TO THE NYMPH OF THE SPRING.
Written near a Spring between two Hillocks, in the Neighbourhood of the River Tivy, in Pembrokeshire.
BY THE LATE SIR W. JONES.
WHY should old Tivy, boys, claim all our duty paid, And no just homage be to charming youth and beauty
See where the Nymph of the Spring sits inviting us, With charming waters crystalline, refreshing and delighting us.
What, tho' his margin broad be rocky, oak'd and willowy?
And what, tho' his ozier banks be spacious, deep, and billowy?
She, from her sweet paps, lilied and roseal,
Lies feeding all her laughing buds, with dew-drops ambrosial.
Then, with sweet melody, carol to the fountain nymph, Far sweeter than a sea nymph, and milder than a mountain nymph.
Long may her streams gush, lucid and nectarious, And long may her banks be deck'd with flow'rets multifarious;
Long o'er her arched grot may purple-winged Zephyrus Come leading on his wanton bands of breezes odoriferous.
Yearly to the Naiad shall the roundelay repeated be, And by the chorus jubilant her liquid silver greeted be. Say, can we better, boys, chace dull idle Care away, Than thus by passing hours of mirth in harmony and roundelay ?
Stretch'd on that green hillock's bank, around her rosy nipple, boys,
We merrily will sing and laugh, and merrily we'll tipple, boys.
Drinking to damsels, lovely and delicious;
Oh! heav'ns, would they smile on us, like deities
And, mark! if any rebel here shall miss the cup or mutiny,
Amerc'd shall be the miscreant without appeal or scrutiny.
FROM THE LATIN OF BELLAY.
I WEEP upon thy grave-thy grave my child!
Who should'st have wept on mine! we deck thy tomb.
This for thy bridal bed. Thy parents thought
To see thy marriage day; thy father hop'd
From thee the grandsire's name. Alas-my child!
Death has espous'd thee now,-and he who hop'd,
Mary, O dearest yet! the grandsire's name
From thee, has ceas'd to be a father now.
-balm of hurt minds
Prime nourisher in life's feast!
Ox that blest day, when weekly labour ends,
When Trade unchains her slaves, her whip suspends,
I left the stified city's smoky bounds,
Where Pity bleeds from never-closing wounds;
Where Beauty, doom'd by Poverty to die,
Bends o'er the hated task her languid eye;
Where Childhood, early victim to despair,
In sad maturity of thoughtful c.re,
All the long day immur'd in dusty cells,
Breathing disease, with pain and sorrow dwells.
On such dark thoughts, with downward looks intent,
Forth to the fields my wand'ring steps I bent ;
Pensive and slow I walk'd; but now the gale,
Brushing the hawthoru blossoms from the vale,
Breath'd sweet around, and on my temples stray'd;
The landscape smil'd, in purest green array'd;
Each insect, bird, and beast, in gambols play'd.
The gen'ral pleasure seiz'd me as I stood,
My thoughts, on evil fix'd, return'd to good.
I blest th' unseen hand that sooth'd my care,
And shed a healing balsam in the air;
That made each sympathetic joy we prove,
A spring of kindness, and a bond of love.
Yet shall we say, that with impartial skill
Nature has pois'd the scales of good and ill?
Behold the man, whom hourly tumults leave
No space for joy, and hardly time to grieve,
In love with solitude, yet forc'd all day
To elbow through the croud his breathless way;
Still harrass'd with new cares from sun to sun,
Fancy's fair dreams cut short, e'er well begun;
Despising lucre, yet for lucre's sake,
Condemn'd to labour till his fingers ache;
With slavish pen to drudge in ceaseless toil,
And waste on sordid thoughts the midnight oil.
Unhappier yet, in secret doom'd to feel
The glow of shame, or blushing to reveal;
Of moral pride to bow the lofty head,
Oh! guilt inglorious! not for wealth, but bread;
Oblig'd to dun, and fawn, and lie, and swear,
And count an oath a trifle light as air;
To such a man, what boon has nature giv'n,
What recompence, to make the balance even?
Yet here, even here, is Nature's bounty shown;
The wrong is Fortune's, the redress her own.
Full well she knew the baseness of mankind,
What various woes assail the tender mind,
That, like a wild-flower mid the ripening corn,
By peasant hands is rudely pluck'd and torn;
And form'd the country with mysterious art,
One great asylum for the human heart.
The sufferer, here releas'd from city strife,
Imbibes new patience for the ills of life;
Nobly erect beneath the frown of fate,
He views the world with sorrow, not with hate;
And calmly weighing luxury with health,
The pride of feeling, with the pomp of wealth,
Returns appeas'd, nor writhing calls again,
The power of dulness to protect from pain.
Yet think, my friend, how vain were Nature's care,
Her waving groves and blossom-scented air,
Her fields with verdure green, or gay with flow'rs,
Did not Religion make these blessings ours?
What boots it to the wretch, who, sunk in mines
Of central depth, in midnight darkness pines,
That o'er his head the glancing sun-beams play,
Or long remember'd moonlight's softer ray?
Did no sweet interval of rest and peace,
No stated breathing-time and short release,
Break the sad dulness of this irksome scene,
And chear with hope the tedious time between,
Nature might give her embryos to the waves,
And leave the sleeping flow'rets in their graves;
No eye undimm'd with tears, nor heart at ease,
For rural grace, and simple charms to please.
Have you not seen a youth, whose lib'ral mind,
For brighter hopes and higher aims design'd,
Was snatch'd from Science, by a hapless doom,
To plod with Traffic in his dungeon gloom?
Wak'd from the sullen lethargy of Grief,
That seeks entire despair, and spurns relief,
Alarm'd he sees the wings of Dulness spread
To wrap for ever his devoted head;
And dead to Hope, yet still alive to Shame,
Defrauds of needful rest his weary frame; -
Struggling with sleep and whelming cares, to save
Some wrecks of knowledge from Oblivion's wave.
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