Yet, O! (for oft the thought disturbs my rest)
'Tis hard to heal a love-envenom❜d breast;
So soft each arrow steals upon our heart,
It glides a feather, but it grows a dart.
Yet, wouldst thou from increasing ills be free,
Pursue my precepts, and resolve like me;
When the false syren singles out her man,
Tips the lewd leer, or flaps the flirting fan :
O shun th' infection swift, victorious, fly,
She smiles a ruin, and she looks a lie!
But must some lovely, some divinely fair,
Sweeten this draught of life, and soothe thy care;
Let the gay muse relieve thy sickening pain,
And form a brighter Venus of the brain: [grieve,
Then shalt thou scorn those charms that made thee
And by the fair illusion learn to live.
So Isreal's sons, by poisonous serpents stung,
Aloft in air a mimic serpent hung;
Fix'd on the sight, the sad afflicted train
Gaz'd into health, and look'd away their pain.
Sidney-Coll. Feb. 19. 1725-6.
OPPRESS'D with griefs, with poverty, and score,
Of all forsaken, and of all forlorn,
What shall I do? or whither shall I fly?
Or what kind ear will hear the muse's cry?
With restless heart from place to place I roam,
A wretched vagrant, destitute of home :
* This melancholy portrait seems to have been presented to the Earl of Burlington.
Driv'n from fair Granta's shade by fortunes's frown,
I came to court the flatterer in the town.
Three tedious days detain❜d me on the road,
Whilst the winds whistled, and the torrents flow'd,
On my devoted head; the gusty breeze
Shook the collected tempest from the trees;
For shelter, to the shades I ran in vain,
The shades deceitful, delug'd me with rain:
Thus when fate frowns upon our happier days,
Our friend, perhaps our bosom friend, betrays.
But as vicissitudes control our fate,
And griefs and joys maintain a doubtful state,
So now the sun's emerging orb appears,
And with the spongy clouds dispels my fears.
In tears the transient tempest flits away,
And all the blue expansion flames with day.
My gazing eyes o'er pleasing prospects roll,
And look away the sorrows of my soul;
Pleas'd at each view some rueful thought to draw,
And moralize on every scene I saw ;
Here, with inviting pride, blue mountains rise,
Like joys more pleasant to our distant eyes;
In golden waves there tides of harvest flow,
Whilst idle poppies intermingling grow;
How like their brother fops, an empty show!
In every bush the warbling birds advance,
Sing to the sun, and on the branches dance;
No grief, no cares, perplex their souls with strife,
Like bards, they live a poor but merry life:
In every place alike their fortunes lie,
Both live in want, and unregarded die ;
With like concern they meet approaching death,
In prison, or in fields, resign their breath.
Musing, I saw the fate I could not shun, Shook my grave head, and pensive travell❜d on; But as Augusta's wish'd-for domes arise,
Peep o'er the clouds, and dance before my eyes, What thoughts, what tumults fill'd my labouring breast,
To be conceiv'd alone, but not express'd;
What intermingled multitudes arose,
Lords, parsons, lawyers, baronets, and beaus,
Fops, coxcombs, cits, and knaves of every class,
While some the better half, some wholly ass;
On either side bewailing suppliants stand, [hand,
Speak with their looks, and stretch their wither'd
In feeble accents supplicate relief,
And by their sorrows multiply my grief;
Mov'd by their wants, my fortune I deplore,
And deal a tribute from my slender store :
With joy the favour they receive, and pray
That God the bounteous blessing may repay!
Thus providently wise, the labouring swain
O'er the proud furrows strews the fertile grain:
The grateful plain o'erpays his bounteous care
With tenfold blessings, and a golden year.
Now, lost in thought, I wander up and down,
Of all unknowing, and to all unknown;
Try in each place, and ransack every news,
To find some friend, some patron of the muse :
But where? or whom? alas! I search in vain,
The fruitless labour only gives me pain;
But soon each pleasing prospect fades away,
And with my money all my hopes decay.
But now the sun diffus'd a fainter ray,
And falling dews bewail'd the falling day,
When to St. James's Park my way I took,
Solemn in pace, and sadden'd in my look;
On the first bench my wearied bones I laid,
For gnawing hunger on my vitals prey'd;
There faint in melancholy mood I sate,
And meditated on my future fate.
Night's sable vapours now the trees invade,
And gloomy darkness deepen'd every shade;
And now, ah! whither shall the helpless fly,
From the nocturnal horrors of the sky?
With empty rage my cruel fate I curse,
While falling tears bedew my meagre purse:
What shall I do? or whither shall I run?
How 'scape the threatning fate I cannot shun;
There, trembling, cold, and motionless I lay,
Till sleep beguil'd the tumults of the day.
Yet though this mortal body was resign'd,
Tormenting objects terrified my mind,
Despairing forms, too dreadful for the light,
Danc'd on my eyes, and play'd before my sight,
Here, worn with sorrow, Poverty appear'd,
In every ghastly form by mortals fear'd:
And now, to make my wants the more deplor'd,
Prepar❜d a plenteous table richly stor❜d.
My hand I stretch'd, impatient of delay,
When lo! the fictious treat dissolv'd away;
Despair arose, and shook a deadly dart,
Then aim'd the thirsty arrow at my heart?
Inly I quiver'd, trembled for my life,
Lost in tumultuous agony and grief.
But now a kind, though visionary shade [glade,
Gleam'd through the gloom, and brighten'd all the
On its fair head a branching laurel grew,
And, though before unseen, the form I knew;
While thus it spoke-Poor youth, thy fate I mourn,
And weeping make thy miseries my own:
But patiently resign-I bring relief,
For, as I caus'd, 'tis just I cure thy grief.
Then hear-when morning's beamy rays arise,
And shoot refulgent glories through the skies;
To Chiswick's pleasurable bowers repair,
To guide your wandering path be Thames's care;
In those fair hospitable shades you'll find
Great Burlington, the muse's surest friend;
Fam'd Burlington, as humble as he's great,
Pride of the court, and bulwark of the state :
To him this visionary tale disclose,
His soul will melt in pity at your woes.
To him retune your long neglected lyre,
And let his virtues every line inspire;
Farewel,' it said-when as the morn appear'd,
To the warm rays my dewy head I rear'd,
Amaz'd, half drowsy, waken'd in a fright,
I ponder❜d on the vision of the night;
When thoughtless in my pocket I reveal'd,
A latent sixpence happily conceal'd,
Surpris'd with transport stood my bristled hair,
On wings I seem'd to fly and tread in air;
To the first house I took my speedy flight,
There wrote this recent vision of the night;
The wondrous tale in snowy foldings bound,
Then seal'd t' pasport with a waxen wound.
When, prompted by my genius, swift as thought
To Chiswick's bowers my rueful story brought;
Where now, with doubtful hopes and fears, I wait
Your bounteous lordship's pleasure at your gate.
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