« EelmineJätka »
What tho' to love and soft delights a foe, 15
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social freedomi, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taste thee unexere is'd by kings.
Ex fumo dare lucem.
Bor! bring an ounce of Freeman's best,
And bid the vicar be my guest :
Let all be plac'd in order due,
A pot wherein to fpit or fpue,
And London Journal, and Free Briton, 5
Of use to light a pipe, or
This village, unmolefted yet
By troopers, shall be my retreat:
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray ;
Who cannot write or vote for *.
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland
'In fweet oblivion lulls the land ;
Of all which at Vienna passes,
As ignorant as * * Brass is :
And scorning rascals to caress,
Extol the days of good Queen Bess,
When first TOBACCO bleft our isle,
Then think of other Queens—and smile.
Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry and song;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City Hall ;
The parson's pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.
I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain to compass Britain's ruin :
Britons, if undone, can go
Where TOBACCo loves to grow.
Ne gay attire, ne marble hall,
Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall ;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Bellow'd with pyes' of perigord ;
power, ne such like idle fancies ;
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis.
Let me ne more myself deceive ;
Ne more regret
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train;
But not the good, perdie, nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray’r;
But such aye welcome to my cell,
And oft, not always, with me dwell.
Then cast, sweet saint, a circle round,
And bless from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth,
The gravely dull, and pertly gay,
Oh banith these; and, by my fay,
Right well I ween that, in this age,
Mine house ihall prove an hermitage.
AN INSCRIPTION ON THE CELL.
ENEAT#these moss-grown roots, this rustick cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, fequefter'd dwell;
Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain,
What drawing-room can boast so fair a train ?
AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CELL.
Sweet bird, that fing’t on yonder spray,
Pursue unharm'd thy sylvan lay;
While I, beneath this breezy shade,
In peace repose my careless head;
And joining thy enraptur’d song,
Instruct the world-enamour'd throng,
That the contented harmless breast
In folitude itself is bleit.
BY GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON. * Made to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes ; Though meek, magnanimous; though witty, wife; Polite, as all her life in courts had been; Yet good, as she the world had never seen ; The noble fire of an exalted mind,
5 With gentle female tenderness combin'd. Her speech was the melodious voice of Love, Her song the warbling of the vernal grove; Her eloquence was sweeter than her song, Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong ; Her form each beauty of her mind express'd, Her mind was Virtue by the Graces dress’d.