Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 96

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER.

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716.

1 O'er Winter's long inclement sway, At length the l.u.s.ty Spring prevails; And swift to meet the smiling May, Is wafted by the western gales.

Around him dance the rosy Hours, And damasking the ground with flowers, With ambient sweets perfume the morn; With shadowy verdure flourished high, A sudden youth the groves enjoy; Where Philomel laments forlorn.

2 By her awaked, the woodland choir To hail the coming G.o.d prepares; And tempts me to resume the lyre, Soft warbling to the vernal airs.

Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign For me, the meanest of your train, Unblamed to approach your blest retreat: Where Horace wantons at your spring, And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat.

3 Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; Thither, indulgent to my prayer, Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair, To swell the notes I feebly raise: So with aspiring ardours warmed May Gower's propitious ear be charmed To listen to my lays.

4 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, Like Thracian Mars, the undaunted Swede[1]

To dint of sword defies the foe; In fight unknowing to recede: From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar Leads forth his furry troops to war; Fond of the softer southern sky: The Soldan galls the Illyrian coast; But soon, the miscreant Moony host Before the Victor-Cross shall fly.

5 But here, no clarion's shrilling note The Muse's green retreat can pierce; The grove, from noisy camps remote, Is only vocal with my verse: Here, winged with innocence and joy, Let the soft hours that o'er me fly Drop freedom, health, and gay desires: While the bright Seine, to exalt the soul, With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, And wit and social mirth inspires.

6 Enamoured of the Seine, celestial fair, (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, Lashed his swift tigers to the Celtic plain: There secret in her sapphire cell, He with the Nais wont to dwell; Leaving the nectared feasts of Jove: And where her mazy waters flow He gave the mantling vine to grow, A trophy to his love.

7 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, With blind opinion for his guide; And, rebel to her rightful sway, Leave all her beauties unenjoyed?

Fool! Time no change of motion knows; With equal speed the torrent flows, To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: The past is all by death possessed; And frugal fate that guards the rest, By giving, bids him live To-Day.

8 O Gower! through all the destined s.p.a.ce, What breath the Powers allot to me Shall sing the virtues of thy race, United and complete in thee.

O flower of ancient English faith!

Pursue the unbeaten Patriot-path, In which confirmed thy father shone: The light his fair example gives, Already from thy dawn receives A l.u.s.tre equal to its own.

9 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns reared, Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume; Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard And clouds of incense all the void perfume.

There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, With Falkland seated near his side, Fixed by the Muse, the temple grace; Prophetic of thy happier fame, She, to receive thy radiant name, Selects a whiter s.p.a.ce.

[1] Charles XII.

ROBERT CRAWFORD.

Robert Crawford, a Scotchman, is our next poet. Of him we know only that he was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames; that he a.s.sisted Allan Ramsay in the 'Tea-Table Miscellany;' and was drowned when coming from France in 1733. Besides the popular song, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,'

which we quote, Crawford wrote also a lyric, called 'Tweedside,' and some verses, mentioned by Burns, to the old tune of 'Cowdenknowes.'

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

1 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; Though thus I languish and complain, Alas! she ne'er believes me.

My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded, never move her; At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, 'Twas there I first did love her.

2 That day she smiled and made me glad, No maid seemed ever kinder; I thought myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her; I tried to soothe my amorous flame, In words that I thought tender; If more there pa.s.sed, I'm not to blame-- I meant not to offend her.

3 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, The fields we then frequented; If e'er we meet she shows disdain, She looks as ne'er acquainted.

The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, Its sweets I'll aye remember; But now her frowns make it decay-- It fades as in December.

4 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me?

Oh, make her partner in my pains, Then let her smiles relieve me!

If not, my love will turn despair, My pa.s.sion no more tender; I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-- To lonely wilds I'll wander.

THOMAS TICKELL.

Tickell is now chiefly remembered from his connexion with Addison. He was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April 1701, he became a member of Queen's College in Oxford. In 1708, he was made M.A., and two years after was chosen Fellow. He held his Fellows.h.i.+p till 1726, when, marrying in Dublin, he necessarily vacated it. He attracted Addison's attention first by some elegant lines in praise of Rosamond, and then by the 'Prospect of Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took the Tory side. This poem Addison, in spite of its politics, praised highly in the _Spectator_, which led to a lifelong friends.h.i.+p between them. Tickell commenced contributing to the _Spectator_, among other things publis.h.i.+ng there a poem ent.i.tled the 'Royal Progress.' Some time after, he produced a translation of the first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared to be superior to Pope's. This led the latter to imagine that it was Addison's own, although it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., which still exists, that it was a veritable production of Tickell's. When Addison went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him, and was employed in public business. When Addison became Secretary of State, he made Tickell Under-Secretary; and when he died, he left him the charge of publis.h.i.+ng his works, with an earnest recommendation to the care of Craggs. Tickell faithfully performed the task, prefixing to them an elegy on his departed friend, which is now his own chief t.i.tle to fame. In 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords-Justices of Ireland, a place of great trust and honour, and which he retained till his death. This event happened at Bath, in the year 1740.

His genius was not strong, but elegant and refined, and appears, as we have just stated, to best advantage in his lines on Addison's death, which are warm with genuine love, tremulous with sincere sorrow, and s.h.i.+ne with a sober splendour, such as Addison's own exquisite taste would have approved.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON.

If, dumb too long, the drooping muse hath stayed, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.

What mourner ever felt poetic fires!

Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave?

How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!

What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!

While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.

Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague.

To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.

If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, My grief be doubled from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee!

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallowed mould belew; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven; Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation came a n.o.bler guest; Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just a.s.signed, What new employments please the embodied mind?

A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly?

Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze?

Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow In hymns of love, not ill essayed below?

Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind?

Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!

When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me, In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes.

If business calls, or crowded courts invite, The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; 'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: There patient showed us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe; There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die.

Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's n.o.ble race, Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eyeb.a.l.l.s glance the sudden tears?

How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze!

His image thy forsaken bowers restore; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however fortune frowned, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.

Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in the unfinished song!