The vow is vain :--for who, indeed, would fly
To gloomy dungeons, from the golden sky?
Who Hebe's nectar'd bowl would, madly, slight
For venom'd draughts, all satiate of delight?—
But when those exquisite illusions fade,
Ah! once in richest pageantry array'd;
Which stream'd o'er youth's gay dawn their orient dies,
Now doom'd, in vision only, to arise;
When, like the transient Iris' humid ray,
Dissolv'd, those fascinating forms decay,
Celestial forms! so delicately faint,
Which rapture's fairy-pencil loves to paint ;
May mem❜ry from my vacant brain depart,
Lost be my fancy, lost my tuneful art ;
And that no gleam may cheer the lonely waste,
Last be thy image utterly effac'd.
POETIC Iris, ever-changing,
Teach me thy cameleon-song,
Bear me each pathless wild along,
For what new climate art thou strange in,
Through fancy's labyrinth incessant ranging :
And ever shield my finer sense,
'Gainst listless lounging indolence,
Voluptuous rogue, who loves to lie,
With languid limbs and stupid eye,
By some smooth stream's melodious fall,
Oft vex'd by echo's sportive call,
Or hollow wind, shrill whistling by,
Or thunder in the distant sky.
She best delights on some bold mountain's brow, To cull the wild flow'r scanty nature flings;
I seek no garlands for my front below,
For heav'nward flight, with broad refulgent wings Of hoary length, shall cleave my liquid way, Sublime his floating form display,
And meet the azure-vested morn,
Faint in the east with a rosy breast,
Then the sharp sound of scythes shall grate on my
And the loud shout of sportsmen in rapid career;
Meanwhile, the dewy landscape opens,
Glitt'ring on my raptur'd eye,
Gleamy spires, hoar cliffs, and meadows,
Waving bright, with many a dye.
Far distant towns, with winding seas embost,
And castles, frowning drear, in purply vapours lost.
Goddess, grant my ardent pray'r,
Thine profuse in varying light;
Then, gliding through the colour'd air,
Flash upon my dazzled sight,
Goddess of sincere delight!
A MODEST thrush, soft foe to art,
Oft charming the poetic heart;
Who, sweetest of the feather'd throng,
Warbled at eve his melting song;
Or, hail'd the dawn's first blushing ray,
With gratitude's ecstatic lay,
The wild wood echoes, list'ning nigh,
Would ev'ry mellow note reply ;
And lov'd the sound so simply sweet,
In native energy complete ;
Yet envy mark'd our sylvan bard,
Envy, the fairest breast's reward;
Envy, the shade of purest light,
Tainting with flaws the jewel bright!
In a dark barn, that border'd near,
Three grave birds liv'd, in gloom severe,
On critic tree, and fam'd for malice,
Grim as three felons on a gallows;
Like wretches plotting mischief still,
Prepar'd to scandalize or kill,
Yet daws and ravens styled those fowls,
Most witty, venerable owls.
Birds of a feather, always fit,
And take plain ignorance for wit.
Now, ever when our hero-thrush
Would harmonize his tenant bush,
Thrilling the tender tale of love,
That call'd the twinkling stars above
From their bright spheres, and bade them lean
Attentive o'er the still serene,
Those elves malicious, elves absurd,
Hermaphrodites of cat and bird,
With shrill to-hoo's came sweeping by,
With leathern wing and stupid eye,
Wheeling and rustling, till they marr'd
The music of our rural bard;
Who, frighted by th' ungracious clutter,
Clos'd his sweet vespers with a flutter,
Disdaining long to swell their pride
(For, innocent, he all defy'd!)
He no remonstrance fram'd, but fled
In shades to hide his injur'd head.
At last, by wrongs repeated wounded,
Their empty nonsense he confounded;
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