Part 48 (1/2)

4 Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth: Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth: Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

5 Such she is: and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so, That she be but somewhile young; Be a.s.sured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

POWER OF GENIUS OVER ENVY.

'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart That can debase the excellence of art, Nor great in t.i.tles makes our worth obey, Since we have lines far more esteem'd than they.

For there is hidden in a poet's name A spell that can command the wings of Fame, And maugre all oblivion's hated birth Begin their immortality on earth, When he that 'gainst a muse with hate combines May raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines.

EVENING.

As in an evening when the gentle air Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear, When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain That likes me, straight I ask the same again, And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er With some sweet relish was forgot before: I would have been content, if he would play, In that one strain to pa.s.s the night away; But fearing much to do his patience wrong, Unwillingly have ask'd some other song: So in this differing key though I could well A many hours but as few minutes tell, Yet lest mine own delight might injure you (Though both so soon) I take my song anew.

FROM 'BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS.'

Between two rocks (immortal, without mother) That stand as if outfacing one another, There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, As if the waters hid them from the wind, Which never wash'd but at a higher tide The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide, Where never gale was longer known to stay Than from the smooth wave it had swept away The new divorced leaves, that from each side Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide.

At further end the creek, a stately wood Gave a kind shadow (to the brackish flood) Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe, Upon whose tops the hernshew bred her young, And h.o.a.ry moss upon their branches hung; Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow.

And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, None could allot them less than Nestor's years.

As under their command the thronged creek Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek Where he his little boat might safely hide, Till it was fraught with what the world beside Could not outvalue; nor give equal weight Though in the time when Greece was at her height.

Yet that their happy voyage might not be Without Time's shortener, heaven-taught melody, (Music that lent feet to the stable woods, And in their currents turn'd the mighty floods, Sorrow's sweet nurse, yet keeping Joy alive, Sad Discontent's most welcome corrosive, The soul of art, best loved when love is by, The kind inspirer of sweet poesy, Least thou shouldst wanting be, when swans would fain Have sung one song, and never sung again,) The gentle shepherd, hasting to the sh.o.r.e, Began this lay, and timed it with his oar:

Nevermore let holy Dee O'er other rivers brave, Or boast how (in his jollity) Kings row'd upon his wave.

But silent be, and ever know That Neptune for my fare would row.

Swell then, gently swell, ye floods, As proud of what ye bear, And nymphs that in low coral woods String pearls upon your hair, Ascend; and tell if ere this day A fairer prize was seen at sea.

See the salmons leap and bound To please us as we pa.s.s, Each mermaid on the rocks around Lets fall her brittle gla.s.s, As they their beauties did despise And loved no mirror but your eyes,

Blow, but gently blow, fair wind, From the forsaken sh.o.r.e, And be as to the halcyon kind, Till we have ferried o'er: So mayst thou still have leave to blow, And fan the way where she shall go.

A DESCRIPTIVE SKETCH.

Oh, what a rapture have I gotten now!

That age of gold, this of the lovely brow, Have drawn me from my song! I onward run, (Clean from the end to which I first begun,) But ye, the heavenly creatures of the West, In whom the virtues and the graces rest, Pardon! that I have run astray so long, And grow so tedious in so rude a song.

If you yourselves should come to add one grace Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, Where, here, the curious cutting of a hedge, There in a pond, the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of the sedge; Here the fine setting of well-shaded trees, The walks their mounting up by small degrees, The gravel and the green so equal lie, It, with the rest, draws on your lingering eye: Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air, Arising from the infinite repair Of odoriferous buds, and herbs of price, (As if it were another paradise,) So please the smelling sense, that you are fain Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.

There the small birds with their harmonious notes Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats: For in her face a many dimples show, And often skips as it did dancing go: Here further down an over-arched alley That from a hill goes winding in a valley, You spy at end thereof a standing lake, Where some ingenious artist strives to make The water (brought in turning pipes of lead Through birds of earth most lively fas.h.i.+oned) To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all In singing well their own set madrigal.

This with no small delight retains your ear, And makes you think none blest but who live there.

Then in another place the fruits that be In gallant cl.u.s.ters decking each good tree Invite your hand to crop them from the stem, And liking one, taste every sort of them: Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers, Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers, Then to the birds, and to the clear spring thence, Now pleasing one, and then another sense: Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th, As if it were some hidden labyrinth.

WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING.