Reflections in Netley Abbey / Edward Hamley

Reflections in Netley Abbey

Alone, unseen, at this mild sober hour,
When fading Autumn with his season pale
Has ting'd the woods, I seek the ruin'd tow'r,
And mould'ring heaps, that spread the thorny dale.

Here sad reflection to the eye recalls
The spires commanding far the cheerful deeps,
The fretted pinnacles, and window'd walls,
Where now the melancholy ivy creeps.

The pond'ring stranger views with silent dread,
As to the stony cell he bends his way,
The broken roof suspended o'er his head,
Where mingling shafts and sculptur'd arms decay.

No hallow'd hymn now sounds, where wildly strown
With fragments rude the desert choir appears;
But echoing loud amid the cloysters lone
The daw's hoarse clamour meets my startled ears.

Void is the nich, where erst in holy state
Perhaps some Abbot's gorgeous image lay;
The slumb'ring brothers share their ruler's fate,
And not a stone records their useless day.

Alas! whate'er their virtues or their crimes,
'Tis all in blank oblivion buried deep;
Nor did they ween, how little future times
Would share their bliss, or for their sorrows weep.

For ev'n where droning Indolence repos'd,
Some finer souls might ache with keen distress;
And haply many a wretch full willing clos'd
His eyes, and shunn'd a life he could not bless.

Perchance some vot'ry sad of feeling heart,
As o'er the fading lawn he mus'd at eve,
Anxious might see the passing sail depart,
And call to mind a world he wept to leave.

Ev'n then some tender maid he lov'd too well,
And gave in thought th' endearing name of wife,
Might make his bleeding heart with sorrow swell,
And deeply rue his cold unsocial life;

Sad might he heave a deep-drawn sigh unseen,
And down his cheek a venial tear might fall,
To think how calm, how blest his days had been
With her, his bosom's joy, his life, his all.

The bell slow-beating thro' the gloom of night,
Might wake his soul to other thoughts than pray'r,
And, while his voice perform'd each solemn rite,
His wand'ring heart might own a tend'rer care.

So from his native woodlands torn away,
The little songster, conscious of his pain,
Sits dull and drooping all the livelong day,
And sings no more, or sings a sadder strain;

While from his joyless prison he surveys,
Flutt'ring with eager heart from side to side,
Earth's flow'ry mantle, and the budding sprays,
And hears in fancy still his long-lost bride.

~~
Edward Hamley (1764-1834)
from Poems of Various Kinds, 1795

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Hamley biography

Patrick Nasmyth (1787–1831), Netley Abbey. Wikimedia Commons.

The Landscape / William Shenstone

    Samuel Evans (1762-1835), The Leasowes (Shenstone's estate), 1788. Wikimedia Commons.

Song II.  The Landscape

How pleased within my native bowers
    Erewhile I pass'd the day!
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers?
    Were ever flowers so gay?

How sweetly smiled the hill, the vale,
    And all the landscape round!
The river gliding down the dale,
    The hill with beeches crown'd!

But now, when urged by tender woes
    I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
    And check my fond career.

No more, since Daphne was my theme,
    Their wonted charms I see:
That verdant hill, and silver stream,
    Divide my love and me.

~~
William Shenstone (1714-1763)
from Poetical Works
(edited by George Gilfilan), 1854

William Shenstone biography

"The Landskip" (The Landscape) read for LibriVox.org. Courtesy PoemsCafe.

Spring: An ode / Jane West

Spring: An ode

And now, obedient to divine command,
Reluctant winter yields his rigid reign;
Exulting Nature breaks his cruel band,
And welcomes Flora to her old domain;
She from her chariot strews ambrosial flowers;
'Tis she, that decks the vales, and renovates the bowers.

The pendent icicle perceives the thaw,
Then quits the straw-roof'd cot, and melts away;
The snow beholds, and hastens to withdraw,
But loses first its innocent array:
Assuming now, a robe of murky hue
More soil'd, as more receding from our view.

Ice in its northern magazine lies chain'd,
And all the furious hurricanes are bound;
Zephyr, by Eurus fierce too long restrain'd,
Now claps his pinions at the joyful sound;
The gentle shower descends; earth opens wide
Her jaws, and thirsty sucks the copious tide.

The glorious sun with vegetative powers
Endues the air, resolving to unchain
The willing world, while in his noon-tide hours:
Well knowing, that his sister Queen again,
When she resum'd her silver throne, would freeze
The brooks and rills, and hardly spare the seas.

And now alternate, what bright Phoebus thaws
By day, by night the Queen of shade congeals:
Nature, subservient to discordant laws,
In all her springs the dire commotion feels:
The bud, that noon-tide suns inspir'd to rise,
Lies dead at evening, chill'd by frosty skies.

Mid the confusion, whilst we scarce can tell
If winter stays or flies, the snow-drop rears
Her humid head, and fills each drooping bell
With incense pure and odoriferous tears:
Safe in its native innocence it stands,
Nor dreads keen Boreas, nor the wintry bands.

Yet, but a herald to the crocus proud,
Who peers a King in golden arms array'd,
Around him daffodils and violets crowd,
And primroses dear to the wood-land maid;
Succeeded quickly by a thousand flowers,
All that delight in meadows, hills, and bowers.

Behold, the elm puts on its dark array
Of dusky green; forth shoots the alder dun;
In the light breeze the leaves of aspin play;
The bushy sycamore desires the sun;
And last, as if the sylvan band to close,
The regal oak his ample foliage shows.

But see, the young creation is awake;
The household bee forsakes her waxen cell;
The finny nations wanton in the lake;
The gentle birds their pleasing descants tell;
The lordly steed indignant paws the ground;
And o'er green thymy banks the lambkins bound.

And now the etherial ram the zenith leaves,
The ram of old surcharg'd with Helle's fate;
This, the proud bull, his rival stern, perceives,
And issue forth in all his radiant state,
He bends his starry horns, enwreath'd with light,
As if to rend the dusky veil of night.

The blessed sun his beams benignly pours
On the glad earth, and bids creation smile:
Exuberant nature pours forth all her stores,
And chearful swains renew their annual toil:
War too, by intermission unsubdu'd,
Resumes its rage for violence and blood!

But that I fear my mortal muse would faint,
And leave me aidless in th' unbounded space,
My song the starry firmament should paint,
How planets run their vast eliptic race,
Arcturus urging on his starry team,
Orion's sword, and Ursa's guiding beam.

But let me stop the thought, nor strive to rein
This fiery steed, nor compass heights divine;
Lest I, dismounted on the Lycian plain,
Mourn like Bellerophon the rash design;
Enough that I with rude and doric strain,
Oh genial spring! have hail'd thy welcome reign.

~~
Jane West (1756-1852)
from Miscellaneous Poems, 1786

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Jane West biography

Workshop of Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568–1625) & Hendrick van Balen the Elder (1573–1632),

Flora im Blumengarten, circa 1617-1618 (detail). Wikimedia Commons.

Thou Gloomy December / Robert Burns

Thou Gloomy December

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
    Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care:
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember –
    Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair!

Fond lovers' parting is sweet, painful pleasure,
    Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever!
    Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure!

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
    Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown,
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
    Till my last hope and last comfort is gone!

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
    Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
    Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.

~~
Robert Burns (1759-1796), 1791

from Scots Musical Museum, 1796

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Robert Burns biography

"Thou Gloomy December" read by Robert Carlyle. Courtesy Robert Carlyle Italia.

How Sleep the Brave / William Collins

Ode

How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

~~
William Collins (1721-1759), 1746 

from Poems, 1898

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Collins biography

"How Sleep the Brave" read by Joshua David Robinson. Courtesy  Lincoln’s Cottage .

Auld Lang Syne / Robert Burns

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And auld lang syne!

Chorus:   For auld lang syne, my dear,
                For auld lang syne,
                We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
                For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
    And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
    For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
    And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’t i' the burn,
    From morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fere,
    And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught
    For auld lang syne.

~~
Robert Burns (1759-1796), 1788

from Selections from the Poems, 1898

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Robert Burns biography

"Auld Lang Syne" sung by Dougie MacLean. Courtesy  butterstonestudios.

The Hymn to May / Nathaniel Evans

                                     George Auriol (1863-1938), Mai, 1912, Public domain, Wikmedia Commons.

     

            The Hymn to May

            I

            Now had the beam of Titan gay
            Usher’d in the blissful May,
            Scattering from his pearly bed,
            Fresh dew on every mountain’s head;
            Nature mild and debonair,
            To thee, fair maid, yields up her care.
            May, with gentle plastic hand,
            Clothes in flowery robe the land;
            O’er the vales the cowslip spreads,
            And eglantine beneath the shades;
            Violets blue befringe each fountain,
            Woodbines lace each steepy mountain;
            Hyacinths their sweets diffuse,
            And the rose its blush renews;
            With the rest of Flora’s train,
            Decking lowly dale or plain.


            II

            Thro' creation’s range, sweet May!
            Nature’s children own thy sway —
            Whether in the crystal flood,
            Amorous, sport the finny brood;
            Or the feather’d tribes declare,
            That they breathe thy genial air,
            While they warble in each grove
            Sweetest notes of artless love;
            Or their wound the beasts proclaim,
            Smitten with a fiercer flame;
            Or the passions higher rise,
            Sparing none beneath the skies,
            But swaying soft the human mind
            With feelings of ecstatic kind —
            Through wide creation’s range, sweet May!
            All nature’s children own thy sway.


            III

            Oft will I, (e’er Phosphor’s light
            Quits the glimmering skirts of night)
            Meet thee in the clover field,
            Where thy beauties thou shalt yield
            To my fancy, quick and warm,
            Listening to the dawn’s alarm,
            Sounded loud by Chanticleer,
            In peals that sharply pierce the ear.
            And, as Sol his flaming car
            Urges up the vaulted air,
            Shunning quick the scorching ray,
            I will to some covert stray,
            Coolly bowers or latent dells,
            Where light-footed silence dwells,
            And whispers to my heaven-born dream,
            Fair Schuylkill, by thy winding stream!
            There I ’ll devote full many an hour,
            To the still-finger’d Morphean power,
            And entertain my thirsty soul
            With draughts from Fancy’s fairy bowl;
            Or mount her orb of varied hue,
            And scenes of heaven and earth review.


            IV

            Nor in milder eve’s decline,
            As the sun forgets to shine,
            And sloping down the ethereal plain,
            Plunges in the western main,
            Will I forbear due strain to pay
            To the song-inspiring May;
            But as Hesper ’gins to move
            Round the radiant court of Jove,
            (Leading through the azure sky
            All the starry progeny,
            Emitting prone their silver light,
            To re-illume the shades of night)
            Then, the dewy lawn along,
            I ’ll carol forth my grateful song,
            Viewing with transported eye
            The blazing orbs that roll on high,
            Beaming lustre, bright and clear,
            O’er the glowing hemisphere.
            Thus from the early blushing morn,
            Till the dappled eve’s return,
            Will I, in free unlabor’d lay,
            Sweetly sing the charming May!

            ~~
            Nathaniel Evans (1742-1767)
            from Poems on Several Occasions, 1772

            [Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

            Nathaniel Evans biography

Ode on the Spring / Thomas Gray

Ode

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclin'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,
In fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone —
We frolic, while 'tis May.

~~
Thomas Gray (1716-1771)
from Poems by Mr. Gray, 1768

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Thomas Gray biography 

"Ode on the Spring" read by Richard Mitchley. Courtesy YouTube.

Come, come thou bleak December wind / Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[Fragment 3]

Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro' me, Death
And take a Life that wearies me.

~~
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)
from Complete Poetical Works,  1912

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Samuel Taylor Coleridge biography

John Everett Millais (1829-1896), Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind, 1892. Wikimedia Commons

To My Sister / William Wordsworth

                                            Lines
        written at a small distance from my house, and sent
by my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed.

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,
The red-breast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My Sister! (’tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you, and pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress,
And bring no book, for this one day
We’ll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living Calendar:
We from to-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth.
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth,
—It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make,
Which they shall long obey;
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above;
We’ll frame the measure of our souls,
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress,
And bring no book; for this one day
We’ll give to idleness.

~~

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

from Lyrical Ballads, 1798

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Wordsworth biography

Winter: An Elegy / Henry James Pye

Elegy II

Now the brown woods their leafy load resign
And rage the tempests with resistless force!
Mantled with snow the silver mountains shine,
And icy fetters chain the rivulet's course.

No pleasing object charms our wearied view,
No waving verdure decks the dreary glade,
Save that o'er yonder tomb the mournful yew
Projects an awful solitary shade.

Short is the Spring, and short the Summer hour,
And short the time that fruitful Autumn reigns;
But tedious roll the days when Winter's power
Asserts its empire o'er our wafted plains.

As swiftly wears our Spring of life away,
As swiftly will our jolly Summer go;
But, ah! when Winter clouds our chearless day,
Again the vernal breezes never blow!

Mark this, and boast your fancied worth no more,
Ye great, ye proud, ye learned, and ye brave!
With hasty lapse some circling years are o'er,
And lo, ye slumber in the silent grave!

Why views the sage fair Pleasure's transient charm,
And all her votaries gay with scowling eye?
Alike he sloops to Fate's superior arm,
Alike he suffers, and alike must die!

Say, what avails it then with brow severe -
The silken bands of Luxury to despise;
To bring by thought the day of horror near,
And view the tempest ere the clouds arise?

Better with laughing nymphs in revels gay
To give the hours to VENUS, wine, and song;
And, since the rapid moments never stay,
To catch fome pleafures as they glide along.

Deluded man! whom empty sounds beguile,
What transports here await thy anxious soul?
Know, love abhors the venal harlot's smiie,
And hell-born fury rages in the bowl.

Seek Virtue to be blest; but seek her far,
Far from those gloomy sons of letter'd pride,
Who 'gainft the paffions wage eternal war,
And, foes to Nature, Nature's dictates chide.

Let mirth, not madness, crown the temperate feast;
Let love and beauty joys refin'd impart:
Though mere sensation charm the groveling breast,
'Tis mutual passion fires the generous heart.

The various blessings bounteous Heaven bestows
With gratitude and charity repay,
Relieve thy suffering friend, or share his woes,
But from his failings turn thine eyes away.

So, when the wintry storms of death are past,
In brighter skies, and ether more serene,
Thy wither'd boughs shall bud again, to last
For ever blooming, and for ever green.
 
~~
Henry James Pye (1745-1813)
from Poems on Various Subjects, 1795

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry James Pye biography

December: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

December: A pastoral poem

How swift the decline of the year!
December how chearless thy frown!
The knell of the fast-flowing year
Depresses both village and town.
O come Meditation, thou queen
Of pleasures, tho' pensive yet gay;
For thou can'st enliven the scene,
And lengthen the short-living day.

Emotions which flow from thy song,
Are smiles of content to the breast,
Are raptures that sweetly prolong
The whispers of peace and of rest:
What tho' the pale Season denies
The beauties which brighten the spring,
Contentment's the much-envied prize,
Meditation's the cherub to bring.

When odours replenish the gale,
The streamlets run purling along,
The zephyrs which softly prevail,
And Philomel issues her song:
The reed of sweet music display'd,
In notes unambitiously wild;
The pleasures alive in the shade,
When nature is placid and mild.

When Flora awakens the flow'rs,
Her children of purest perfume,
Descend in refreshment the show'rs,
To strengthen the innocent bloom:
When nature, with face of delight,
Diffuses her bounties around,
Creation that's new to the sight,
By the hand of young Extacy's crown'd.

When the landskip with transport descry'd
The summer holds forth to the view,
In robes too expressive of pride,
Tho' the mirror of nature is true;
When autumn rough labour repays,
And plenty wide-scatters her crops,
Diffuses her earth-gilding rays
Thro' gardens thick-cluster'd with hops.

When summer, or autumn, or spring,
Their treasures alternate dispense,
Their vicissitudes joyfully bring
The grateful remembrance of sense;
But winter, tho' wrapt in a cloud,
A gratitude warmer excites,
For virtue dares publish aloud,
That December is fraught with delights.

Devotion, elate at the sound,
Her incense prepares for the morn,
When tidings of gladness around
Proclaim that a Saviour was born;
Superlative news to the breast,
Replete with the faith most divine,
Where thy virtues, sweet innocence, rest,
And religion's best triumph is thine.

Let warm acclamations ascend,
Festivity, Temp'rance, be near,
And Charity, Virtue's fast friend,
The head of pale sorrow uprear.
Let Wealth all her scorn lay aside,
To Poverty's cottage repair,
Experience, the soul-lifting pride,
In robbing Distress of a care.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, December 1773

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[January: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

November: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

November: A pastoral poem

Ah! whither, bright god of the spring,
Are thy rays nature-chearing withdrawn?
The warblers that stretch the gay wing,
No longer enliven the lawn.
Ye breezes of softness, ah where
Are your zephyrs of fragrance exil'd?
No longer you sport through the air,
On the bosom of aether so mild.

Ye streams that ran purling along,
From your banks your own Flora is fled;
And Philomel issues no song
Thro' the verdure that cover'd her head.
The bleating of lambs from the fold,
From the valley no longer ascends;
No tale of soft passion is told
Where the beech its broad branches extends.

Ah! where is the couch of green moss,
Which I with my Delia have found,
When with pleasure we wander'd across
The daisy-embroidered ground.
No more to the close-twisted bow'r,
With the fair one delighted I run?
In coolness to pass the fond hour,
Eluding the heat of the sun.

For nature so pensive is grown,
Her tears steep in dew all the plain,
With grief I attend to her moan,
But my sorrows attend her in vain.
November, the tomb of the year,
Usurps his tyrannical stand,
His glooms in succession appear,
In succession stalk over the land.

But where does my Celadon rove,
The friend of my undisguis'd breast?
And where is that empress of love,
My Delia, with innocence bless'd?
Can November to Celadon bring
The horrors which friendship annoy?
In that bosom forgetfulness spring,
Where friendship has treasur'd each joy?

Can Delia, whose heart is the seat
Where love ever faithful is stor'd,
Too cruel desert my retreat,
By winter's rough visit explor'd?
No, Celadon, no, to complain
Of the virtues enthron'd in your heart,
Would pierce friendship's side with a pain,

'Twere ungrateful in me to impart;

For friendship, most pure in her form,
In lustre congenial is thine,
Unruffled, unhurt by the storm,
Tho' the troubles of life shall combine.
Let winter attempt to destroy
The comforts which friendship can bring,
Come, Celadon, come, we'll enjoy,
And soften November to Spring.

Nor let me of Delia complain,
Tho' the trees all their verdure resign,
Tho' the north bids his tyrannies reign,
And Phoebus for clouds cannot shine.
She comes — in her presence is love,
Her eyes are the heralds of grace;
November no longer shall prove
Of nature the squalid disgrace.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, November 1773

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[December: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

October: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

October: A pastoral poem

Of visage deep-wrinkled with care,
His temples a chaplet surround,
With acorns and oak-leaves his hair,
And starwort with saffron is bound.
The dam'sene her purple bestows,
A sash o'er his shoulder to throw;
With negligence easy it flows
Immingled with gifts from the sloe.

His right hand the scorpion suspends,
High-lifted it writhes in the air;
From his left a rush basket impends,
Replete with the walnut and pear:
His franchise it is to invoke
The fog of blue mist on the hill,
Thick rising like columns of smoke,
Exhal'd from the vale-loving rill.

He comes — shall my muse wake the reed?
Ah where are the notes of the bough!
When whilom the beech on the mead
Spread shelter for Phillida's cow:
When Philomel's pastoral lay
Trill'd loudly her queruolous strain,
The kids with the lambkins in play,
Skipp'd frolicksome over the plain.

My muse cannot sing in the grove
And think of past transports serene,
When Zephyrs invited to love,
And Delia was extacy's queen:
When near the smooth lapse of the brook
I sought thro' the whispering vale,
The roses which painting her crook,
Compar'd to her blushes were pale.

No more to the brook must I stray,
From the whispering valley exil'd;
No longer these Zephyrs shall play
Round Delia that linger'd and smil'd:
Farewell to the white-flaunting hop,
The gardens that glow'd to the sight;
Yet the blooming arbutus I'll crop,
Present to the fair with delight.

I'll gather autumnal perfume,
The suckle shall yield her last sweet;
Convulvus offers her bloom,
To decorate Delia's retreat;
The pheasant I'd bear to my maid,
But shrink from the present with fear,
Lest into fresh sorrow betray'd,
Her eyes are suffus'd with a tear.

Pomona, in straw-colour'd vest,
With marigolds stuck in her hair,
The gossamer gauzing her breast,
Her cheeks ruddy beauty declare;
October she met in the close,
He courted her presence and shape;
Vertumnus in jealousy rose,
And thought 'twas the god of the grape.

But Bacchus I see in the vale,
The Satyrs his orgies sustain;
My path from his feasts I curtail,
Reject his incontinent train;
The fig and the vine let me bring,
Great Bacchus, to honour thy sway,
The games of the vintage to sing,
Give vigour, ye nine, to my lay.

But who is this envoy of woes,
That wakes with Aurora's first ray,
His song of complaint to disclose,
From the vine or the jessamine spray?
He sings desolation to come;
Sharp winter predicts from aloof;
My shed, social bird, be thy home,
Securely perch under my roof.

Dost grieve that the summer is past?
The trees their green ornaments shed?
That omens of winter in haste
Approaching press over thy head?
Prolong, gentle red-breast, thy strains
Contagions shall usher thy moan;
My sympathy share in thy pains,
Thy sorrows, poor bird, be my own.

When mid-day is silent around,
The gloom of ag'd cypress I seek,
The turf is with osiers fresh bound,
The cause my dejection must speak:
Lycander, my once valued friend,
Ah, muse! much indebted, essays,
In sadness from friendship to send
What elegy weeps into lays.

The virtues all pinioned in thee,
Thy solitude's sacred retreat,
Made innocence grandeur to thee,
Whose soul was serenity's seat:
False pageantry ne'er could annoy;
The gems of content were thy own;
Mild competence furnish'd a joy
Denied to the pride of a throne.

Obscurity mark'd his estate;
Yet temperate health was his lot;
He scorn'd the least wish to be great,
Whose pomp was the peace of a cot;
How fervent, sincere flow'd the strain,
With simple morality fraught;
Devoutly religious, tho' plain,
He spoke to the God of his thought.

Ambition unknown to his breast,
Unknown every clamourous strife,
The venom corrosive of rest,
That fury that harrows up life:
Yet pensively thoughtful he grew,
The mate of his youth was no more;
The friend of his age, ever true,
His feelings intensely deplore.

I saw him one day 'neath the oak
That measures a shade of extent,
His silence his misery spoke,
Deep sorrow to solitude lent:
His brow was as dark as the shade;
He sought from the path of the dell,
Nor long did he grieve in the glade,
But languishing droop'd 'till he fell.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, October 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[November: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

September: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

September: A pastoral poem

Shall sorrow dash gall on my strain,
While echo alarm'd in the dale,
Responds to compassionate pain
That flows for the partridge and quail;
Responds to the merciless gun,
If cruelty harbour a joy,
Then Doriland rise with the sun,
For privilege grants to destroy.

I sigh at the cruel decree,
My minstrelsy pity implores,
As well might the muse bid the sea
Forbear to contend with the shores:
'Tis done, and the covey must bleed,
The plume of the stubble must fall;
In silence I shrink at the deed,
For pity is deaf to my call.

Tho' nature seems prone to decay,
The coverts less russet appear;
Contracted the length of the day,
Announces the eve of the year:
September revolves with delight,
A coronet circles his head,
Emboss'd with fair blossoms of white
The hopes splendid incense has shed.

His mantle the vine leaves compose,
A hollyhock purples his hand,
Th' arbutus, the larkspur and rose
Disdain not their charms to expand:
Bloom lupines and sweet-scented peas,
The tamarisk modest in hue;
The bean clad in scarlet to please,
And aconite's prodigal blue.

His reign shall the cricket attend,
The green-coated herald of cold,
Does winter this messenger send,
His embassy drear to unfold.
But why peevish insect thus pine?
Has Fate then ordain'd thee to weep?
While querulous notes, ever thine,
Deny the refreshment of sleep.

And thou on the wings of dull sound,
Who humm'st the drear knell of the day,
O say on what circumstance bound,
Agility hastens thy way:
Why thus giant beetle to roam,
In ebony panoply dress'd?
By war art thou urg'd from thy home?
Or art thou by enemies press'd?

When ev'ning's brown shadows extend
To my bow'r, still crested with green,
Without invitation my friend
Will Celadon honour the scene.
Of Phoebus to catch the last gleam,
While friendship our numbers shall fill,
Those numbers respond from the stream
That steals from the foot of the hill.

Or when with her crimson the morn
Dispels the black dreams of the night;
Her pencil the day to adorn,
Depaints lawny scenes to the sight:
When hinds are arouz'd to their toil,
And nymphs o'er the eminence gain,
Where Cantium with many a smile,
Of Ceres receives the rude train.

O then let us in early career,
Th' industrious vulgar survey,
To mirth and to jocus give ear,
For jocus and mirth lead the day:
The plant interdicted no more,
With floscles of silver behold,
While farmers, enrich'd by its store,
Sing "Silver's the mother of gold."

Why need that the muse should essay,
Or hint to the generous breast,
That he who is happy to day,
With pity should eye the distress'd;
Ye planters this precept to learn,
See providence please to bestow,
Solicits that grateful return,
To feel for the anguish of woe.

And shall the remonstrance of need
The abject and wretched unseen,
To plenty unaided proceed,
Return with disconsolate mien;
Forbid it ye virtues, whose tears
Ere start at the plaints of distress,
Whose sympathy misery rears,
Whose arms are extended to bless.

But where now, Aonian nine,
Are your measures aetherial pour'd,
In humaniz'd cadence divine,
For whom is your melody stor'd?
The bells, o'er the mist-crested ground,
Delightfully usher a peal,
That Hymen has sanction'd the sound,
My heart is the muse that must feel.

This day to her Celadon's breast
The peerless Penelope gives,
September be ever confess'd
What honour thy empire receives.
Bless'd pair! for whom Hymen has wove
A wreath of unchangeable peace,
And supplicates blessings from Jove,
That time may affection increase.

Ye graces your beauties that lend,
Ye virtues that shed hallow'd fire,
Felicity beam on my friend,
The warmest, first lay of my lyre:
Fill, heaven, their measure of joys,
To bless their connubial solace,
Renown'd for his truth be their boys,
Their girls for her softness and grace.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, August 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[October: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

August: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

August: A pastoral poem

Strews Nature her blessings around,
The labours of harvest my theme;
Autumnus redundantly crown'd,
Pours plenty's unlimited stream.
To Summer in silver attir'd
The muse bids reluctant farewell,
Her beauties so nearly expir'd,
I weep from the shade of my cell.

To Leo bright Phoebus inclin'd,
Plump Autumn is ripen'd to birth;
To splendid Aquarius consign'd,
Proceeds on her journey the earth.
Right chearful of heart the rude train
From the village of Industry pour,
Now people the gold-garnish'd plan,
In, Ceres, the midst of thy store.

From realms of retirement the hare
Quick conscious of jeopardy springs;
The patridge the voice of rough care
Avoids on vociferous wings:
Alas, hapless bird! o'er thy head
Fate hovers destruction to send;
In vain for your safety I shed
The plaints my feelings commend.

But I see o'er the widen'd champaign,
Thick sheaves of the full ripen'd corn,
High rais'd on the ponderous wain,
Move slow the tall rick to adorn.
In ridges the barley reclin'd,
Dazzles, while to the fugitive eye
Each scene kindles up to the mind
A providence rich from the sky.

Digressive shall critics excuse
The bard for a moment to stray?
Shall criticks? — compos'd be my muse,
Too mean for their mark is thy lay.
'Twas now when with equipoz'd scales
Fair Libra directed the hour,
From wings of the hot sunny gales,
Sooth'd toil's long exertion of pow'r.

'Twas now when Amanda the fair,
The rose-bud of innocent truth,
Sole pride of an antiquate pair,
Who labour'd and lov'd from their youth;
To Ceres a tribute preferr'd,
Two turtles but new from their nest,
A ribbon of blue to each bird
Hung flauntingly over its breast.

From cottage that's lapp'd in the dale,
Where silence on pillow of down
Bids rustic contentment regale
In comforts unknown to a crown:
Amanda stray'd slowly along,
With bosom estrang'd from a care,
Her transport confess'd in a song,
Though simple, of elegant air.

Leander, the subtle and gay,
From revels of harvest return'd,
By chance cross'd the nymph on her way,
Her errand ingeniously learn'd.
Suffice that seductive of art,
The present to Ceres denied,
By the force of Cytherian dart,
Cupid bore to his mother with pride.

Forbid that one hint should expose,
Forbid it compassionate care;
Yet still that she rivals the rose,
My muse, 'tis not thine to declare.
Misguided Amanda, how lost!
Discretion permitted to sleep;
O'er thy summer of beauty the frost
Of contempt will voraciously creep.

Learn hence, ye soft queens of desire,
That virtue should beauty protect;
From modesty scorn to retire,
Ensuring a decent respect.
Be art with persuasion combin'd —
The whispers of prudence approve,
Lest too late, like Amanda, you find
That Autumn's the Winter of love.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, August 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[September: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

July: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

July: A pastoral poem

Ye Dryads, who woo the recess
Where the oak's ample shadow extends,
To your haunts of retirement I press,
And the muse my intrusion attends.
From the morning too brilliant I stray,
From the solar meridian blaze,
When mute is the chorister's lay,
And the sun darts his vertical rays.

Retirement, how sweet is thy pow'r!
I fly from the indolent breeze;
I fly from the hot-parching hour;
Receive me, ye gloom-shedding trees.
With you lonely silence prevails,
You shelter my Celadon's seat,
Whose cot no ambition assails,
Except to be honest and neat.

No sycophant here shall be heard,
Where Friendship her quietude seeks,
Sincerity utters the word
From the lips of Veracity speaks.
What tho' in this temperate scite,
This hermitage, hidden and mean,
No pane of high polish the light
Reflects to illumine the scene;

What tho' on the unadorn'd wall
Shall sculpture her chissel deny!
No portal conduct to the hall,
Where paintings replenish the eye!
Yet here, in profusion of sweets,
Calm Solitude leads by the hand
The hind that Felicity meets,
And scorns every wish to be grand.

The gay fascination of wealth
No envy to Celadon brings,
Be his but contentment and health,
With pity he looks down on kings.
Secure from vexation and strife,
Devotion sheds balm on his breast;
How smooth is that tenor of life,
Where conscience strews poppies of rest.

The amaranth has not deny'd
The eglantine's blossoms to join;
The lily, high rising in pride,
Her silver extols to the vine.
The boughs of the apple and pear
A canopy mutually form,
His cottage from perils to spare,
When rises the war of the storm.

E'en now clouds collecting behold,
Whose darkness conceals the sun's light,
Tho' noon yet what horrors unfold!
Present an unseasonable night.
The thunder, impressive of pain,
Rolls awful solemnity round;
Thro' clouds it reverb'rates again;
Re-echoes the dread-striking sound.

How dark and how dismal the scene!
Now rushes in torrents the rain;
Red flashes of fate intervene,
How shakes with convulsions the plain!
Let elements wildly contend,
Tho' the aether dissolve in a blaze;
To the breast of my unappall'd friend,
Their fury no trouble conveys.

The terrible concert is o'er,
Hush'd all its unfortunate rage;
Great Ruler to thee let me pour
The thanks which my bosom engage.
The tempest is o'er, and the sun
Descends with his Thetis to rest,
If e'er by my theme thou wert won,
Come, Delia, sole queen of my breast.

Lo! Ev'ning, mild daughter of Day,
In aspect as thee, most serene,
Her smiles shall enliven my lay,
So calm and unclouded her mien.
The lark to her nestlings descends,
The wood deepens faster to brown;
To the village the cottager bends,
The village that's sought by the town.

The flocks and the herds are at large,
Their coverts of coolness they leave
To taste of the rills blady marge,
And share the soft gifts of the eve.
The swallow, in search of his prey,
Skims lightly o'er thistle and brake,
Glides swift as for plunder, or prey,
His wings dash the wave of the lake.

How bright are the smiles of the youth,
Where summer perpetually reigns!
Thou gem of original truth,
Shall we join in the dance on the plains?
Thro' the fields where the purple-ey'd tare
Blooms lavish thy presence to greet:
To the glade of refreshment repair,
Where offers the moss-cushion'd seat.

To gain a repast for the eye,
Yon eminence shall we explore;
There, Delia, together descry
The streamers that crimson the shore,
Till the view by gradation shall fade,
The ev'ning's late shadows prevail,
And Cynthia soft mantles in shade,
Full orb'd, tells her wonderful tale.

Thou pride of my pastoral lay,
Dear maid of my uniform love,
Soon the morn of the bright summer's day,
And its noon must to ev'ning remove.
Whose bliss-giving shadows are fled,
But soon shall the morning renew;
Her charms that no longer are spread,
To paint the magnificent view.

How like is the portrait of man:
The morn of his infancy fades,
The race of his manhood soon ran,
And age sinks in death's night of shades.
But like welcome morning's return,
Re-born the sunk mortal shall rise,
In triumph shall burst from the urn,
And beam in the bliss of the skies.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, July 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[August: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

June: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

June: A pastoral poem

The dog-rose, of light-blushing hue,
Or painted in crimson-like vest,
Profuse in her bloom to the view,
The hedge-rows in splendour has drest.
The season of pleasure my lay
Extends in the country so bright;
The sweets of the new-tedded hay,
Each object of sound and of sight.

The trees we beheld in full dress,
Profusion of flowers around
The beauties of Nature confess,
In vivid sublimity crown'd,
On the banks of the river so clear,
Emerg'd from its wave are the flocks;
They mark the gay time of the year,
Depriv'd of their white fleecy locks.

When past is the soft copious shower,
The sweets of Arabia we find;
From the beds of the clover to flower
, And the bee-loving suckle resign'd.
More delicious the odours that rise
On the gales from the blue-bosom'd bean;
All Sweetness herself can comprize
Is pour'd in extend through the scene.

Whilst Summer, bright child of the Sun,
With mildness rekindles his fire;
And June, by his courtesy won,
Apparels in golden attire.
To her Prince Freedom offers the lay,
Whose sons the choice tribute support;
In duty rejoice at the day,
By far the most splendid at court.

Admit humble zeal to prevail,
From a Muse through unpolish'd to spring;
Bear hence, each Favonian gale,
The strain she devotes to her King.
No Laureat — what merit have I?
Pretension to fabricate praise?
Though humble and weak, yet too high
To flatter in time-serving lays.

My heart, by sincerity led,
The day of his birth shall revere,
That Peace may, her olive-branch spread,
Extend through each following year.
From my bosom warm wishes emane,
Ye Powers this blessing to send:
In the hearts of his subjects to reign
Till Time's latest period shall end.

Behold in what splendour appears,
In majesty boundless and wide,
The Sun through the dawn's pearly tears
Pouring down his ineffable tide.
Now beams in illustrious array,
And warms the aetherial gale,
Which nurtures the pride of the day,
From the hill to the green-herbag'd dale.

The bleatings of sheep from the hills,
The silence and peace of the grove,
The murmurs that rise from the rills,
And the reed from the shady alcove;
The zephyrs that pinion the hours,
The fragrance they widely diffuse,
The pasture, thick chequer'd with flowers,
Are themes that embellish my Muse.

How smooth and how tranquil the stream
Meanders the vallies along,
Its crystal improv'd by the beam
That wakens Aurora's first song!
The leaf by the gale unoppress'd,
The landscapes of Beauty and Grace,
Soft pleasures convey to the breast,
The smiles of the heart to the face.

Yet whither, my Muse, would you stray,
Evading this season of sweets?
Why turn from the purple-ey'd day,
From Pleasure's umbrageous retreats?
From the beech, ever vivid of shade,
The lime that elongates the lawn,
The oak, in dark foliage array'd,
Ah, why are thy visits withdrawn?

From the parks and the sports of the field,
Where plenty and happiness reign,
Where the smile of Benevolence yield
What blessings from Summer we gain;
Ah why, near yon sorrowful yew,
Of dark and disconsolate shade,
Must Elegy ever renew
Afflictions which never can fade?

Shall HONESTO, my father and friend,
Around whose respectable tomb
The Virtues all sorrowful bend,
In plaint recent dirges assume;
While Memory, Genius, and Worth
The red eye of Sorrow dilate;
Must pensively bow to the earth,
And weep his immutable fate?

Can he be forgot whom I lov'd,
Whose breast was so gentle and kind;
Of principles noble approv'd,
The Christian in precept and mind?
Can Time soothe the sigh of my breast?
The thunder that rolls on the hill
Shall sooner he sooth'd into rest,
Its lightnings no terrors instill.

Receive then my measure of woe,
Thou dearest and much-honour'd Shade:
If Virtue departed may know
Affection by relatives paid.
And yearly in Summer, bedeck'd
With splendour and wealth shall return;
My feelings fresh wreaths shall collect,
HONESTO, to garnish thy urn.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Gentlemen's Magazine, August 1787

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[July: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

May: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

May: A pastoral poem

Approaches the mother of love,
The month of unsullied delight;
Her hand is adorn'd with a dove,
Her head is emblossom'd with white.
With colours that glow on the view
The pencil of Flora behold,
Her garment of sky-brighten'd blue
Has studded with silver and gold.

The novel of nature we read,
How pleasing her prospects expand,
Thro' woodland, inclosure, and mead,
New beauties emerge from the land.
The carols of spring from the grove
Re-echo melodious notes,
'Tis the innocent music of love,
On the bosom of aether that floats.

Come, Pales, if pastoral lay
Your fancy to transport has led;
Panegyrics I sing on the May,
Assist me the portrait to spread.
And Pan with thy musical reed,
Sylvanus, thy neighbour, invite;
The muse in her progress to spread,
Protect her unpolish'd delight.

'Tis Pales herself on the plain,
Her robe of the dew-freshen'd green;
She can't be averse to my strain,
So mild and compos'd is her mien.
Ye shepherds, your fleece-coated charge,
Her mandate permits to release,
Young bleaters go ramble at large,
Unfolded, go wander in peace.

The maple and plane-tree in bloom
Emblazon each sylvan retreat;
And Flora purloin from thy loom
To canopy over each seat.
By the side of the park in the vale
The hawthorn, young minion of May,
Her bosom unfolds to the gale
In blossoms exub'rant and gay.

The pink, many varied of vest,
The yellow and white asphodel,
And tulip, in pageantry dress'd,
Are emulous each to excel.
The rose, royal empress of sweets,
In the path of the fashion'd parterre,
The suckle and jessamine greets,
Sweet blossom her reign to revere.

Deep sunk in the lap of the dale,
Of Elegance simple the queen,
To lavish her sweets on the gale,
The lilly dawn-bosom'd is seen.
The orchis and fox-glove appear,
The hare-bell's alive in the shade,
Purple goddess that paints the young year,
Thy pallet each landscape is made.

Come, Delia, dear Hebe of youth,
O come, with thy dark azure eye;
How sweet to my heart is thy truth!
To the arms of thy Corydon fly.
See May, from yon rose-shedding cloud,
Restoress of pleasure descends;
The zephys await on the crowd
Of Sports which her levee attends.

Of Sol, the bright daughter, each hour
As devious we wander along,
Shall smile like a beam on the shower,
And Philomel heighten her song.
With innocence fix'd for our guide,
Thou sweeter by far than the May,
Tranquility close by our side,
Let Flora her rival survey.

The prais'd renovation enjoy,
My fair, with serenity bless'd,
And let not one trouble annoy
The halcyon May of thy breast.
May pleasure that's virtuous and pure,
Your heart true felicity bring,
Thro' a series of time to insure
In your mind a perpetual spring.

What month in the mutable year
For honours with May can compare?
The virtues of nature appear
Mild, innocent, noble and fair.
For see, 'mid the gay-purpled scenes,
Which scatter their fragrance on May,
They reign with the greatest of queens,
Of birth, whose imperial day

Returns, and loud Paeans arise,
The shouts of Britannia's acclaim,
Universally mount to the skies,
So great and deserv'd is her fame.
Bright pattern of conjugal love,
The blessings of truth are thy own,
The graces, new-born from above,
Are gems which embellish thy throne.

To soften the pillow of state,
Forbid the approach of a frown,
Dispel all the cares which await
On the pomp that encircles a crown.
O spare her, ye years, as you glide,
My muse of warm loyalty sings:
May Charlotte, of Albion the pride,
Long reign with the happiest of kings.

'Tis nature's spontaneous smile,
With gladness the earth is elate,
One carpet of velvet the soil
Has spread in superlative state.
The plume-painted minstrels of song
Commingle their generous lays
In notes which to raptures prolong
The season's creator they praise.

Shall man be deficient in grace?
Let gratitude banish the thought!
The hand of divinity trace
In May with munificence fraught.
The muse, admiration's thy friend,
Shall join in the mental repast,
The knee of thanksgiving to bend,
For mercies both present and past.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, May 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[June: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

Love like an April day beguiles / James Bland Burges

Love like an April day beguiles

Love like an April day beguiles,
      Each moment brings new changes;
From cold to heat, from frowns to smiles,
      Capriciously he ranges.
Now he allures to mirth and joy,
      And points to scenes of pleasure;
But, ere we reach them, the false boy
      Bears off the promis'd treasure.

~~
James Bland Burges (1752-1824)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

James Bland Burges biography