صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

Or on some fane his three-fork'd dart bestows, Down falls the spire, the body fearful quakes, Nor sure to fall or stand, with doubtful tremblings shakes,


So when the lark, poor bird! afar espi'th

Her yet unfeather'd children—whom to save She strives in vain-lain by the cruel scythe;

Which from the meadow its green locks doth shape,

That their warm nest is now become their grave :
The woful mother up to heaven springs,
And all about her plaintive notes she flings,
And their untimely fate most pitifully sings.

(Giles.) All so a lily press'd with heavy rain,

Which fills her cup with showers up to the brinks ; The weary stalk no longer can sustain

The head, but low beneath the burthen sinks: Or as a virgin rose her leaves displays, Which too hot scorching beams quite disarrays; Down falls her double ruff, and all her sweets decays.


See how the sun in day-time clouds his face;

And lagging Vesper loosing his late team, Forgets in heaven to run his nightly race,

But, sleeping on bright Oeta's top, doth dream

The world a chaos is,-no joyful beam Looks from his starry bower; the heavens do moan; And thus drop tears lest we should grieve alone; The winds have learnt to sigh, and waters hoarsely groan,


So oft the South with civil enmity

Musters his watry forces 'gainst the West,
The rolling clouds come tumbling up the sky,

In dark folds wrapping up their angry guest :
At length the flame breaks from the impris’ning cold,
With horrid noise tearing the limber mould,
While down in liquid tears the broken vapour's rolld.


So may we oft a tender father see,

To please his wanton son, his only joy,
Coast all about to catch the roving bee;

And stung himself his busy hands employ

To save the honey for the gamesome boy :
Or from the snake her ranc'rous fangs erase,
Making his child the toothless serpent chase,
Or with his little hands her swelling crest embrace.

(Giles.) As when a youth bound for the Belgic war,

Takes leave of friends upon the Kentish shore;
Now are they parted, and he sails so far

They see not now,-and now are seen no more:
Yet far off viewing the white trembling sails,
The tender mother soon plucks off her veils,
And shaking them aloft, unto her son she hails.


Like to a ship in which no ballast lies,

Without a pilot on the sleeping waves,
Fairly along with wind and water flies,

With painted mast wbich silken sail embraves;

That Neptune's self the bragging vessel saves To laugh awhile at her so proud array : Her waving streamers loosely she lets play, That with their colours shine as bright as smiling day.


As when the powerful wind and adverse tide

Strive which should most command the subject main ; The scornful waves swelling with angry pride

Yielding to neither, all their force disdain :
Meantime the shaking vessel doubtful plays,
And on the stagg’ring billow trenibling plays,
And would obey them both, yet neither she obeys.


The garden Jike a lady fair was cut,

That lay as if she slumber'd in delight, And to the open skies her eyes did shut :

The azure field of heaven, in semblance right

Was a large circle set with flowers of light; The flower-de-luce, and the bright drops of dew That hung upon the azure leaves, all shew Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the heav'ns so blue.

Upon a lofty bank her head she cast,

On which was built the bower of Vain-delight; White and red roses for her face were plac'd,

And for her tresses marigolds so bright,

Which broadly she display'd t’ attract the sight, "Till in the ocean the glad day was drown'd: Then up again her yellow locks she wound, That with green fillets in their pretty cauls were bouud.


The flowers that frighted with sharp winter's dread,

Retire into their mother Tellus' womb,
Yet in the spring in troops new mustered

Peep out again from their unfrozen tomb :
The early violet will fresh arise,
Ard spreading his flowr'd purple to the skies,
Boldly the little elf the winter's spite defies.
The hedge, green satin prick'd and cut, arrays;

The heliotrope, to cloth of gold aspires;
In hundred-colour'd silks the tulip plays;

Th’imperial flower, his neck with pearl attires ; The lily, high her silver grogram rears; The pansy, her wrought velvet garment bears ; The red rose, scarlet, and the provence, damask wears.


So Philomel, perch'd on an aspen sprig

Weeps all the night her lost virginity; And sings her sad tale to the restless twig,

That dances at such joyful mișery :

Nor ever lets sweet sleep invade her eye,
But leaning on a thorn her dainty chest,
For fear soft sleep should steal into her breast,
Expresses in ber song grief not to be exprest.

(Giles.) The cheerful lark, mounting from early bed,

With sweet salutes awakes the drowsy light; The earth she leaves, and up to heaven is fled;

There chants her maker's praises out of sight. Earth seems a mole-hill, men but ants to be; Teaching vain men, that soar to high degree, The further up they climb, the less they seem and see.


That heavenly voice I more delight to hear,

Than gentle airs that breathe; or swelling waves That 'gainst the sounding rocks their bosoms tear;

Or whistling reeds that Jordan's river laves,

And with their verdure his white head embraves ;
Than chiding winds; or roving bees that ily
About the laughing blooms of sallowy,
Rocking asleep the lazy drones that thereon lie.

(Giles.) Great power of love! with what commanding fire

Dost thou inflame the world's wide regiment, And kindly heat in every heart inspire !

Nothing is free from thy sweet government: Fish burn in seas; beasts, birds, thy weapons prove; By thee dead elements and heavens move; Which void of sense themselves, yet are not yoid of love.

(Phineas.) Non nostrum inter vos tantas componere lites, Et vitula tu dignus, et hic !

We fear our readers may be cloyed with these sweets,. but it is a duty we have undertaken to exhibit the native poets of Kent to advantage, and notwithstanding the restrictions we had thought right formerly to impose on ourselves, repeated perusal of the longer poem of Phineas, forbids us to leave it without further extending our selections. The “Purple Island” is but little visited by poetic ramblers : it has a forbidding aspect, and few will be tempted to seek for flowers among its frowning rocks and rugged promontories. Yet does it abound with the choicest specimens, and if we may venture to anticipate judgment, we predict that by offering to them the following garland, we shall be entitled to the thanks of all true lovers of the muse.

« السابقةمتابعة »