Since Nature taught you, Tray, to be a thief,
What blame have you, for working at your trade?
What if you stole a handsome round of beef;
Theft, in your code of laws, no crime was made.
The ten commandments you had never read,
Nor did it ever enter in your head:
But art and Nature, careful to conceal,
Disclos'd not even the Eighth—Thou shalt not steal.
Then to the green wood, caitiff, haste away:
There take your chance to live—for Truth must say,
We have no right, for theft, to hang up Tray.
"Tu procul a patria, ah dura! inculta deserta,
Me sine, sola videbis——
Virg. Eclog.
Thus, safe arrived, she greets the strand,
And leaves her pilot for the land;
But Lydia, why to deserts roam,
And thus forsake your floating home!
To what fond care shall I resign
The bosom, that must ne'er be mine:
With lips, that glow beyond all art,
Oh! how shall I consent to part!—
Long may you live, secure from woes,
Late dying, meet a calm repose,
And flowers, that in profusion grow,
Bloom round your steps, where'er you go.
On you all eyes delight to gaze,
All tongues are lavish in your praise;
With you no beauty can compare,
Nor Georgia boast one flower so fair.
Could I, fair girl, transmit this page,
A present, to some future age,
You should through every poem shine,
You, be adored in every line:
From Jersey coasts too loth to sail,
Sighing, she left her native vale;
Borne on a stream that met the main,
Homeward she looked, and looked again.
The gales that blew from off the land
Most wantonly her bosom fanned,
And, while around that heaven they strove,
Each whispering zephyr owned his love.
As o'er the seas, with you I strayed,
The hostile winds our course delayed,
But, proud to waft a charge so fair,
To me were kind—and held you there.
I could not grieve, when you complained
That adverse gales our barque detained
Where foaming seas to mountains grow,
From gulphs of death, concealed below.
When travelling o'er that lonely wave
To me your feverish hand you gave,
And sighing, bade me tell you, true,
What lands again would rise to view!
When night came on, with blustering gale,
You feared the tempest would prevail,
And anxious asked, if I was sure
That on those depths we sailed secure?
Delighted with a face so fair,
I half forgot my weight of care,
The dangerous shoal, that seaward runs,
Encircled moons, and shrouded suns.
With timorous heart and tearful eyes,
You saw the deep Atlantic rise,
Saw wintry clouds their storms prepare,
And wept, to find no safety there.
Throughout the long December's night,
(While still your lamp was burning bright)
To dawn of day from evening's close
My pensive girl found no repose.
Then now, at length arrived from sea,
Consent, fair nymph, to stay with me—
The barque—still faithful to her freight,
Shall still on your direction wait.
Such charms as your's all hearts engage!
Sweet subject of my glowing page,
Consent, before my Argo roves
To sun-burnt isles and savage groves.
When sultry suns around us glare,
Your poet, still, with fondest care,
To cast a shade, some folds will spread
Of his coarse topsails o'er your head.
When round the barque the billowy wave
And howling winds, tempestuous, rave,
By caution ruled, the helm shall guide
Safely, that Argo o'er the tide.
Whene'er some female fears prevail,
At your request we'll reef the sail,
Disarm the gales that rudely blow,
And bring the loftiest canvas low.
When rising to harass the main
Old Boreas drives his blustering train,
Still shall they see, as they pursue,
Each tender care employed for you.
To all your questions—every sigh!
I still will make a kind reply;
Give all you ask, each whim allow,
And change my style to thee and thou.
If verse can life to beauty give,
For ages I can make you live;
Beyond the stars, triumphant, rise,
While Cynthia's tomb neglected lies:
Upon that face of mortal clay
I will such lively colours lay,
That years to come shall join to seek
All beauty from your modest cheek.
Then, Lydia, why our bark forsake;
The road to western deserts take?
That lip—on which hung half my bliss,
Some savage, now, will bend to kiss;
Some rustic soon, with fierce attack,
May force his arms about that neck;
And you, perhaps, will weeping come
To seek—in vain—your floating home!
Through Jersey[379] groves, a wandering stream
That still its wonted music keeps,
Inspires no more my evening dream,
Where Cynthia, in retirement, sleeps.
Sweet murmuring stream! how blest art thou
To kiss the bank where she resides,
Where Nature decks the beechen bough
That trembles o'er your shallow tides.
The cypress-tree on Hermit's height,
Where Love his soft addresses paid
By Luna's pale reflected light—
No longer charms me to its shade!
To me, alas! so far removed,
What raptures, once, that scenery gave,
Ere wandering yet from all I loved,
I sought a deeper, drearier wave.
Your absent charms my thoughts employ:
I sigh to think how sweet you sung,
And half adore the painted toy
That near my careless heart you hung.
Now, fettered fast in icy fields,
In vain we loose the sleeping sail;
The frozen wave no longer yields,
And useless blows the favouring gale.
Yet, still in hopes of vernal showers,
And breezes, moist with morning dew,
I pass the lingering, lazy hours,
Reflecting on the spring—and you.
AMANDA'S COMPLAINT[380]
"In shades we live, in shades we die,
Cool zephyrs breathe for our repose;
In shallow streams we love to play,
But, cruel you, that praise deny
Which you might give, and nothing lose,
And then pursue your destined way.
Ungrateful man! when anchoring here,
On shore you came to beg relief;
I shewed you where the fig trees grow,
And wandering with you, free from fear,
To hear the story of your grief
I pointed where the cisterns are,
And would have shewn, if streams did flow!
The Men that spurned your ragged crew,
So long exposed to Neptune's rage—
I told them what your sufferings were:
Told them that landsmen never knew
The trade that hastens frozen age,
The life that brings the brow of care.
A lamb, the loveliest of the flock,
To your disheartened crew I gave,
Life to sustain on yonder deep—
Sighing, I cast one sorrowing look
When on the margin of the main
You slew the loveliest of my sheep.
Along your native northern shores,
From cape to cape, where'er you stray,
Of all the nymphs that catch the eye,
They scarce can be excelled by our's—
Not in more fragrant shades they play;—
The summer suns come not so nigh.
Confess your fault, mistaken swain,
And own, at least, our equal charms—
Have you no flowers of ruddy hue,
That please your fancy on the plain?—
Would you not guard those flowers from harm,
If Nature's self each picture drew!
Vain are your sighs—in vain your tears,
Your barque must still at anchor lay,
And you remain a slave to care;
A thousand doubts, a thousand fears,
'Till what you said, you shall unsay,
Bermudian damsels are not fair!
In fathoms five the anchor gone;
While here we furl the sail,
No longer vainly labouring on
Against the western gale:
While here thy bare and barren cliffs,
O Hatteras, I survey,
And shallow grounds and broken reefs—
What shall console my stay!
The dangerous shoal, that breaks the wave
In columns to the sky;
The tempests black, that hourly rave,
Portend all danger nigh:
Sad are my dreams on ocean's verge!
The Atlantic round me flows,
Upon whose ancient angry surge
No traveller finds repose!
The Pilot comes!—from yonder sands
He shoves his barque, so frail,
And hurrying on, with busy hands,
Employs both oar and sail.
Beneath this rude unsettled sky
Condemn'd to pass his years,
No other shores delight his eye,
No foe alarms his fears.
In depths of woods his hut he builds,
Devoted to repose,
And, blooming, in the barren wilds
His little garden grows:
His wedded nymph, of sallow hue,
No mingled colours grace—
For her he toils—to her is true,
The captive of her face.
Kind Nature here, to make him blest,
No quiet harbour plann'd;
And poverty—his constant guest,
Restrains the pirate band:
His hopes are all in yonder flock,
Or some few hives of bees,
Except, when bound for Ocracock,[A]
Some gliding barque he sees:
His Catharine then he quits with grief,
And spreads his tottering sails,
While, waving high her handkerchief,
Her commodore she hails:
She grieves, and fears to see no more
The sail that now forsakes,
From Hatteras' sands to banks of Core
Such tedious journies takes!
Fond nymph! your sighs are heav'd in vain;
Restrain those idle fears:
Can you—that should relieve his pain—
Thus kill him with your tears!
Can absence, thus, beget regard,
Or does it only seem?
He comes to meet a wandering bard
That steers for Ashley's stream.
Though disappointed in his views,
Not joyless will we part;
Nor shall the god of mirth refuse
The Balsam of the Heart:
No niggard key shall lock up Joy—
I'll give him half my store
Will he but half his skill employ
To guard us from your shore.
Should eastern gales once more awake,
No safety will be here:—
Alack! I see the billows break,
Wild tempests hovering near:
Before the bellowing seas begin
Their conflict with the land,
Go, pilot, go—your Catharine join,
That waits on yonder sand.
He that would wish to rove a while
In forests green and gay,
From Charleston bar to Catharine's isle
Might sigh to find the way!
What scenes on every side appear,
What pleasure strikes the mind,
From Folly's train, thus wandering far,
To leave the world behind.
The music of these savage groves
In simple accents swells,
And freely here, their sylvan loves
The feather'd nation tells;
The panting deer through mingled shades
Of oaks forever green
The vegetable world invades,
That skirts the watery scene.
Thou sailor, now exploring far
The broad Atlantic wave,
Crowd all your canvas, gallant tar,
Since Neptune never gave
On barren seas so fine a view
As here allures the eye,
Gay, verdant scenes that Nature drew
In colours from the sky.
Ye western winds! awhile delay
To swell the expecting sail—
Who would not here, a hermit, stay
In yonder fragrant vale,
Could he engage what few can find,
That coy, unwilling guest
(All avarice banish'd from the mind)
Contentment, in the breast!
TO MR. CHURCHMAN[383]
On the rejection of his Petition to the Congress of the United States,
to enable him to make a voyage to Baffin's Bay, to ascertain
the truth of his Variation Chart
Churchman! methinks your scheme is rather wild
Of travelling to the pole
Where icy billows roll,
And pork and pease
Are said to freeze
Even at the instant they are boil'd.
Rejected, now, your humble, ardent prayer
For cash, to speed your way
To Baffin's frozen bay,
'Tis your own fault if you repine!
You should have mention'd some rich golden mine—
Not Variation Charts, that claim no care.
Avarice, alone, would sooner bid you go
Than all the inducements Art can shew:
The men, whom you petition for some dollars,
Tho' willing to be thought prodigious scholars,
Yet care as much for variation charts
As king of spades, and knave of hearts.
Churchman! 'tis best to quit this vain pursuit
This Variation is a common thing!
Rather attach yourself to Cæsar's wing—
You'll find it better—better, sir, by half,
To sooth Pomposo's ear—or make him laugh:
So shall you, mounted in a coach and six,
Ride envoy to the country of the Creeks—
So shall you visit Europe's gaudy courts,
And see the polish'd world, at public charge;
Return—and spend your life in sports,
Be air'd in coach, and sail'd in barge:—
Pursue this track, thou man of curious soul,
Nor, like a whale, go puffing to the pole.
THE PROCESSION TO SYLVANIA[384]
In Life's dull round, how often folks are cross'd,
Their projects spoil'd, their sayings misapplied;
Some friends in woods and some in oceans lost,
Some doom'd to walk on foot, while others ride.
But, now, let preachers moralize in verse,
While I to yonder caravan attend
That all prepar'd, like some slow moving herse
Begins its journey to an Indian land;
Bound for Sylvania!—sad, disheartening town,
When thou art nam'd how many a nymph will sigh,
Sigh, lest her sweet-heart should return a clown
With grizly homespun coat, long beard, and pumpkin pye.
This caravan with wondrous geer is stow'd,
All sorts of moveables—straw beds, and cradles,
Old records, salted fish, make up their load,
With kegs of brandy, frying pans, and ladles.
A pensive Printer in a one-horse chair
(Dragg'd slowly on by sullen sleepy steed,
With some ill-fated squires) brings up the rear,
Contriving future news for folks to read.
To guard the whole, a trusty knight appears,
With chosen men, to keep the wolves at bay:
They march—and lo! Belinda all in tears
That bears must hug instead of ladies gay.
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS[385]
From his obscure abode,
On many a tiresome road
The pilgrim, musing, took his way:
Through dark and dismal groves
Where the sad turtle loves
To pass the night, and kill the day.
In an obscure retreat,
I saw the pilgrim greet,
A barren soil and dreary town;—
Thy streets be-gloomed with trees
With pain the traveller sees,
Sylvania, barren of renown.—
What can console him there?—
Not even a house of prayer
With glittering spire is seen to rise—
No nymphs in gaudy trim
Will there be seen by him;—
No music, sermons, balls, or pigeon pies.
Dull, melancholy streams,
Dutch politics and schemes,
Owls screeching in the empty street—
Wolves howling at the doors—
Bears breaking into stores;
These make the picture of the town—complete.
SANGRADO'S EXPEDITION TO SYLVANIA[386]
Tir'd of his journey o'er a sandy waste,
Sangrado to Sylvania[387] came at last:
A bear-skin coat was round his carcase roll'd,
Shivering with northern winds,[388] that blew so cold:
Dark was the night—much for his shins he fear'd,
For not one lamp in all the town appear'd,
Twelve was the hour—the citizens, in bed,
Slept sound—of bears and wolves no more in dread;
No city-guards, no watchmen hove in sight,
No chyming bell sung out the time of night;
But foggy blasts their wintry music blew
Through shabby trees that round the court-house[389] grew;
At length, alighting at one scurvy dome,
He knock'd—and hop'd the people were at home.—
Ho!—(cry'd the man within) ho! who are you?—
What! heigh!—from Cambria?[390]—have you nothing new?—
Sangrado
Nothing at all—the times are shameful bad;
Money at ten per cent—hard to be had:
With apples and potatoes, our dear cousins
The northern men, are pouring in by dozens:
The French, 'tis said, will soon discharge their king—
This, friend, is all I know—and all I bring—
Citizen
What! not some oysters, gather'd near the coast,
Such as in days of old we lov'd to roast?
Sangrado
No, not an oyster—faith, you're in a dream,
To think I'd load my little nag with them:
We both are weary; let me in, I pray,
Even though you turn us out at break of day.
Citizen
'Tis midnight now—return from whence you come—
High time all honest people were at home.
Sangrado
Brother, me thinks my toes are somewhat cold—
Unbar your door—if one may be so bold:
Wet to the skin, and travelling all the day,
I want some rest—open the door, I say!
Citizen
Open the door, forsooth! the man is mad:
Lodging is not so easy to be had;
It is an article we do not trade in,
Nor shall my bed by all the world be laid in.
Our very hay-loft is as full as can be—
Push off, my friend, and try your luck at Granby.
THE DISTREST THEATRE[A][391]
Health to the Muse!—and fill the glass,
Heaven grant her soon some better place,
Than earthen floor and fabric mean,
Where disappointment shades the scene:
There as I came, by rumour led,
I sighed and almost wished her dead;
Her visage stained with many a tear,
No Hallam and no Henry here!
But what could all their art attain?—
When pointed laws the stage restrain
The prudent Muse obedience pays
To sleepy squires, that damn all plays.
Like thieves they hang beyond the town,
They shove her off—to please the gown;—
Though Rome and Athens owned it true,
The stage might mend our morals too.
See, Mopsus all the evening sits
O'er bottled beer, that drowns his wits;
Were Plays allowed, he might at least
Blush—and no longer act the beast.
See, Marcia, now from guardian free,
Retailing scandal with her tea;—
Might she not come, nor danger fear
From Hamlet's sigh, or Juliet's tear.
The world but acts the player's part[B]—
(So says the motto of their art)—
That world in vice great lengths is gone
That fears to see its picture drawn.
Mere vulgar actors cannot please;
The streets supply enough of these;
And what can wit or beauty gain
When sleepy dullness joins their train?
A State betrays a homely taste,
By which the stage is thus disgraced,
Where, drest in all the flowers of speech,
Dame virtue might her precepts teach.
Let but a dancing bear arrive,
A pig, that counts you four, or five—
And Cato, with his moral strain
May strive to mend the world in vain.