THE NAIAD OF GLYMPTON BROOK.
NAJAD, unseen of mortal eyes,
Whose light steps haunt this current lone,
Where gentle Zephyr's balmy sighs,
With thy wild wave in unison,
Blend their aerial melodies;
Let me to thy deserted shades
Reveal the never dying flame
That all my pensive soul pervades,
And teach thine echoes Lesbia's name
Ere the soft light of evening fades!
Unheard, unnoticed, let me rove
Thy trembling osier wreaths among,
And woo the Muse where none reprove
Affection's unambitious song,
Nor chide the plaint of hopeless love.
There, when the Day's dim eyelids close,
Hide me within some shadowy cave;
And, ministering to calm repose,
Oh, softly bid thy babbling wave
Kiss the dank sedge that round it grows!
No angler's cruel arts are mine,
Ye timid tenants of the brook!
Wrought by my hand no viewless line,
Disguised by me no treacherous hook
Bids you your little lives resign.
Nor this pellucid rill refrain
To sip, ye minstrels of the air!
Your downy plumage to distain
With blood, no fatal tube I bear,
Nor pay with death your artless strain.
That breast no savage sports can share
Where glow Affection's generous fires;
Soft Pity finds her mansion there,
All whom the breath of life inspires
By her own sorrow taught to spare.
Mine, gentle Naiad, be the dell
Whose clear stream laves thy crystal grot:
Near its green margin let me dwell,
By all but one dear maid forgot,
And bid a world of cares farewell.
Oft let me view thy trembling tide,
Checquer'd with Cynthia's silver light;
What time, in Fancy's train descried,
Before my fascinated sight,
Past Joy's illusive phantoms glide.
Hopeless of happier hours to come,
No more array'd in flattering hues,
For me the buds of Pleasure bloom:
Yet deigns, at Fancy's call, the Muse
To gild Affliction's deepening gloom.
With Lesbia's praise the strain shall glow;
Oh, may she taste each bliss supreme
That Hope can paint or Love bestow;
And calm as Glym's sequester'd stream
May her life's gentle current flow!
Wind, lovely brook, thy murmuring way,
Still with my sorrows sympathize:
So may thy banks fresh flowers inlay,
Thy waves in rich redundance rise,
Mild zephyrs on thy bosom play!
If zephyr should his breath deny,
My sighs shall fan thy flowery beds;
If parching rays thy channel dry,
The tears desponding Passion sheds
Shall its exhausted stream supply.
TO THE RIVER DERWENT,
WRITTEN IN A ROMANTIC VALLEY NEAR ITS SOURCE.
DERWENT, what scenes thy wandering waves be[stray, As bursting from thine hundred springs they And down these vales, in sounding torrents roll'd, Seek to the shining east their mazy way!
Here dusky alders, leaning from the cliff,
Dip their long arms and wave their branches
There, as the loose rocks thwart my bounding skiff, White moonbeams tremble on the foaming tide.
Pass on, ye waves, where, dress'd in lavish pride, Mid roseate bowers, the gorgeous Chatsworth
Spreads her smooth lawns along your willowy side, And eyes her gilded turrets in your streams..
Pass on, ye waves, where Nature's rudest child, Frowning incumbent o'er the darken'd floods, Rock rear'd on rock, mountain on mountain piled, Old Matlock sits and shakes his crest of woods.
But when fair Derby's stately towers you view, When his bright meads your sparkling currents drink,
O! should Eliza press the morning dew,
And bend her graceful footsteps to your brink,
Uncurl your eddies, all your gales confine,
And, as your scaly nations gaze around,
Bid your gay nymphs portray, with pencil fine,
Her radiant form upon your silver ground.
With playful malice from her kindling cheek
Steal the warm blush, and tinge your passing
Mock the sweet transient dimples as she speaks,
And as she turns her eye reflect the beam!
And tell her, Derwent, as you murmur by,
How in these wilds with hopeless love I burn,
Teach your lone vales and echoing caves to sigh,
And mix my briny sorrows with your urn.
TO THE VENUS URANIA.
To heights where Fancy ne'er aspired,
In what blest region of the sky,
Eludes the Queen of Love, retired,
The sophist's art, the poet's eye?
Not she for whom Cythera's bowers,
Or Apach's violated steep,
Or proud Assyria's guilty towers
Licentious revels wont to keep.
Thee rather, modest nymph! I greet,
The sage Athenian's chaster theme,
While echoed to his accents sweet
The olived roofs of Academe.
Still, goddess, thy permitted view
Charms more than mortal can reveal,
Instruct each sense to nature true,
The eye to judge, the heart to feel.
Within us dwell those forms divine
Which thy sole image can impart;
We rear to thee no marble shrine
Whose living temple is the heart!
THE night was dark; the wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame:
Sudden the cottage door expands,
And, lo! before him Cupid stands, [his name. Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by
What! is it thou?' the startled sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flush'd his pale and wrinkled cheek: Wouldst thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, [too weak. Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are
|