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

April: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

April: A pastoral poem

Stern winter no longer prevails,
His brow of severity bends,
The snow is dissolv'd in the vales,
The north all his fury suspends:
The stream, late so turbid and full,
Innundation pour'd over its mound;
Now limpid and slow to the pool,
Its waters glide peaceably down.

The blest revolution appears,
It comes on the wings of the breeze;
Yon cloud that dissolves into tears,
Expands the green robe of the trees.
The daisy bestuds the fresh plain,
The cowslip diffuses perfume,
The Graces, a beautiful train,
Revive in the season of bloom.

From the fir, in the midst of the grove,
The stock-dove, in passionate lay,
Pours melting effusions of love,
As opens or closes the day.
The blackbird is up with the morn,
To serenade enters the bush;
Whilst music more shrill, from the thorn,
Proclaims the delight of the thrush.

Does the east brighten wide with the dawn?
The lark from her pillow of green
Ascends from dew-spangled lawn,
Ambitiously rising is seen.
In vain do we follow her flight,
She mocks the pursuit of our eyes,
And sings from so distant a height,
She seems invelop'd in the skies.

How mutual's the toil of the day,
The rook and his loud-cawing mate,
The architect's labour display,
In skill most amazingly great;
Enfork'd in the elms lofty spray,
The branches intwisting among,
In cradle compacted of clay,
Securely they pillow their young.

The chaffinch, mechanic, whose art,
Ye warblers, you can excel,
Where the sprays in a thicket dispart,
Has finished her gray-mossy cell.
Without how enamell'd it seems,
How elegant, artful, and round,
Instudded as brilliant it beams,
A brilliant where sparkles abound.

The wren, of rotundity fond,
Her Ranelagh pins to the wall,
To the pollard that bends on the pond,
Or the thatch that projects from the stall.
Ye feather'd musicians of spring,
Your nests may no danger annoy;
O may the fatigue of your wing,
Your broodlings mature into joy.

What blessings the rustics await,
The season they hail with a smile!
How happy's the husbandman's fate!
Content is the offspring of toil.
At night, from the labour of day,
The faithful delight of his heart,
Meets her lord on his long-custom'd way,
The raptures of truth to impart.

Ye much-envied scenes of repose,
Dear sylvan-sequester'd retreats,
Where innocence shields from the woes
Attendant on luxury's seats.
Here Nature's thy throne, and behold,
In the cot, on the verge of the dell,
Tho' the roof is not fretted with gold,
Thy virtues, Simplicity, dwell.

The morning's first visit attend,
Shall we watch for Aurora's first beam,
Then, Celadon, shall we, my friend,
Purloin from the stores of the stream.
Afar from the clack of the mill,
We'll stray to the head of the brook,
Or shall we curve round with the rill,
And practise the wiles of the hook.

The trout in his moss-fashion'd bed,
Observe all his gay-speckled pride,
How bright are his patches of red,
Live rubies that bleed in the tide!
Shall he bask in his sun-courted ray,
Still tenant his oozy recess,
Clash the current disporting in play,
Or shall we his pastime distress?

Ah, no, your more delicate breast
Forbids an enjoyment to gain,
Forbids any pleasure to rest,
Which flows from inflicting a pain.
Let others illusion design,
We'll scorn th' unwary to cheat,
Surrender the rod and the line,
And spurn from amusement deceit.

Your muse shall the season declare,
Your muse, not the least of the nine,
And pardon, should I for a share
Attempt your soft essays to join.
To Pan let us offer the song,
Perchance he may favour the lay,
Which serves the sweet theme to prolong,
For April's the mother of May.

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

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[May: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

March: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

March: A pastoral poem

In the habit of Proteus clad,
With aspect ferocious and wild,
Now pleasing, now sullen and sad,
Now froward, now placid and mild,
In his hand, from the Zodiac fled,
The Aries progressive is seen,
The bloom of the almond is shed
Around his unciviliz'd mien.

'Tis March — how tremendous they blow,
Unprison'd what tempests arise
From the caverns of Boreas below,
The hills feel the blasts of the skies.
The hills echo loud, and the deep
Ascends in big surges of foam;
The ships o'er the precipice sweep,
Thro' perils implacable roam.

Ye winds, your rude tumults assuage;
O cease your resentment to pour,
Forbear your despotical rage;
O hear the young season deplore.
Let morning your friendship resume,
Revive nature's low-bending head,
Send Zephyr, with soft silken plume,
The breath of Favonious to spread.

'Tis done: on the bank of the rill
Peeps the primrose in innocence dress'd,
Serene as its waters distil,
Blooms the gem of the season confess'd.
The sky-tinctur'd violet is seen
Her blossoms of odour to shed,
She looks as the purple-rob'd queen
Of the treasure young verdure has spread.

These are gifts for my fair, let me bring,
The primrose and violet gay;
Such innocent poesies of spring,
My purest affection convey.
She comes, as the moon from the cloud,
My snow-bosom'd Delia appears,
With a soul of mild virtue endow'd,
And her cheek unpolluted with tears.

She smiles, and the buds of the grove
Methinks into foliage expand,
Rob'd in all the soft lustre of love,
A lambkin she leads in her hand.
It was the first born of the fold;
Which but for her care had been lost,
Her tenderness sav'd from the cold
The dreadful effects of the frost.

She smiles — and elate with the sound
Of bells from the hamlet below,
Festivity bids to abound,
The cause ev'ry shepherd must know;
Must know what Selander the gay,
To Melicent, beautiful maid,
By Hymen on this jocund day,
The bridegroom of transport was made.

Did Hymen e'er look with more grace?
— The muse is invited a guest —
Was ever more chearful his face,
Than on this pleasing union express'd?
Ye shepherds, convene on the lea,
Let mirth the most sprightly be ours,
Go, Delia, announce the decree,
And call up the musical pow'rs.

The crocus of gold-colour'd hue,
The hyacinth, gaudy in vest,
The sweet polyanthuses too,
And anemone wantonly dress'd.
The Mezerion worthy of praise,
Tho' fraught with no lavish perfume,
And willow, whose silver-like rays,
Are shed from its white-velvet bloom.

These let us collect, and we'll weave
A garland for Melicent's brow,
I'm certain the fair will receive
The gift which her shepherd's bestow.
The pair will the present approve,
And gratefully honour my lay;
'Tis nature, the union of love,
Be ever recorded the day.

Selander, O long be thou blest,
Long cherish the maid of thy heart,
Thou choice of his unreserv'd breast,
A passion that's mutual impart.
So your loves shall no trouble annoy,
But Hymen incessantly sing,
That March was the parent of joy,
As well as the father of spring.

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

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[April: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

February: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

February: A pastoral poem

To a shepherd unpractis'd in art,
Ye maids of Parnassus incline;
To him your assistance impart,
Whose tribute is laid at your shrine.
Tho' dull and ungenial the day,
Bright Pity appears in the vale,
The sportsmen her mandates obey,
No longer the coppice assail.

Nor longer with spaniel and gun,
In dress which the bramble defies,
Accusing the slow-rising sun,
To cover young Doriland hies.
The pheasants beneath the rude thorn
In safety their plumage may spread,
Or venture to pilfer the corn
The hand of Rusticity shed.

No dangers the covey annoy;
Securely the partridge shall pair,
And taste of each warm sunny joy,
As Phoebus impregnates the air.
But Mercy is partial; for lo!
Black perils await on the fen,
The snipe feels the death-levell'd blow,
Which the woodcock destroys in the glen.

To scenes of more softness I speed,
The muse in her pastoral flight,
Come, Flora, enamel the mead,
Replenish the earth with delight:
Conceal not your mantle of green,
For nature's cold bosom is bare,
You purpose to clothe the dark scene,
The snow-drop alone can declare.

The snow-drop, young blossom, how chill'd,
Cold herald, with winter in rear,
Thy veins seem with isicles fill'd,
Pale gift of the unripen'd year.
If other weak flow'rets are found,
They scent not the spiritless day,
They breathe not an odour around,
Are neither inviting or gay.

Should clouds in succession descend,
The landskips to deluge in show'rs,
Or mists o'er the cottages bend,
Consigning to dulness the hours:
Yet sorrow disturbs not the soul,
Content for her residence forms,
Altho' in the far distant pole
Extends the rough blast of the storms.

Content come with visage serene,
Thy blessings unfold to my view,
Attendant be innocence seen,
I want not the wealth of Peru.
The bosom of calmness is thine;
The Virtues in modest array,
Thy presents are ever benign,
Thy song is the music of May.

Pastora inspire my reed,
Can sounds more harmonious flow,
From encomiums more justly proceed,
Than those which to Delia I owe.
For now the fair morning appears,
My muse with enchantment to wing,
Another we add to her years,
'Tis the birth-day of Delia I sing.

Tho' naked and brown are the lawns,
And winter still harrows the day,
Aurora transcendently dawns,
For Delia has heighten'd her ray.
For her, with each grace in her train,
Shall spring in fresh beauty appear,
The summer's varieties reign,
And winter no longer appear.

Prophetic, methinks, that my song
Has called up the earth-cheering breeze,
The birds am'rous ditties prolong,
The turtles soft coo in the trees.
Each warbler the symphony hails,
And harmony gentle creates,
'Tis Cupid my fair one prevails,
On their musical nuptials awaits.

A chaplet I'll weave for the morn,
The myrtle soft verdure bespreads,
Flora wakens the wreath to adorn,
And rises wherever she treads.
Let Delia approve my fond lays,
Accept of the garland I twine,
My brow shall be cover'd with bays,
In honour of her Valentine.

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

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[March: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

January: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

January: A pastoral poem

Tho' Janus has widen'd the day,
And December that nurtur'd the storm
Each terror suspends to convey
In sadden'd variety's form;
Thy hand, Devastation, is spread
O'er Nature's disconsolate face;
The path-way dejected I tread,
As the havoc of winter I trace.

How pointed with ice is the air,
The woodlands besplendent with frost
A landscape of crystal prepare
Whose beauties in rigours are lost.
Imprison'd behold the clear rill
Irriguous that stole thro' the mead;
No more in soft murmurs distil
Its waters to cherish the reed.

Those scenes where the songsters of love
Pour'd carols which nature excites,
Resounding in bliss thro' the grove,
Resounding with purest delights;
Those scenes to dejection a prey,
To winter's wide ruin consign'd,
No longer sensations convey,
Improving and pleasing the mind.

For mute are the notes of the thrush,
The lark has his matins forgot,
The red-breast explores the bare bush,
Or for nurture intrudes on the cot.
No song the fresh milk-maid bestows,
No longer she visits the vale,
Where erst at the side of her cows
Each eve she replenish'd the pail.

The morning distressful of mien,
From slumbers of sluggish delay,
Now opens a wide-wasting scene,
At once both terrific and gay;
Aerial treasures of snow
The mountains and valleys invest,
With what a bright burden below
Is the bosom of nature oppress'd!

Go, shepherds, attend the thick field,
To your ewes in the valley repair,
O save the young lambs from the cold,
They bleat for protection and care.
Ye neat herds go look to the kine,
The crib with sweet fodder supply,
The task of compassion is thine,
For herbage the meadows deny.

Whilst the voice of the north is severe,
And heard thro' the trees with dismay,
What sorrow is that which I hear,
More sad than the sighs of the day!
'Tis Delia. — Why weeps my soft fair,
What opens the spring of her grief,
Or loosens her soft-flowing hair,
Can Corydon tender relief?

She weeps o'er poor Emmeline's tomb,
Who fell as a wreath of the snow;
She fell in the pride of her bloom,
As bright as the heavenly bow.
Her voice was the music of spring,
Her heart was ineffable love,
Her face all that beauty could bring,
In mildness she rival'd the dove.

Thou bright as the moon on the main,
My Delia no longer deplore,
Nor harrow thy bosom with pain,
For Emmeline must be no more.
Permit I partake of thy woe,
The privilege can you refuse?
Together, my fair one, we'll go,
And death of his triumph accuse.

To her manes rever'd let us raise
Of flowers an elegant mound,
The spring shall supply us with bays,
And Flora shall purple the ground.
In vain are you delug'd in tears,
O grant me your grief to beguile,
Exempt from despondency's fears,
We'll meet the new year with a smile.

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

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[February: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography