Scowls like that Arctic heaven, that drizzling sheds Perpetual winter on the frozen skirts
Of Scandinavia and the Baltic main,
Where the young tempests first are taught to roar. Snug in their straw-built huts or darkling earth'd In cavern'd rock they live (small need of art To form spruce architrave or cornice quaint On Parian marble, with Corinthian grace Prepared)—There on well-fuel'd hearth they chat, Whilst black pots walk the round with laughing Ale Surcharged, or brew'd in planetary hour, When March weigh'd night and day in equal scale; Or in October tunned, and mellow grown
With seven revolving suns, the racy juice, Strong with delicious flavour, strikes the sense; Nor wants on vast circumference of board, Of Arthur's imitative, large sirloin Of ox, or virgin-heifer, wont to browse The meads of Longovicum (fattening soil Replete with clover grass and foodful shrub :) Planted with sprigs of rosemary it stands, Meet paragon (as far as great with small May correspond) from some Panchæan hill, Imbrown'd with sultry skies, thin set with palm And olive rarely interspersed, whose shade Screens hospitably from the Tropic Crab The quiver'd Arab's vagrant clan that waits Insidious some rich caravan, which fares To Mecca, with Barbaric gold full fraught.
Thus Britain's hardy sons, of rustic mould, Patient of arms, still quash the' aspiring Gaul, Bless'd by my boon; which when they slightly prize,
Should they, with high defence of triple brass
Wide-circling, live immured, (as erst was tried By Bacon's charms, on which the sickening moon Look'd wan, and cheerless mew'd her crescent
Whilst Demogorgon heard his stern behest) Thrice the prevailing power of Gallia's arms Should there resistless ravage, as of old Great Pharamond, the founder of her fame, Was wont when first his marshall'd peerage pass'd The subject Rhine. What though Britannia boasts Herself a world, with ocean circumfused?
"Tis Ale that warms her sons to' assert her claim, And with full volley makes her naval tubes Thunder disastrous doom to' opponent powers.
Nor potent only to enkindle Mars,
And fire with knightly prowess recreant souls; It science can encourage, and excite The mind to ditties blithe and charming song. Thou Pallas! to my speech just witness bear; How oft hast thou thy votaries beheld At Crambo merry met, and hymning shrill With voice harmonic each, whilst others frisk In mazy dance, or Cestrian gambols show, Elate with mighty joy, when to the brim Chritheian nectar crown'd the lordly bowl, (Equal to Nestor's ponderous cup, which ask'd A hero's arm to mount it on the board, Ere he the' embattled Pylians led, to quell The pride of Dardan youth in hosting dire.) Or if, with front unbless'd, came towering in Proctor armipotent, in stern deport
Resembling turban'd Turk, when high he wields. His scimitar with huge two-handed sway, Alarm'd with threatening accent, harsher far
Than that ill-omen'd sound, the bird of night, With beak uncomely bent, from dodder'd oak Screams out, the sick man's trump of doleful doom; Thy jocund sons confront the horrid van That crowds his gonfalon of seven-foot size, And with their rubied faces stand the foe; Whilst they of sober guise contrive retreat, And run with ears erect; as the tall stag Unharbour'd by the woodman quits his lair, And flies the yearning pack which close pursue; So they, not bowsy, dread the' approaching foe; They run, they fly, till flying on obscure, Night-founder'd in town-ditches, stagnant gurge, Soph rowls on soph promiscuous-Caps aloof Quadrate and circular confusedly fly,
The sport of fierce Norwegian tempests, toss'd By Thracia's coadjutant, and the roar Of loud Euroclydon's tumultuous gusts.'
She said: the sire of gods and men supreme, With aspect bland, attentive audience gave, Then nodded awful; from his shaken locks Ambrosial fragrance flew the signal given By Ganymede, the skinker soon was ken'd; With Ale he heaven's capacious goblet crown'd, To Phrygian mood Apollo tuned his lyre, The Muses sang alternate, all caroused,
But Bacchus murmuring left the' assembled powers.
OF wasteful havoc and destructive fate I sing the tragic scene, a mournful tale! Yet call no slaughtering hero to my aid, To strew my bloodless verse with mangled foes, A torrent spilt, but not of human gore, Ruin deform'd, but not of man erect.
O heaven-born Muse! (for Muse I must invoke Or mistress fair, for fashion or for need) Deign to describe the memorable Fall Of Chloe's Jordan; so by mortals named The vessel was, howe'er uncouth the sound, But veil'd by modest maids in gentler terms: Like Rome, the mistress of the world, it fell, From its own greatness only not secure.
Say first, what colours stain'd its vaulted sides, Lest harmless bards mistake the' important truth, And speak as fancy leads or rhyme directs; And he that terms it white as silver swans And spotless innocence, and new-fall'n snow, That spreads its plumes on Atlas' bleaky head, Shall suffer blemish in the wrong compare. Another humorous sports and jeers its hue Earthly and coarse, of substance indigest. How oft are men by devious error led To wander various, wide alike from truth!
1 This poem was printed as Mr. Philips's in The Poetical Calendar, vol. iv.
A sickly pale languish'd on the' inner round, Such as betrays the want of love-sick maids ; Foe to the rosy cheek and coral lip, But flies the lusty touch of warmer man, And beauty reassumes its native seat. Smooth were its sides, but from the bottom rose A manly head emboss'd, for hero meant No question, famed for arms and antique stem: Such honours the well-meaning vulgar pay To fame of gallant men, and waste their skill On high-hung signs, and earth of homely hue. What blushes did the virile image cost The harmless maid! fearful lest so employ'd The amorous stone should soften into life, As erst Pygmalion's marble mistress changed Her Parian substance, by less motive sway'd. Without, the cerulous dye bestrew'd the urn, And on the swelling surface, Flora's pride, The lily and the gaudy tulip smiled, Fed with the briny nectar it contain'd,
One handle held the vessel, arch'd and smooth, But for its weighty office far unfit:
Here weakness lurk'd in comely form disguised, Hence the sad source and root of all our woe: Imprudent man too often trusts his fate
To one smooth friend, who shrinks when nearly tried.
The unsuspecting fair-one never fail'd
At morn and eve to dew its spacious womb; At morn her first, at eve her latest act. How often has it flow'd with maiden streams Famed for rare virtues, and but seldom found? "Twas with this magic stream Diana spread The branchy horns on bold Acteon's brow;
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