With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range the sheaves along the sunny land.
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.
What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast? Or lull'd to flamber by the beating rain, Secure and happy sink at last to rest.
Or if the fun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my DELIA walking side by fide,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.
What joy to wind along the cool retreat, To stop and gaze on DELIA as I go! To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, And teach my lovely scholar all I know !
Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream, In filent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I feem,
I live for DELIA, and myself alone.
Ah foolish man! who thus of her possess'd, Could float and wander with ambition's wind, And if his outward trappings spoke him blest, Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind.
With her I scorn the idle breath of praise, Nor truft to happiness that's not our own, The smile of fortune might fufpicion raise, But here I know that I am lov'd alone.
STANHOPE, in wisdom as in wit divine, May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause, With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws..
Let STANHOPE spea: his lift'ning country's wrong My humble voice thall please one partial maid; For her alone, I pen my tender fag,
Securely fitting in his friendly shade.
STANHOPE shall come, and grace his rural friend, DELIA shall wonder at her noble guest, With blushing awe the riper fruit commend, And for her husband's patron call the best.
Her's be the care of all my little train, While I with tender indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone diftinguish'd from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow, In gloomy forests tend my lonely stock, For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow, And fleep extended on the naked rock.
Ah! what avails to press the stately bed, And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, By warbling fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!
DELIA alone can please and never tire, Exceed the paint of thought in true delight, With her, enjoyment wakens new defire, And equal rapture glows thro' every night.
Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend, To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, I taste the joys of sense, and reason join'd.
On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er, And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand Thou weep'ist already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill; Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, Tho' I'am dead, my soul shall love thee still.
Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed, Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart! Oh leave me, DELIA! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier, Convey the corse in melancholy state, Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.
But every species of poetry, however serious, may admit of humour and burlesque. Examples of which we have given in the Epigram, and Epitaph, and we shall conclude this chapter with a burlesque elegy, written by Dr. Swift.
An ELEGY on the supposed death of Mr. PARTRIDGE, the Almanack-maker.
Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd, Tho' we all took it for a jeft; Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd E're he cou'd prove the good 'Squire ly'd. Strange, an astrologer shou'd die Without one wonder in the sky! Not one of all his crony stars To pay their duty at his herse ! No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! No comet with a flaming beard! The fun has rofe, and gone to bed, Just as if Partridge were not dead : Nor hid himself behind the moon To make a dreadful night at noon. He at fit periods walks thro' Aries, Howe'er our earthly motion varies : And twice a year he'll cut th' Equator, As if there had been no such matter.
Some Wits have wonder'd, what analogy, There is 'twixt * cobling and aftrology: How Partridge made his optics rise, From a shoe-fole, to reach the skies.
A lift the coblers temples ties To keep the hair qut of their eyes; From whence 'tis plain the diadem, That princes wear, derives from them. And therefore crowns are now-a-days Adorn'd with golden stars and rays,. Which plainly shews the near alliance 'Twixt cobling and the planets science.
Besides, that flow-pac'd fign Bootes, (As 'tis miscall'd) we know not who 'tis : But Partridge ended all disputes; He knew his trade, and call'd it + Boots.
The horned moon, which heretofore,
Upon their shoes the Romans wore, Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, And whence we claim our shooing-horns,
* Partridge was a Cobler,
Shews how the art of cobling bears A near. resemblance to the Spheres. A fcrap of parchment hung by geometry (A great refinement in barometry) Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; And what is parchment else but leather, Which an astrologer might use, Either for Almanacks or shoes ?
Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, At once did practice both these arts: And as the boading Owl (or rather The Bat, because her wings are leather,) Steals from her private cell by night, And flies about at candle-light; So learned Partridge could as well Creep in the dark from leathern cell, And, in his fancy, fly as far To peep upon a twinkling star.
Befides, he could confound the Spheres, And fet the Planets by the ears; To shew his skill, he Mars could join To Venus in afpect malign; Then call in Mercury for aid, And cure the wounds, that Venus made. Great scholars have in Lucian read, When Philip king of Greece was dead, His foul and spirit did divide, And each part took a diff'rent fide; One rose a star, the other fell Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.
Thus Partridge still shines in each art, The cobling and star-gazing part; And is install'd as good a star As any of the Cæfars are.
Triumphant star! some pity shew On Coblers militant below, Whom roguish boys in stormy nights Torment, by pifssing out their lights; Or thro' a chink convey their smoak Inclos'd Artificers to choak!
Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, May'st follow still thy calling there,
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