And all her courtly guests, with rare device
Of mask, and emblematic scenery,
Tritons, and sea-nymphs, and the floating isle,
Detain'd. Nor feats of prowess, joust, or tilt
Of harness'd knights, nor rustic revelry
Were wanting; nor the dance, and sprightly mirth
Beneath the festive walls, with regal state,
And choicest lux'ry serv'd. But regal state,
And sprightly mirth, beneath the festive roof,
Are now no more. No more assembled crowds
At the stern porter's lodge admittance crave.
No more,
with plaint, or suit importunate,
The thronged lobby echoes, nor with staff,
Or gaudy badge, the busy pursuivants
Lead to wish'd audience. All, alas! is gone,
And Silence keeps her melancholy court
Throughout the walls; save, where, in rooms of state,
Kings once repos'd! chatter the wrangling daws,
Or screech-owls hoot along the vaulted isles.
No more the trumpet calls the martial band,
With sprightly summons, to the guarded lists;
Nor lofty galleries their pride disclose
Of beauteous nymphs in courtly pomp attir'd,
Watching, with trembling hearts, the doubtful strife,
And, with their looks, inspiring wondrous deeds.
No more the lake displays its pageant shows,
And emblematic forms. Alike the lake
And all its emblematic forms are flown,
And in their place mute flocks, and heifers graze,
Or buxom damsels ted the new-mown hay.
What art thou, Grandeur! with thy flatt'ring train
Of pompous lies, and boastful promises?
Where are they now, and what 's their mighty sum?
All, all are vanish'd like the fleeting forms
Drawn in an evening cloud. Nought now remains,
Save these sad relics of departed pomp,
These spoils of time, a monumental pile!
Which to the vain its mournful tale relates,
And warns them not to trust to fleeting dreams.
Thee too, though boasting not a royal train,
The Muse, O Balshal 34! in her faithful page
Shall celebrate: for long beneath thy roof
A band of warriors bold, of high renown,
To martial deeds and hazardous emprise
Sworn, for defence of Salem's sacred walls,
From Paynim foes, and holy pilgrimage.
Now other guests thou entertain'st,
A female band, by female charity
Sustain'd. Thee, Wroxal 35! too, in fame allied,
Seat of the poet's, and the Muse's friend!
My verse shall sing, with thy long-exil'd knight,
By Leonard's pray'rs, from distant servitude,
To these brown thickets, and his mournful mate,
Invisibly convey'd. Yet doubted she
His speech and alter'd form, and better proof
Impatient urg'd. (So Ithaca's chaste queen
Her much-wish'd lord, by twice ten absent years
And wise Minerva's guardian care disguis'd,
Acknowledg'd not: so, with suspended faith,
His bridal claim repress'd.) Straight he displays
Part of the nuptial ring between them shar'd,
When in the bold crusade his shield he bore.
134 Formerly a seat of the Knights Templars, now an almshouse for poor widows, founded by the lady Katharine Levison, a descendant of Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester.
35 The seat of Christopher Wren, esq.; once a nunnery, dedicated to St. Leonard.--See Dugdale's Antiquities.
The twin memorial of their plighted love
Within her faithful bosom she retain'd.
Quick from its shrine the hallow'd pledge she drew,
To match it with its mate, when, strange to tell!
No sooner had the separated curves
Approach'd each other, but, with sudden spring,
They join'd again, and the small circle clos'd.
So they, long sever'd, 'met in close embrace.
At length, O Coventry! thy neighb'ring fields,
And fair surrounding villas, we attend,
Allesley 36, and Whitley's 37 pastures, Stivichale 38,
That views with lasting joy thy green domains,
And Bagington's >9 fair walls, and Stonely 40! thine,
And Coombe's 41 majestic pile, both boasting once
Monastic pomp, still equal in renown!
And, as their kindred fortunes they compare,
Applauding more the present than the past.
Ev'n now the pencil'd sheets, unroll'd, display
More sprightly charms of beauteous lawn, and
grove,
And sweetly-wand'ring paths, and ambient stream,
To cheer with lasting flow th' enamell'd scene,
And themes of song for future bards prepare.
Fair city! thus environ'd! and thyself
For royal grants and silken arts renown'd!
To thee the docile youth repair, and learn,
With sidelong glance and nimble stroke, to ply
The flitting shuttle, while their active feet,
In mystic movements, press the subtle stops
Of the loom's complicated frame, contriv'd,
From the loose thread, to form, with wondrous art,
A texture close, inwrought with choice device
Of flow'r, or foliage gay, to the rich stuff,
Or silky web, imparting fairer worth.
Nor shall the Muse, in her descriptive song,
Neglect from dark oblivion to preserve
Thy mould'ring cross 42, with ornament profuse
Of pinnacles, and niches, proudly rais'd,
Height above height, a sculptur'd chronicle!
Less lasting than the monumental verse.
Nor scornful will she flout thy cavalcade,
Made yearly to Godiva's deathless praise,
While gaping crowds around her pageant throng,
With prying look and stupid wonderment.
Not so the Muse! who, with her virtue fir'd,
And love of thy renown, in notes as chaste
As her fair purpose, from memorials dark,
Shall, to the list'ning ear, her tale explain.
When Edward 43, last of Egbert's royal race, O'er sev'n united realms the sceptre sway'd, Proud Leofric, with trust of sov'reign pow'r, The subject Mercians rul'd. His lofty state The loveliest of her sex! a noble dame Of Thorold's ancient line, Godiva shar'd. But pageant pomp charm'd not her saintly mind Like virtuous deeds, and care of others' weal.
36 The seat of M. Neale, esq.
37 The seat of Ed. Bowater, esq.; now belonging to Francis Wheeler, esq.
38 The seat of Arthur Gregory, esq.; commanding a pleasant view of Coventry Park, &c.
39 The seat of William Bromley, esq.; one of the representatives in parliament for the county of Warwick.
40 The seat of the right hon. lord Leigh. 41 The seat of the right hon. lord Craven. 42 Built by sir William Hollies, lord mayor of London, in the reign of king Henry VIII. 43 Edward the Confessor.
Such tender passions in his haughty breast
He cherish'd not, but with despotic sway
Control'd his vassal tribes, and, from their toil,
His luxury maintain'd. Godiva saw
Their plaintive looks; with grief she saw thy sons,
O Coventry! by tyrant laws oppress'd,
And urg'd her haughty lord, but urg'd in vain!
With patriot-rule, thy drooping arts to cheer.
Yet, though forbidden e'er again to move
In what so much his lofty state concern'd,
Not so from thought of charitable deed
Desisted she, but amiably perverse
Her hopeless suit renew'd. Bold was th' attempt!
Yet not more bold than fair, if pitying sighs
Be fair, and charity which knows no bounds.
What had'st thou then to fear from wrath inflam'd
At such transcendent guilt, rebellion join'd
With female weakness and officious zeal?
So thy stern lord might call the gen'rous deed;
Perhaps might punish as befitted deed
So call'd, if love restrain'd not: yet though love
O'er anger triumph'd, and imperious rule,
Not o'er his pride; which better to maintain,
His answer thus he artfully return'd.
"Why will the lovely partner of my joys,
Forbidden, thus her wild petition urge?
Think not my breast is steel'd against the claims
Of sweet humanity. Think not I hear
Regardless thy request. If piety,
Or other motive, with mistaken zeal,
Call'd to thy aid, pierc'd not my stubborn frame,
Yet to the pleader's worth, and modest charms,
Would my fond love no trivial gift impart.
But pomp and fame forbid. That vassalage,
Which, thoughtless, thou would'st tempt me to
dissolve,
Exalts our splendour, and augments my pow'r.
With tender bosoms form'd, and yielding hearts,
Your sex soon melts at sights of vulgar woe;
Heedless how glory fires the manly breast
With love of rank sublime. This principle
In female minds a feebler empire holds,
Opposing less the specious arguments
For milder rule, and freedom's popular theme.
But plant some gentler passion in its room,
Some virtuous instinct suited to your make,
As glory is to ours, alike requir'd
A ransom for the vulgar's vassal state,
Then would'st thou soon the strong contention own,
And justify my conduct. Thou art fair,
And chaste as fair; with incest sense of shame,
And sanctity of thought. Thy bosom thou
Didst ne'er expose to shameless dalliance
Of wanton eyes; nor, ill-concealing it
Beneath the treach'rous cov'ring, tempt aside
The secret glance, with meditated fraud.
Go now, and lay thy modest garments by:
In naked beauty mount thy milk-white steed,
And through the streets, in face of open day,
And gazing slaves, their fair deliv'rer ride:
Then will I own thy pity was sincere,
Applaud thy virtue, and confirm thy suit.
But if thou lik'st not such ungentle terms,.
And sure thy soul the guilty thought abhors!
Know then that Leofric, like thee, can feel,
Like thee, may pity, while he seems severe,
And urge thy suit no more." His speech he clos'd,
And, with strange oaths, confirm'd the sad decree.
Again, within Godiva's gentle breast
New tumults rose. At length her female fears
Gave way, and sweet humanity prevail'd.
Reluctant, but resolv'd, the matchless fair
Gives all her naked beauty to the Sun:
Then mounts her milk-white steed, and, through
the streets,
Rides fearless; her dishevell'd hair a veil!
That o'er her beauteous limbs luxuriant flow'd,
Nurs'd long by Fate for this important day!
Prostrate to earth th' astonish'd vassals bow,
Or to their inmost privacies retire.
All, but one prying slave! who fondly hop'd,
With venial curiosity, to gaze
On such a wondrous dame. But foul disgrace
O'ertook the bold offender, and he stands,
By just decree, a spectacle abhorr'd,
And lasting monument of swift revenge
For thoughts impure, and beauty's injur'd charms.
Ye guardians of her rights, so nobly won!
Cherish the Muse, who first in modern strains
Essay'd to sing your lovely patriot's 44 fame,
Anxious to rescue from oblivious time
Such matchless virtue, her heroic deed
Illustrate, and your gay procession grace.
EDGE-HILL
BOOK III. AFTERNOON.
Address to the right hon. the earl of Clarendon.
Metaphysical subtleties exploded. Philosophical
account of vision, and optic glasses. Objects of
sight not sufficiently regarded on account of
their being common. Story relative thereto.
Solihul. School scene.
Retun to the mid-scene.
Coal mines.
Bremicham. Its manufactures.
Iron ore. Process of it. Panegyric upon iron.
AGAIN, the Muse her airy flight essays.
Will Villers, skill'd alike in classic song,
Or, with a critic's eye, to trace the charms
Of Nature's beauteous scenes, attend the lay?
Will he, accustom'd to soft Latian climes,
As to their softer numbers, deign awhile
To quit the Mantuan bard's harmonious strain,
By sweet attraction of the theme allur'd?
The Latian poet's song is still the same.
Not so the Latian fields. The gentle Arts
That made those fields so fair, when Gothic rule,
And Superstition, with her bigot train,
44 See Dugdale's Antiquities of Warwickshire. It is pleasant enough to observe, with what gravity the above-mentioned learned writer dwells on the praises of this renowned lady. "And now, before I proceed," says he, "I have a word more to say of the noble countess Godeva, which is, that besides her devout advancement of that pious work of his, i. e. her husband Leofric, in this magnificent monastery, viz. of monks at Coventry, she gave her whole treasure thereto, and sent for skilful goldsmiths, who, with all the gold and silver she had, made crosses, images of saints, and other curious ornaments." Which passages may serve as a specimen of the devotion and patriotism of those times.
Fix'd there their gloomy seat, to this fair isle
Retir'd, with Freedom's gen'rous sons to dwell,
To grace her cities, and her smiling plains
With plenty clothe, and crown the rural toil.
Nor hath he found, throughout those spacious
Where Albis flows, and Ister's stately flood, (realms
More verdant meads, or more superb remains
Of old magnificence, than his own fields
Display, where Clinton's ' venerable walls
In ruin, still their ancient grandeur tell.
Requires there aught of learning's pompous aid
To prove that all this outward frame of things
Is what it seems, not unsubstantial air,
Ideal vision, or a waking dream,
Without existence, save what fancy gives?
Shall we, because we strive in vain to tell
How matter acts on incorporeal mind,
Or how, when sleep has lock'd up ev'ry sense,
Or fevers rage, imagination paints
Unreal scenes, reject what sober sense
And calmest thought attest? Shall we confound
States wholly diff'rent? Sleep with wakeful life?
Disease with health? This were to quit the day,
And seek our path at midnight. To renounce
Man's surest evidence, and idolize
Imagination. Hence then banish we
These metaphysic subtleties, and mark
The curious structure of these visual orbs,
The windows of the mind; substance how clear,
Aqueous or crystalline! through which the soul,
As through a glass, all outward things surveys.
See, while the Sun gilds, with his golden beam,
Yon distant pile, which Hyde, with care refin'd,
From plunder guards, its form how beautiful!
Anon some cloud his radiance intercepts,
And all the splendid object fades away.
Or, if some incrustation o'er the sight
Its baleful texture spread, like a clear lens,
With filth obscur'd! no more the sensory,
Through the thick film, imbibes the cheerful day,
"But cloud instead, and ever-during night
Surround it!" So, when on some weighty truth
A beam of heav'nly light its lustre sheds,
To reason's eye it looks supremely fair.
But if foul passion, or distemper'd pride,
Impede its search, or phrensy seize the brain,
Then ignorance a gloomy darkness spreads,
Or superstition, with misshapen forms,
Erects its savage empire in the mind.
The vulgar race of men, like herds that graze,
On instinct live, not knowing how they live;
While reason sleeps, or waking stoops to sense.
But sage philosophy explores the cause
Of each phenomenon of sight, or sound,
And sev'n-fold colour are distinctly view'd
In the prismatic glass, and outward forms
Shown fairly drawn, in miniature divine,
On the transparent eye's membraneous cell.
By combination hence of diff'rent orbs,
Convex, or concave, through their crystal pores,
Transmitting variously the solar ray,
With line oblique, the telescopic tube
Reveals the wonders of the starry sphere,
Worlds above worlds; or, in a single grain,
Or wat'ry drop, the penetrative eye
Discerns innumerable inhabitants
Of perfect structure, imperceptible
To naked view. Hence each defect of sense
Obtains relief; hence to the palsy'd ear
New impulse, vision new to languid sight,
Surprise to both, and youthful joys restor❜d!
Cheap is the bliss we never knew to want!
So graceless spendthrifts waste unthankfully
Those sums, which merit often seeks in vain,
And poverty would kneel to call its own.
So objects, hourly seen, unheeded pass,
At which the new-created sight would gaze
With exquisite delight. Doubt ye this truth?
A tale shall place it fairer to your view.
A youth there was, a youth of lib'ral mind,
And fair proportion in each lineament
Of outward form; but dim suffusion veil'd
His sightless orbs, which roll'd, and roll'd in vain,
To find the blaze of day. From infancy,
Till full maturity glow'd on his cheek,
The long, long night its gloomy empire held,
And mock'd each gentle effort, lotions,
Or cataplasms, by parental hands,
With fruitless care employ'd. At length a Leech,
Of skill profound, well-vers'd in optic lore,
An arduous task devis'd aside to draw
The veil, which, like a cloud, hung o'er his sight,
And ope a lucid passage to the Sun.
Instant the youth the promis'd blessing craves.
But first his parents, with uplifted hands,
The healing pow'rs invoke, and pitying friends
With sympathizing heart, the rites prepare:
Mongst these, who well deserv'd the important trust,
A gentle maid there was, that long had wail'd
His hapless fate. Full many a tedious hour
Had she, with converse, and instructive song,
Beguil'd. Full many a step darkling her arm
Sustain'd him; and, as they their youthful days
In friendly deeds, and mutual intercourse
Of sweet endearment ps'd, love in each breast
His empire fix'd; in her's with pity join'd,
In his with gratitude and deep regard.
The friendly wound was giv'n; th' obstructing film
Taste, touch, or smell; each organ's inmost frame, Drawn artfully aside; and on his sight
And correspondence with externa! things:
Explains how diff'rent texture of their parts
Excites sensations diff'rent, rough, or smooth,
Bitter, or sweet, fragrance, or noisome scent:
How various streams of undulating air,
Through the ear's winding labyrinth convey'd,
Cause all the vast variety of sounds.
Hence too the subtle properties of light,
The magnificent ruins of Kenelworth castle, built by Geofry de Clinton, and more particularly described in the preceding book, belonged to the right hon. the earl of Clarendon, many years resident in Italy, and envoy to most of the courts in Germany.
Burst the full tide of day. Surpris'd he stood,
Not knowing where he was, nor what he saw !
The skilful artist first, as first in place
He view'd, then seiz'd his hand, then felt his own,
Then mark'd their near resemblance, much per.
And still the more perplex'd, the more he saw.
Now silence first th' impatient mother broke,
And, as her eager looks on him she bent,
My son," she cried, "my son!" On her he gaz'd With fresh surprise. "And, what?" he cried, “art thou,
2 For the general subject of the following story, see The Tatler, number 55, and Smith's Optics.
My mother? for thy voice bespeaks thee such,
Though to my sight unknown."-"Thy mother I!"
She quick reply'd, "thy sister, brother these."
"O! 't is too much," he said; "too soon to part,
Ere well we meet! But this new flood of day
O'erpow'rs me, and I feel a death-like damp
Chill all my frame, and stop my fault'ring tongue."
Now Lydia, so they call'd his gentle friend,
Who, with averted eye, but, in her soul,
Had felt the lancing steel, her aid apply'd,
So wondrous dear, be otherwise to sight?
Or can sight make, what is to reason good
And lovely, seem less lovely and less good?
Perish the sense, that would make Lydia such!
Perish its joys, those joys however great!
If to be purchas'd with the loss of thee.
O my dear Lydia! if there be indeed
The danger thou report'st, O! by our love,
Our mutual love, I charge thee, ne'er unbind
These hapless orbs, or tear them from their seat,
"And stay, dear youth," she said, "or with thee Ere they betray me thus to worse than death."
Thy Lydia, thine alike in life or death."
At Lydia's name, at Lydia's well-known voice, He strove again to raise his drooping head, And ope his closing eye, but strove in vain, And on her trembling bosom sunk away.
Now other fears distract his weeping friends. But short this grief! for soon his life return'd, And, with return of life, return'd their peace. Yet, for his safety, they resolve awhile His infant sense from day's bright beams to guard, Ere yet again they tempt such dang’rous joy.
As, when from some transporting dream awak'd, We fondly on the sweet delusion dwell, And, with intense reflection, to our minds Picture th' enchanted scene-angelic formsConverse sublime-and more than waking bliss! Till the coy vision, as the more we strive To paint it livelier on th' enraptur'd sense, Still fainter grows, and dies at last away: So dwelt the youth on his late transient joy, So long'd the dear remembrance to renew.
At length, again the wish'd-for day arriv'd. The task was Lydia's! her's the charge, alone From dangers new to guard the dear delight; But first th' impatient youth she thus address'd. "Dear youth! my trembling hands but ill essay This tender task, and, with unusual fear, My flutt'ring heart forebodes some danger nigh." "Dismiss thy fears," he cried, "nor think so ill I con thy lessons, as still need be taught To hail, with caution, the new-coming day. Then loose these envious folds, and teach my sight, If more can be, to make thee more belov'd." "Ah! there's my grief," she cried: "t is true our hearts
With mutual passion burn, but then 't is true
Thou ne'er hast known me by that subtle sense
Through which love most an easy passage finds;
That sense! which soon may show thee many a
maid
Fairer than Lydia, though more faithful none.
And may she not cease then to be belov'd?
May she not then, when less thou need'st her care,
Give place to some new charmer? 'T is for this
I sigh; for this my sad foreboding fears
New terrours form."-" And can'st thou then," he cried,
“Want aught that might endear thee to my soul?
Art thou not excellence? Art thou not all
That man could wish? Goodness, and gentlest love?
Can I forget thy long assiduous care?
Thy morning-tendance, surest mark to me
Of day's return, of night thy late adieu ?
Do I need aught to make my bliss complete,
When thou art by me? when I press thy hand?
When I breathe fragrance at thy near approach;
And hear the sweetest music in thy voice?
Can that, which to each other sense is dear,
"No, Heav'n forbid!" she cried, "for Heav'n
Thy parents' pray'rs, and many a friend now waits
To mingle looks of cordial love with thine.
And should I rob them of the sacred bliss?
Should I deprive thee of the rapt'rous sight?
No! be thou happy; happy be thy friends;
Whatever fate attends thy Lydia's love;
Thy hapless Lydia !-Hapless did I say?
Ah! wherefore? wherefore wrong I thus thy worth?
Why doubt thy well-known truth, and constant
mind?
No, happiest she of all the happy train,*
In mutual vows and plighted faith secure!"
So saying, she the silken bandage loos'd,
Nor added further speech, prepar'd to watch
The new surprise, and guide the doubtful scene,
By silence more than tenfold night conceal'd.
When thus the youth. "And is this then the world,
In which I am to live? Am I awake?
Or do I dream? Or hath some pow'r unknown,
Far from my friends, far from my native home,
Convey'd me to these radiant seats? O thou!
Inhabitant of this enlighten'd world!
Whose heav'nly softness far transcends his shape,
By whom this miracle was first achiev'd,
O! deign thou to instruct me where I am;
And how to name thee by true character,
Angel or mortal! Once I had a friend,
Who, but till now, ne'er left me in distress.
Her speech was harmony, at which my heart
With transport flutter'd; and her gracious hand
Supplied me with whate'er my wish could form;
Supply and transport ne'er so wish'd before!
Never, when wanted, yet so long denied!
Why is she silent now, when most I long
To hear her heav'nly voice? why flies she not
With more than usual speed to crown my bliss?
Ah! did I leave her in that darksome world?
Or rather dwells she not in these bright realms,
Companion fit for such fair forms as thine?
O! teach me, if thou canst, how I may find
This gentle counsellor; when found, how know
By this new sense, which, better still to rate
Her worth, I chiefly wish'd." The lovely form
Reply'd, "In me behold that gentle friend,
If still thou own'st me such."-"O! yes, 't is she,"
He cried; "'t is Lydia! 't is her charming voice!
O! speak again; O! let me press thy hand:
On these I can rely. This new-born sense
May cheat me. Yet so much I prize thy form,
I willingly would think it tells me true-
"Ha! what are these? Are they not they, of
whom
Thou warn'dst me? Yes-true-they are beautiful.
But have they lov'd like thee, like thee convers'd?
They move not as we move, they bear no part
In my new bliss. And yet methinks, in one,
Her form I can descry, though now so calm!
Who call'd me son." '—“Mistaken youth!" she | Matur'd in age and honours. These among,
These are not what they seem; are not as we,
Not living substances, but pictur'd shapes,
Resemblances of life! by mixture form'd
Of light and shade, in sweet proportion join'd.
But hark! I hear, without, thy longing friends,
Who wait my summons, and reprove my stay."
"To thy direction," cried th' enraptur'd youth,
"To thy direction I commit my steps.
Lead on, be thou my guide, as late, so now,
In this new world, and teach me how to use
This wondrous faculty; which thus, so soon
Mocks me with phantoms. Yet enough for me!
That all my past experience joins with this
To tell me I am happier than I know.
To tell me thou art Lydia! from whose side
I never more will part! with whom compar'd,
All others of her sex, however fair,
Shall be like painted, unsubstantial forms."
So when the soul, inflam'd with strong desire
Of purer bliss, its earthly mansion leaves,
Perhaps some friendly genius, wont to steer
With ministerial charge his dang'rous steps;
Perhaps some gentle partner of his toil,
More early blest, in radiant lustre clad,
And form celestial, meets his dazzled sight;
And guides his way, through trackless fields of air,
To join, with rapt'rous joy, th' ethereal train.
Now to the midland search the Muse returns. For more, and still more busy scenes remain; The promis'd schools of wise artificers In brass and iron. But another school Of gentler arts demands the Muse's song, Where first she learn'd to scan the measur'd verse, And awkwardly her infant notes essay'd.
Hail Solihul! respectful I salute
Thy walls; more awful once! when, from the sweets
Of festive freedom and domestic ease,
With throbbing heart, to the stern discipline
Of pedagogue morose I sad return'd.
But though no more his brow severe, nor dread
Of birchen sceptre awes my riper age,
A sterner tyrant rises to my view,
With deadlier weapon arm'd. Ah! Critic! spare,
O! spare the Muse, who feels her youthful fears
On thee transfer'd, and trembles at thy lash.
Against the venal tribe, that prostitutes
The tuneful art, to soothe the villain's breast,
To blazon fools, or feed the pamper'd lust
Of bloated vanity; against the tribe
Which casts its wanton jests at holy truths,
Or clothes, with virtue's garb, th' accursed train
Of loathsome vices, lift thy vengeful arm,
And all thy just severity exert.
Enough to venial faults, and hapless want
Of animated numbers, such as breathe
The soul of epic song, hath erst been paid
Within these walls, still stain'd with infant blood.
Yet may I not forget the pious care
Of love parental, anxious to improve
My youthful mind. Nor yet the debt disown
Due to severe restraint and rigid laws,
The wholesome curb of passion's headstrong reign.
To them I owe that ere, with painful toil,
Through Priscian's crabbed rules, laborious task!
I held my course, till the dull, tiresome road
Plac'd me on classic ground, that well repaid
The labours of the way. To then I owe
The pleasing knowledge of my youthful mates
I gratulate whom Augusta's senate hails
Father! and, in each charge and high employ,
Found worthy all her love, with amplest trust
And dignity invests. And well I ween,
Her tribunitial pow'r, and purple pomp
On thee confers, in living manners school'd
To guard her weal, and vindicate her rights,
O Ladbroke! once in the same fortunes class'd
Of early life; with count'nance unestrang'd,
For ev'ry friendly deed still vacant found!
Nor can the Muse, while she these scenes surveys,
Forget her Shenstone, in the youthful toil
Associate; whose bright dawn of genius oft
Smooth'd my incondite verse; whose friendly voice
Call'd me from giddy sports to follow him
Intent on better themes-call'd me to taste
The charms of British song, the pictur'd page
Admire, or mark his imitative skill;
Or with him range in solitary shades,
And scoop rude grottos in the shelving bank.
Such were the joys that cheer'd life's early morn!
Such the strong sympathy of soul, that knit
Our hearts congenial in sweet amity!
On Cherwel's banks, by kindred science nurs'd;
And well-matur'd in life's advancing stage,
When, on Ardenna's plain, we fondly stray'd,
With mutual trust, and amicable thought;
Or in the social circle gaily join'd:
Or round his Leasowe's happy circuit rov'd;
On hill and dale invoking ev'ry Muse,
Nor Tempe's shade, nor Aganippe's fount
Envied; so willingly the Dryads nurs'd
His groves; so lib'rally their crystal urns
The Naiads pour'd, enchanted with his spells;
And pleas'd to see their ever-flowing streams
Led by his hand, in many a mazy line;
Or, in the copious tide, collected large,
Or tumbling from the rock, in sportive falls,
Now, from the lofty bank, precipitate;
And now, in gentler course, with murmurs soft
Soothing the ear; and now, in concert join'd,
Fall above fall, oblique and intricate,
Among the twisted roots. Ah! whilst I write,
In deeper murmur flows the sad'ning stream;
Wither the groves; and from the beauteous scene
Its soft enchantments fly. No more for me
A charm it wears, since he, alas! is gone,
Whose genius plann'd it, and whose spirit grac'd.
Ah! hourly does the fatal doom, pronounc'd
Against rebellious sin, some social band
Dissolve, and leave a thousand friends to weep,
Soon such themselves, as those they now lament!
This mournful tribute to thy mem`ry paid!
The Muse pursues her solitary way;
But heavily pursues, since thou art gone,
Whose counsel brighten'd, and whose friendship
shar'd
The pleasing task. Now, Bremicham! to thee
She steers her flight, and, in thy busy scenes,
Seeks to restrain awhile the starting tear.
Yet ere her song describes the smoky forge,
Or sounding anvil, to the dusky heath
Her gentle train she leads. What? though no grain,
Or herbage sweet, or waving woods adorn
Its dreary surface, yet it bears, within,
A richer treasury. So worthy minds
Oft lurk beneath a rude, unsightly form.
More hapless they! that few observers search,
Studious to find this intellectual ore,
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