FAREWELL HYMNE TO THE COUNTRY,
ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF
BY THE LATE REV. R, POTTER,
TRANSLATOR OF THE GREEK TRAGIC POETS.
SWEET poplar shade, whose trembling leaves emong
The cheerefull birds delight to chaunt their laies ;
Where oft the linnet powres the dulcet song,
And oft the thrilling thrush descanting plaies;
Their tunes attempring to the silver Yare,
Which gently murmurs here
A babbling brook; but swelling in his pride
Sees two fam'd towns upon his bankes appear,
And the tall ships on his faire bosom ride;
Indignant then rolls his prowde waves away,
And fomes o'er half the sea:
Sweet stream, with shade refresht, orehung with bowres
Entrailed with the honied woodbine faire;
Where breathes the gentlest, softest, simplest aire
Stealing fresh odors from the rising flowres,
Joy of my calmer howres,
Oh sooth me with thy whisp'rings whiles I sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
With pleasance oft two silver swannes I view
Pranking their silver plumes with conscious pride,
A comely couplement of goodly hew,
Come softly swimming down the crystal tide;
The crystal tide, resplendent as it may,
Looks not so faire as they,
Whether their snowie necks they love to lave,
Or pluck with jetty bill in wanton play
The yellow flowres that flote upon the wave;
Or 'sdeigne to tinge their plumage, lest they might
Soyle their pure beauties bright;
But with slow pomp on the clear surface move.
Ye sweet birds, whiter than the new-falu snow
That silvers ore Thessalian Pindus' brow;
Fairer than those that draw the queen of love:
Purer than Leda's Jove;
Tune your melodious voices whiles I sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Oft when the modest morn in purple drest,
Wak'd by the lively larke's love-learned laye,
Unbars the golden light-gate of the east,
And as a bridemaid leads the blushing daye;
The sunne's bright harbinger before her goes
Scatt'ring violet, scatt'ring rose;
The jolly sunne, uprist with lusty pride,
Shakes his faire amber locks, and round him throws
His glitterand beams to wellcome up his bride;
Then bids his livery'd clouds before him flie,
And daunces up the skie.
Sweet is the breath of heav'n with day-spring born; Sweet are the flowres, that ore the damaskt meads To the new sunne unfold their velvet heads;
Sweet is the dewe, the spangled child of morn,
That does the leaves adorn;
Sweet is the matin hymne the glad birds sing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
With early step yon' verdant slope I tread,
Crown'd with the florisht bowre of cremosin health,
Whence auntient Norwich rears her towred head,
Norwich, faire nurse of industry and wealth:
Down in the dale my lowly hamlet lies,
Where Truth without disguise,
Where dovelike Peace, and virgin Virtue where :
Hence Bacon's villa greets my pleasur'd eyes,
Bacon, to Phœbus and the Muses deare,
Seeking, uncombred with the toyles of state,
This grove-embosom'd seate.
The tufted hill, the valley flowre-bedight,
The silver shinings of my winding Yare,
The corn green-springing, and the fallows seare,
The lambkins sporting round, rural delight,
From hence enchaunt the sight,
And wake the shrilling pipe, and tempt to sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Oft when the eve demure with dewy eye,
Clad in a lengthned stole of raven-gray,
Assumes the sober empire of the skye,
The streakt west glimmering to the parting day;
When golden Hesperus forth-streaming bright,
The leader of the night,
Marshals his radiant troops, and gives command
In heav'n's hie arch their lovely lamps to light,
Shouting he walks the Gideon of the band:
When first the youthfull moon begins to show
New-bent her blessed bow;
Or when, uprising from her eastern bowre,
Full orb'd she strives her glowing face to shroud,
Gorgeously mantled in a lucid cloud;
Or all her beaming brightness deignes to powre
The silver'd landskip ore;
And shepherd swains their evening carrols sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring,
Qre the new-shaven level green I rove,
Where the fresh haycock breathes along the mead;
Or wander thro' th' uncertain-shaded grove,
Or the trim margent of the river tread;
Where the soft whisperings of the poplars tall,
To the streames liquid fall
Attempred sweet, the musefull mind delight:
Where the lone partridge to her mate does call,
Responsive in his homeward-hasting flight:
Where the low quail with modulation bland
Runnes piping o'er the land:
Where, as I stray along the dew-sprent ground,
The farre-off clock just trembles to my ear;
Where the mad citties lowder mirth I hear,
When swinging in full peal, a festive sound,
The deep bells roar around:
In mute attention hush'd I cease to sing,
Nor hills, nor dales, nor woods, nor fountaines ring,
Now night's pale fires a peacefull influence shed,
The flockes forget to bleat, the herds to low,
Loosely along the grassie green dispred :
The slumbring trees seem their tall tops to bow,
Rocking the carelesse birds that on them nest
To gentle, gentle rest;
Silent each one, save the lone nightingale,
Of all the tunefull sisters sweetest, best;
She, soft musician, thro' th' encharmed dale
Powres dainty-dittied warblings, to delight
The stillness of the night.
'Tis sacred thus to tread the dewy glade;
In the calm solitude of that still howre
To nature's God the gratefull soul to powre
Or in the silvery shine, or doubtfull shade
By quiv'ring branches made:
Rapt with the awfull thought I cease to sing,
Nor hills, nor dales, nor woods, nor fountaines ring.
When flaming in the zenith of his powre,
Darting directly down his firey ray,
The hot sunne, leaving his meridian bowre,
Enfevers with his beams the cloudlesse day;
The gadding herd from such a fervent sky
To the cool thicket fly,
Tormented with the bryzes teazefull sting;
Th' enduring sheep in th' hot sands panting lye;
The grasshoppers, blythe insects, daunce and sing;
The mower swart his sweeping scythe forsakes,
The damsels quit their rakes,
And seated where the freshing shade is found
With joyous jolliment the daye beguile;
Sweet is the quaver'd laugh, the simper'd smile,
When, as the tale or gamesome song goes round,
The vocal vales resound;
To me resound, whiles I assay to sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Ye Lordings great, that in prowde cities wonne,
Which gently cooling breezes never bless,
In gorgeous palaces with heat foredonne,
Come here, and envy at my littleness.
All on an hanging hill a simple home,
For its small tenant roome,
Safe-nested in the bosom of a grove,
Where Pride, and Strife, and Envy never come,
|