
As Horace erst by fabled doves

To more familiar harmony.
With spring's first leaves was mantled o'er Mean while thy Aristippus' shade

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