Part 96 (1/2)

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.