I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, That once we called the pastoral house our own. 45 50 55 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 60 The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 65 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in Memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, 70 Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here. When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 75 I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), 80 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart-the dear delight Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, 85 90 95 100 105 ΙΙΟ 115 And while the wings of Fancy still are free, Time has but half succeeded in his theft- THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. Two Nymphs, both nearly of an age, Of numerous charms possessed, A warm dispute once chanced to wage, The worth of each had been complete, And in her humour, when she frowned, The garland that she wore. The other was of gentler cast, From all such frenzy clear, 120 5 IO Her frowns were seldom known to last, 15 And never proved severe. To poets of renown in song The Nymphs referred the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong, 20 And gave misplaced applause. They gentle called, and kind and soft, The flippant and the scold, And though she changed her mood so oft, No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, Or so resolved to err In short, the charms her sister had 25 Then thus the god whom fondly they Was heard, one genial summer's day, 'Since thus ye have combined,' he said, 'The minx shall, for your folly's sake, 'Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 'And pinch your noses blue.' YARDLEY OAK.. SURVIVOR sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here thy brethren! At my birth As now, and with excoriate forks deform, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, Thou fellest mature; and, in the loamy clod, 25 30 35 Now stars; two lobes, protruding, paired exact; And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees, 4I Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but, at thy mouth 45 Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; 50 Thy popularity, and art become 55 |