Not Julia such: she higher honour deem'd
To languish in the Sulmo poet's arms
Than, by the potentates of earth esteem'd,
To give to sceptres and to crowns her charms.
Not Laura such: in sweet Vauclusa's vale
She listen'd to her Petrarch's amorous tale.
But did poor Colin Clout* o'er Rosalind prevail?
Howe'er that be; in Acidalian shade t,
Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the day:
No dreams of banishment his loves invade;
Encircled in eternity of May.
Here Petrarch with his Laura, soft reclined
On violets, gives sorrow to the wind:
And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Rosalind.
Pipe on, thou sweetest of the' Arcadian train,
That e'er with tuneful breath inform'd the quill:
Pipe on, of lovers the most loving swain!
Of bliss and melody O take thy fill.
+ These three celebrated poets and lovers were all of them unhappy in their amours. Ovid was banished on account of his passion for Julia. Death deprived Petrarch of his beloved Laura very early; as he himself tells us in his account of his own life. These are his words- Amore acerrimo, sed unico et honesto, in adolescentia laboravi, et diutius laborassem, nisi jam tepescentem ignem mors acerba, sed utilis, extinxisset.' See his Works, Basil, fol. Tom. 1. Yet others say, she married another person; which is scarce probable; since Petrarch lamented her death for ten years afterwards, as appears from Sonetto 313, with a most uncommon ardour of passion. Tho masinus, in his curious book, called Petrarcha Redivivus,' has given us two prints of Laura, with an account of her family, their loves, and the sweet retirement in Vaucluse. As for Spenser, we may conclude that his love for Rosalinda proved unsuccessful from the pathetical complaints, in several of his poems, of her cruelty. The author, therefore, thought it only a poetical kind of justice to reward them in this ima ginary retreat of Lovers, for the misfortunes they really suffered here, on account of their passions.
Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe smile,
Though low my numbers, and though rude my
Ne quit for Acidale fair Albion's happy isle.
Come then, Ianthe! milder than the Spring,
And grateful as the rosy month of May,
O come; the birds the hymn of Nature sing,
Enchanting wild, from every bush and spray :
Swell the green germs and teem along the vine,
A fragrant promise of the future wine,
The spirits to exalt, the genius to refine!
Let us our steps direct where father Thames,
In silver windings, draws his humid train,
And pours, where'er he rolls his naval stream,
Pomp on the city, plenty o'er the plain.
Or by the banks of Isis shall we stray,
(Ah, why so long from Isis' banks away!)
Where thousand damsels dance, and thousand
shepherds play?
Or choose you rather Theron's calm retreat,
Embosom'd, Surrey, in thy verdant vale,
At once the Muses' and the Graces' seat!
There gently listen to my faithful tale.
Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove,
Or taste the odours of the mazy grove :
Hark how the turtles coo: I languish too with love.
Amid the pleasaunce of Arcadian scenes,
Love steals his silent arrows on my breast;
Nor falls of water nor enamel'd greens
Can soothe my anguish or invite to rest.
You, dear Ianthe, you alone impart
Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my smart :
The apple of my eye, the life-blood of my heart.
With line of silk, with hook of barbed steel,
Beneath this oaken umbrage let us lay,
And from the water's crystal bosom steal
Upon the grassy bank the finny prey:
The perch, with purple speckled manifold;
The eel, in silver labyrinth self-roll'd,
[gold. And carp, all burnish'd o'er with drops of scaly
Or shall the meads invite, with Iris hues
And Nature's pencil gay diversified
(For now the Sun has lick'd away the dews),
Fair flushing and bedeck'd like virgin bride?
Thither (for they invite us) we'll repair,
Collect and weave (whate'er is sweet and fair)
A posy for thy breast, a garland for thy hair.
Fair is the lily, clad in balmy snow;
Sweet is the rose, of Spring the smiling eye;
Nipp'd by the winds, their heads the lilies bow;
Cropp'd by the hand, the roses fade and die.
Though now in pride of youth and beauty dress'd,
O think, Ianthe, cruel Time lays waste
The roses of the cheek, the lilies of the breast.
Weep not; but, rather taught by this, improve
The present freshness of thy springing prime:
Bestow thy graces on the god of Love,
Too precious for the wither'd arms of Time.
In chaste endearments, innocently gay,
Ianthe! now, now love thy Spring away;
Ere cold October blasts despoil the bloom of May.
Now up the chalky mazes of yon hill,
With grateful diligence, we wind our way;
What opening scenes our ravish'd senses fill,
And wide their rural luxury display!
Woods, dales, and flocks, and herds, and cots, and spires,
Villas of learned clerks and gentle squires;
The villa of a friend the eyesight never tires.
If e'er to thee and Venus, May, I strung
The gladsome lyre, when livelood* swell'd my
veins,
And Eden's nymphs and Isis' damsels sung
In tender elegy †, and pastoral strains +;
Collect and shed thyself on Theron's bowers,
O green his gardens, O perfume his flowers,
O bless his morning walks and soothe his evening
hours.
Long, Theron, with thy Annabel enjoy
The walks of Nature, still to Virtue kind,
For sacred solitude can never cloy;
The wisdom of an uncorrupted mind!
O very long may Hymen's golden chain
To earth confine you and the rural reign;
Then soar, at length, to heaven! nor pray, O
Muse, in vain.
Where'er the Muses haunt, or poets muse,
In solitary silence sweetly tired,
Unloose thy bosom, May! thy stores effuse,
Thy vernal stores, by poets most desired,
Of living fountain, of the woodbine shade,
Of Philomela, warbling from the glade.
Thy bounty, in his verse, shall certes be repaid.
+ Stella; sive Amores: Elegiarum Tres Libri. Written in the year 1736.
Six Pastorals: written in the year 1734
On Twit'nam bowers (Aonian Twit'nam bowers!)
Thy softest plenitude of beauties shed,
Thick as the Winter stars or Summer flowers;
Albe* the tuneful Master (ah!) be dead.
To Colin next he taught my youth to sing,
My reed to warble, to resound my string:
The king of shepherds he, of poets he the king.
Hail, happy scenes, where Joy would choose to dwell;
Hail, golden days, which Saturn deems his own;
Hail, music, which the Muses scant + excel;
Hail, flowerets, not unworthy Venus' crown.
Ye linnets, larks, ye thrushes, nightingales;
Ye hills, ye plains, ye groves, ye streams, ye gales,
Ye ever happy scenes! all you your Poet hails.
All hail to thee, O May! the crown of all!
The recompense and glory of my song:
Ne small the recompense, ne glory small,
If gentle ladies and the tuneful throng,
With lover's myrtle and with poet's bay
Fairly bedight ‡, approve the simple lay,
And think on Thomalin whene'er they hail thee,
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