TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS EARL OF
THE wise and great of every clime, Through all the spacious walks of Time, Where'er the Muse her power display'd, With joy have listen'd and obey`d. For, taught of Heaven, the sacred Nine Persuasive numbers, forms divine,
To mortal sense impart :
They best the soul with glory fire;
They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire; And high o'er Fortune's rage enthrone the fixed heart.
Nor less prevailing is their charm The vengeful bosom to disarm; To melt the proud with human woe, And prompt unwilling tears to flow. Can wealth a power like this afford?
Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's sword, An equal empire claim?
No, Hastings. Thou my words will own : Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known; Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.
And the blest function of the poet's tongue, Ne'er shalt thou blush to honour; to assert From all that scorned Vice or slavish Fear hath
Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings Warbling at will in Pleasure's myrtle bower; Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings
By flattering minstrels paid in evil hour, Move thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign. A different strain,
And other themes, From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams, (Thou well canst witness) meet the purged ear: Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear; To hear the sweet instructress tell (While men and heroes throng'd around) How life its noblest use may find, How well for freedom be resign'd;
And how, by Glory, Virtue shall be crown'd.
Such was the Chian father's strain
To many a kind domestic train,
Whose pious hearth and genial bowl
Had cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul: When, every hospitable rite
With equal bounty to requite,
He struck his magic strings; And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth, And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth, And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things.
Now oft, where happy spirits dwell, Where yet he tunes his charming shell, Oft near him, with applauding hands, The Genius of his country stands.
'T is highest Heaven's command,
That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue; That what ensnares the heart should maim the hand,
And Virtue's worthless foes be false to Glory too. But look on Freedom. See, through every age, What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd! What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage, Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd! For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains Of happy swains, Which now resound [bound, Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures Bear witness. There, oft let the farmer hail The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate, And show to strangers passing down the vale, Where Ca'ndish, Booth, and Osborne sate; When, bursting from their country's chain, Even in the midst of deadly harms, Of papal snares and lawless arms, They plann'd for Freedom this her noblest reign.
Praise is reproach. Eternal God alone For mortals fixeth that sublime award. He, from the faithful records of his throne, Bids the historian and the bard Dispose of honour and of scorn; Discern the patriot from the slave; And write the good, the wise, the brave For lessons to the multitude unborn.
The nymphs, who preside over springs and rivulets, are addressed at day-break, in honour of their several functions, and of the relations which they bear to the natural and to the moral worid. Their origin is deduced from the first allegorical deities, | or powers of Nature; according to the doctrine of the old mythological poets, concerning the generation of the gods and the rise of things. They are then successively considered, as giving motion to the air and exciting summer-breezes; as nourishing and beautifying the vegetable creation; as contributing to the fullness of navigable rivers, and consequently to the maintenance of commerce; and by that means, to the maritime part of military power. Next is represented their favourable influence upon health, when assisted by rural exercise: which introduces their connection with the art of physic, and the happy effects of mineral medicinal springs. Lastly, they are celebrated for the friendship which the Muses bear them, and for the true inspiration which temperance only can receive in opposition to the enthusiasm of the more licentious poets.
O'ER yonder eastern hill the twilight pale Walks forth from darkness; and the god of day, With bright Astræa seated by his side, Waits yet to leave the ocean. Tarry, Nymphs, Ye Nymphs, ye blue-ey'd progeny of Thames, Who now the mazes of this rugged heath Trace with your fleeting steps; who all night long Repeat, amid the cool and tranquil air, Your lonely murmurs, tarry: and receive My offer'd lay. To pay you homage due, I leave the gates of Sleep; nor shall my lyre Too far into the splendid hours of morn Engage your audience: my observant hand Shall close the strain ere any sultry beam Approach you. To your subterranean haunts Ye then may timely steal; to pace with care The humid sands; to loosen from the soil The bubbling sources; to direct the rills To meet in wider channels; or beneath Some grotto's dripping arch, at height of noon To slumber, shelter'd from the burning heaven. Where shall my song begin, ye Nymphs? or end? Wide is your praise and copious - First of things, First of the lonely powers, ere Time arose, Were Love and Chaos. Love the sire of Fate; Elder than Chaos. Born of Fate was Time, Who many sons and many comely births Devour'd, relentless father: till the child Of Rhea drove him from the upper sky,
The kindred powers, Tethys, and reverend Ops, And spotless Vesta; while supreme of sway Remain'd the cloud-compeller. From the couch Of Tethys sprang the sedgy-crowned race, Who from a thousand urns, o'er every clime, Send tribute to their parent: and from them Are ye, O Naiads: Arethusa fair, And tuneful Aganippe; that sweet name, Bandusia; that soft family which dwelt With Syrian Daphne; and the honour'd tribes Belov'd of Pæon. Listen to my strain, Daughters of Tethys listen to your praise.
You, Nymphs, the winged offspring, which of old Aurora to divine Astræus bore, Owns ; and your aid beseecheth. When the might Of Hyperion, from his noontide throne, Unbends their languid pinions, aid from you They ask: Favonius and the mild South-west From you relief implore. Your sallying streams Fresh vigour to their weary wings impart. Again they fly, disporting; from the mead Half ripen'd and the tender blades of corn, To sweep the noxious mildew; or dispel Contagious streams, which oft the parched Earth Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve, Along the river and the paved brook, Ascend the cheerful breezes: hail'd of bards Who, fast by learned Cam, the Æolian lyre Solicit; nor unwelcome to the youth Who on the heights of Tibur, all inclin'd O'er rushing Anio, with a pious hand The reverend scene delineates, broken fanes, Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp Of ancient Time; and haply, while he scans The ruins, with a silent tear revolves The fame and fortune of imperious Rome.
You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid The rural powers confess; and still prepare For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands, Oft as the Delian king with Sirius holds The central heavens, the father of the grove Commands his Dryads over your abodes To spread their deepest umbrage. Well the god Remembereth how indulgent ye supplied Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime.
Pales, the pasture's queen, where'er ye stray, Pursues your steps, delighted; and the path With living verdure clothes. Around The laughing Chloris, with profusest hand, Throws wide her blooms, her odours. Still with you Pomona seeks to dwell: and o'er the lawns, And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thams Ye love to wander, Amalthea pours Well-pleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian horn, Her dower; unmindful of the fragrant isles Nysæan or Atlantic. Nor canst thou, (Albeit oft, ungrateful, thou dost mock The beverage of the sober Naiad's urn, O Bromius, O Lenæan) nor canst thou Disown the powers whose bounty, ill repaid, With nectar feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me, Yet, blameless Nymphs, from my delighted lyre, Accept the rites your bounty well may claim, Nor heed the scoffings of the Edonian band. For better praise awaits you. Thames, your sire, As down the verdant slope your duteous rills Descend, the tribute stately Thames receives, Delighted; and your piety applauds ; And bids his copious tide roll on secure,
And quell'd his deadly might. Then social reign'd For faithful are his daughters; and with words
Auspicious gratulates the bark which, now His banks forsaking, her adventurous wings Yields to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts Extremest isles to bless. And oft at morn, When Hermes, from Olympus bent o'er Earth To bear the words of Jove, on yonder hill Stoops lightly-sailing; oft intent your springs He views and waving o'er some new-born stream His blest pacific wand, " And yet," he cries, "Yet," cries the son of Maia, "though recluse And silent be your stores, from you, fair Nymphs, Flows wealth and kind society to men. By you, my function and my honour'd name "Do I possess; while o'er the Boetic vale,
Or through the towers of Memphis, or the palms By sacred Ganges water'd, I conduct The English merchant: with the buxom fleece Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe Sarmatian kings; or to the household gods Of Syria, from the bleak Cornubian shore, Dispense the mineral treasure which of old sidonian pilots sought, when this fair land Was yet unconscious of those generous arts Which wise Phoenicia from their native clime Transplanted to a more indulgent Heaven." Such are the words of Hermes: such the praise, () Naiads, which from tongues celestial waits Your bounteous deeds. From bounty issueth power: And those who, sedulous in prudent works, Relieve the wants of nature, Jove repays Vith noble wealth, and his own seat on Earth, it judgments to pronounce, and curb the might Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns Tot vainly to the hospitable arts
of Hermes yield their store. For, O ye Nymphs, Iath he not won the unconquerable queen Of arms to court your friendship? You she owns The fair associates who extend her sway Vide o'er the mighty deep; and grateful things Of you she uttereth, oft as from the shore
of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green banks of Vecta, she her thundering navy leads o Calpe's foaming channel, or the rough 'antabrian surge; her auspices divine mparting to the senate and the prince of Albion, to dismay barbaric kings,
'he Iberian, or the Celt. The pride of kings Vas ever scorn'd by Pallas: and of old tejoic'd the virgin, from the brazen prow of Athens o'er Egina's gloomy surge,
o drive her clouds and storms; o'erwhelming all The Persian's promis'd glory, when the realms of Indus and the soft Ionian clime, When Libya's torrid champain and the rocks of cold Imaüs join'd their servile bands, o sweep the sons of Liberty from Earth. n vain: Minerva on the bounding prow of Athens stood, and with the thunder's voice Denounc'd her terrours on their impious heads, and shook her burning ægis. Xerxes saw : 'rom Heracléum, on the mountain's height hron'd in his golden car, he knew the sign Celestial; felt unrighteous hope forsake lis faultering heart, and turn'd his face with shame. Hail, ye who share the stern Minerva's power; Who arm the hand of Liberty for war: nd give to the renown'd Britannic name o awe contending monarchs: yet benign, et mild of nature; to the works of peace Hore prone, and lenient of the many ills
Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid Hygeia well can witness; she who saves From poisonous cates and cups of pleasing bane, The wretch devoted to the entangling snares Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him she leads
To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To spread the toils, To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn At dawn of day to summon the loud hounds, She calls the lingering sluggard from his dreams : And where his breast may drink the mountain breeze, And where the fervour of the sunny vale May beat upon his brow, through devious paths Beckons his rapid courser. Nor when case, Cool ease and welcome slumbers have becalm'd His eager bosom, does the queen of health Her pleasing care withhold. His decent board She guards, presiding; and the frugal powers With joy sedate leads in and while the brown Ennæan dame with Pan presents her stores; While changing still, and comely in the change, Vertumnus and the Hours before him spread The garden's banquet; you to crown his feast, To crown his feast, O Naiads, you the fair Hygeia calls and from your shelving seats, And groves of poplar, plenteous cups ye bring, To slake his veins: till soon a purer tide Flows down those loaded channels; washeth off The dregs of luxury, the lurking seeds Of crude disease; and through the abodes of life Sends vigour, sends repose. Hail, Naiads: hail, Who give, to labour, health; to stooping age, The joys which youth had squander'd. Oft your
Will I invoke; and, frequent in your praise, Abash the frantic Thyrsus with my song.
For not estrang'd from your benignant arts Is he, the god, to whose mysterious shrine My youth was sacred, and my votive cares Belong; the learned Pæon. Oft when all His cordial treasures he hath search'd in vain ; When herbs, and potent trees, and drops of balm Rich with the genial influence of the Sun, (To rouse dark Fancy from her plaintive dreams, To brace the nerveless arm, with food to win Sick appetite, or hush the unquiet breast Which pines with silent passion,) he in vain Hath prov'd; to your deep mansions he descends, Your gates of humid rock, your dim arcades, He entereth; where empurpled veins of ore Gleam on the roof; where through the rigid mine Your trickling rills insinuate. There the god From your indulgent hands the streaming bowl Wafts to his pale-ey'd suppliants; wafts the seeds Metallic, and the elemental salts
Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink and Flies pain; flies inauspicious care: and soon The social haunt or unfrequented shade Hears Io, Io Pæan; as of old, When Python fell.
And, O propitious Nymphs, Oft as for helpless mortals I implore Your salutary springs, through every urn Oh shed your healing treasures. With the first And finest breath, which from the genial strife Of mineral fermentation springs like light O'er the fresh morning's vapours, lustrate then The fountain, and inform the rising wave.
My lyre shall pay your bounty. Scorn not ye That humble tribute. Though a mortal hand Excite the strings to utterance, yet for themes Not unregarded of celestial powers,
I frame their language; and the Muses deign To guide the pious tenour of my lay. The Muses (sacred by their gifts divine) In early days did to my wondering sense Their secrets oft reveal: oft my rais'd ear In slumber felt their music: oft at noon, Or hour of sunset, by some lonely stream, In field or shady grove, they taught me words Of power, from death and envy to preserve The good man's name. Whence yet with grateful mind,
And offerings unprofan'd by ruder eye, My vows I send, my homage, to the seats Of rocky Cirrha, where with you they dwell: Where you their chaste companions they admit Through all the hallow'd scene: where oft intent, And leaning o'er Castalia's mossy verge, They mark the cadence of your confluent urns, How tuneful, yielding gratefullest repose To their consorted measure: till again, With emulation all the sounding choir, And bright Apollo, leader of the song, Their voices through the liquid air exalt,
And sweep their lofty strings: those powerful strings That charm the mind of gods: that fill the courts Of wide Olympus with oblivion sweet Of evils, with immortal rest from cares : Assuage the terrours of the throne of Jove; And quench the formidable thunderbolt Of unrelenting fire. With slacken'd wings, While now the solemn concert breathes around, Incumbent o'er the sceptre of his lord Sleeps the stern eagle; by the number'd notes, Possess'd; and satiate with the melting tone: Sovereign of birds. The furious god of war, His darts forgetting, and the winged wheels That bear him vengeful o'er the embattled plain, Relents, and soothes his own fierce heart to ease, Most welcome ease. The sire of gods and men, In that great moment of divine delight, Looks down on all that live; and whatsoe'er He loves not, o'er the peopled earth, and o'er The interminated ocean, he beholds Curs'd with abhorrence by his doom severe, And troubled at the sound. Ye Naiads, ye With ravish'd ears the melody attend Worthy of sacred silence. But the slaves Of Bacchus with tempestuous clamours strive To drown the heavenly strains; of highest Jove Irreverent, and by mad presumption fir'd Their own discordant raptures to advance With hostile emulation. Down they rush From Nysa's vine-empurpled cliff, the dames Of Thrace, the Satyrs, and the unruly Fauns, With old Silenus, reeling through the crowd Which gambols round him, in convulsions wild Tossing their limbs, and brandishing in air The ivy-mantled thyrsus, or the torch Through black smoke flaming, to the Phrygian pipe's Shrill voice, and to the clashing cymbals, mix'd With shrieks and frantic uproar. May the gods From every unpolluted ear avert Their orgies! If within the seats of men, Within the walls, the gates, where Pallas holds The guardian key, if haply there be found Who loves to mingle with the revel-band And hearken to their accents; who aspires From such instructors to inform his breast With verse; let him, fit votarist, implore Their inspiration. He perchance the gifts
Of young Lyæus, and the dread exploits, May sing in aptest numbers: he the fate Of sober Pentheus, he the Paphian rites, And naked Mars with Cytherea chain'd, And strong Alcides in the spinster's robes, May celebrate, applauded. But with you, O Naiads, far from that unhallow'd rout, Must dwell the man whoe'er to praised themes Invokes the immortal Muse. The immortal Mus To your calm habitations, to the cave Corycian, or the Delphic mount, will guide His footsteps; and with your unsullied streams His lips will bathe: whether the eternal lore Of Themis, or the majesty of Jove, To mortals he reveal; or teach his lyre The unenvied guerdon of the patriot's toils, In those unfading islands of the bless'd, Where sacred bards abide. Hail, honour'd Nymphs Thrice hail. For you the Cyrenaic shell Behold, I touch, revering. To my songs Be present ye with favourable feet, And all profaner audience far remove.
TO THE RIGHT REVEREND BENJAMIN, LORD OF WINCHESTER.
For toils which patriots have endur'd, For treason quell'd and laws secur'd, In every nation Time displays The palm of honourable praise. Envy may rail; and Faction fierce May strive; but what, alas! can those (Though bold, yet blind and sordid foes) To gratitude and love oppose, To faithful story and persuasive verse!
O nurse of Freedom, Albion, say, Thou tamer of despotic sway, What man, among thy sons around, Thus heir to glory hast thou found? What page in all thy annals bright, Hast thou with purer joy survey'd Than that where Truth, by Hoadly's aid, Shines through Imposture's solemn shade, Through kingly and through sacerdotal night?
To him the Teacher bless'd, Who sent Religion, from the palmy field By Jordan, like the morn to cheer the west, And lifted up the veil which Heaven from Earth conceal'd,
To Hoadly thus his mandate he address'd: “Go thou, and rescue my dishonour'd law From hands rapacious, and from tongues impure. Let not my peaceful name be made a lure Fell Persecution's mortal snares to aid: Let not my words be impious chains to draw The freeborn soul in more than brutal awe,
To faith without assent, allegiance unrepaid."
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