I leave my favorite shades awhile,
But find on Stansted's neighb'ring soil
A sweetly-varied scene;
Where woods the wand'ring sight confine,
Or op'ning vales in prospect shine,
A length of level green.
The grassy croft with pales inclos'd,
The elms in shady rows dispos'd,
The antique chapel nigh;
The tufted grove, and sloping hill,
The straw-roof'd cot, and silver rill
That murmurs gently by;
By turns delight, as ling'ring here
I mark the progress of the year,
In many a changing hue;
And o'er the various-colour'd ground,
Behold the swains, dispers'd around,
Their toilsome tasks pursue.
Thus peaceful pass my lonely hours,
'Midst fruitful fields and shady bow'rs,
Where envy comes not near;
But oft the Muse her presence deigns,
With visions fair, and tuneful strains,
My solitude to cheer:
Yet cautious then, I shun their fame
Who to some worthless patron's name
Devote the venal lay;
Or who, to wanton rage resign'd,
Deal satire round on human kind,
Their genius to display.
That independence bids disdain,
From this good nature must refrain ;
May these attend me long:
Suffice it me with these to rove,
And view the sylvan haunts I love,
And paint them in my song.
And oft by them (for well I know
That virtue only can bestow
The meed of lasting praise)
Some useful truth to recommend,
And pleasure with advantage blend,
My easy verse essays.
The ivy climbs each shrub around;
The bramble spreading o'er the ground
Annoys the pilgrim's feet;
The oak, that bold and graceful grows,
To me a fair example shows
Where use and beauty meet.
ODE TO HOSPITALITY, 1761.
SOCIAL Power! ere while rever'd,
Where on Syria's palmy plain, Where in polish'd Greece was heard Many a Muse's lofty strain; Gentle Hospitality!
Patron of the festive day,
Deign t'. accept the grateful lay
I devote to thee.
When fair Truth and Valour bold 16 Claim'd rude Albion for their own; In those happy times of old,...
To rude Albion thou wert known;
In the abbey's darksome cell,
In the rural-trophy'd hall,
Girt with moat and moss-grown wall,
Thou wert wont to dwell.
Huntsmen in the heat of day,
With the tedious chace o'ertoil'd,
Travellers doubtful of their way,
On the pathless forest wild,
Oft amid the verdant waste
Mark'd the distant rustic tow'r,
Sought the Castle's shelt'ring bow'r,
Shar'd the free repast. s
Midst the city's crowded street,
O'er the landscape glittering gay,
Stands the pompous modern seat,
But disdains to own thy sway;
There, instead of thee, reside
Blithe of tongue, of aspect free,
False of heart, Civility,
Ör unsocial Pride.
Yet, amid the lonely farms,
By fair fountain, vale, or hill, Pleas'd with Nature's simple charms,
Oft 'tis thine to linger still:
Thus with woods and fields around,
Once in Lycon's, rural dome,
Where I met a second home,
Thou by me wert found.
Nor to haunts of Sylvan swains,
Deem we thy resort confin'd;
Ev'n where splendid affluence reigns,
Thou wilt rule the gen'rous mind:
From where Thames' waters fall,
's pleasant groves,
Where my friend, my Cynthio roves,
Have I heard thy call.
Wheresoe'er be thy retreat,
Come, kind Pow'r! and dwell with me;
Make my humble rural seat,
For the wise and virtuous free:
Nor amid the welcome train,
Modest Poverty exclude,
But observe that none intrude
Of the vicious or the vain.
HERE Dubio rests! the strangest wight-
All common rules of conduct scorning,
In scenes of riot pass'd the night,
And pray'd with Whitfield all the morning.
True to his text, now out, now in,
A Christian infidel he went hence: Repentance smooth'd the way for sin, And sin equipp'd him for repentance.
CAIUS FITZURBAN.
Set to Music by Mr. Cooke, Organist of St. George, Bloomsbury, and performed at the Prince of Wales's new Catch Club.
On a Gold Cup, with embossed Figures, dedicated to the God of Mirth, by the Harmonic Club.
MIRTH! be thy mingled pleasures mine,
The joys of music, love, and wine,
While high the votive cup I hold,
And trace the forms that breathe in gold!
Beneath this vine, lo! Bacchus laid,
Round Venus twines the ivy braid;
While each light Grace, with zone unbound,
Weaves the dance their bow'r around.
Here, with gay song, and sportive lyre,
Wing'd Cupid leads the' Idalian choir,
Where the crush'd grape, from every vein,
Dyes their foot with purple stain.
I heard the God's ecstatic notes,
Each sense in sweet delirium floats;
Pledge the cup, the chorus join,
And echo music, love, and wine.
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