« 이전계속 »
ADDRESS TO A NAIAD.
BY MRS. LE NOIR.
Coy Nymph of this salubrious fount,
Didst waste thine urn adown the mount,
'Till youthful, but discerning eyes,
Bade the neat edifice arise,
And led thee falt'ring forth.
How like a timid village maid, New-rais'd from mean abode,
Thy silent waters meek obey'd,
And wonder'd, as they flow'd!
Late the rank nettle veil'd thy home,
The rushy bank beneath; Now roses deck thy Gothic dome,
And aromatics breathe;
While lawny slopes and woodlands green,
Entwine thee with as fair a scene,
Here at thy shrine shall languor sink,
And oft for succour turn,
From thy restoring urn.
The lowly shall the boon receive,
And those more blest in wealth and state,
While Ileav'n-directed Nature pours
A balm for every woe,
And bid their fountains flow.
On the Grave of the Poet Cow Per, in St. Edmund's Chapel, East Dereham, in Norfolk.
BY MR. HAYLEY.
IB, who with warmth the public triumph feel
ON THE LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY.
A PRIZE POEM AT OXFORD, 1771 •.
I E souls illustrious, who, in days of yore,
* By the present Bishop of Clonfert, when Fellow of New College. t These lines were written soon after an installation at Windsor. frantic when each unbound her brist'ling hair,
And shook a flaming torch, and yell'd in wild despair;
Or when on Cressy's field the sable might
Of Edward dar'd four Monarchs to the fight;
Say, holy shades, did patriotic heat,
In your big hearts with quicker transports beat,
Than in your sons, when forth like storms they pour'd,
In Freedom's cause the lury of the sword?
Who rul'd the main, or gallant armies led,
With Hawke who conquer'd, or with Wolfe who bled?
Poor is his triumph, and disgrac'd his name, Who draws the sword for empire, wealth, or fame: For him though wealth be blown on ev'ry wind, Though Fame announce him mightiest of mankind, Though twice ten nations crouch beneath his blade, Virtue disowns him, and his glories fade; For him no prayers are pour'd, no pagans sung, No blefiings chauutrd from a nation's tongue; Blood marks the path to his untimely bier; The curse of orphans, and the widow's tear, Cry to high Heav'n for vengeance on his head; Alive, deserted; and accurst when dead. Indignant of his deeds, the Muse, who sings Undaunted truth, and scorns to flatter kings, Shall shew the monster in his hideous form, And mark him as an earthquake, or a storm. Not so the patriot Chief, who dar'd withstand The base invader of his native land; Who made her weal his noblest, only end, Rul'd but to serve her, fought but to defend; Her voice in council, and in war her sword, Lov'd as her father, and her God ador'd; Who firmly virtuous, and severely brave, Sunk with the freedom that he could not save.
On worth like this the Muse delights to wait,
Here let the Muse withdraw the blood-stain'd veil,
Dear is the tie that links the anxious sire To the fond babe that prattles round his fire; Dear is the love that prompts the gen'rous youth, His sire's fond cares and drooping age to soothe; Dear is the brother, sister, husband, wife; Dear all the charities of social life: Nor wants firm Friendship holy wreaths to bind In mutual sympathy the faithful mind: But not the endearing strings that fondly move To filial duty, or parental love, Nor all the ties that kindred bosoms bind, Nor all in Friendship's holy wreaths entwin'd, Are half so dear, so potent to controul The gen'rous workings of the patriot soul, As is that holy voice that cancels all Those lies, that bids him for his country fall;