"Restore her Heaven! for once in mercy spare-"
Thus Love's vain prayer in anguish interpos'd:
And soon Suspense gave place to dumb Despair,
And o'er the past, Death's sable curtain clos'd-
In silence clos'd-My thoughts rov'd frantic round,
No hope, no wish, beneath the Sun remain'd;
Earth, air, and skies, one dismal waste I found,
One pale, dead, dreary blank, with horror stain'd.
O lovely flower, too fair for this rude clime!
O lovely morn, too prodigal of light!
O transient beauties, blasted in their prime !
O transient glories, sunk in sudden night!
Sweet Excellence, by all who knew thee mourn'd!
Where is that form, that mind, my soul admir'd;
That form, with every pleasing charm adorn'd;
That mind, with every gentle thought inspir'd?
The face with rapture view'd, I view no more;
The voice with rapture heard, no more I hear;
Yet the lov'd features Memory's eyes explore;
Yet the lov'd accents fall on Memory's ear.
Ah sad, sad change! (sad source of daily pain)
That sense of loss ineffable renews;
While my rack'd bosom heaves the sigh in vain,
While my pale cheek the tear in vain bedews. Still o'er the grave that holds the dear remains, The mouldering veil her spirit left below, Fond Fancy dwells, and pours funereal strains, The soul-dissolving melody of woe.
Nor mine alone to bear this painful doom,
Nor she alone the tear of Song obtains;
The Muse of Blagdon,* o'er Constantia's tomb,
In all the eloquence of grief complains.
See Verses written at Sandgate Castle, in memory of a lady, by the ingenious Dr. Langhorne.
My friend's fair hope, like mine, so lately gain'd; His heart, like mine, in its true partner bless'd; Both from one cause the same distress sustain❜d, The same sad hours beheld us both distress'd.
O human life! how mutable, how vain!
How thy wide sorrows circumscribe thy joy-
A sunny island in a stormy main,
A spot of azure in a cloudy sky!
All-gracious Heaven! since man, infatuate man,
Rests in thy works, too negligent of thee;
Lays for himself on earth his little plan,
Dreads not, or distant views mortality;
'Tis but to wake to nobler thought the soul,
To rouse us lingering on earth's flowery plain,
To Virtue's path our wanderings to control,
Affliction frowning comes, thy minister of pain!
FROM Whitby's rocks steep rising o'er the main,
From Eska's vales, or Ewecot's lonely plain,
Say, rove thy thoughts to Amwell's distant bow'rs,
To mark how pass thy Friend's sequester'd hours?
"Perhaps," think'st thou, "he seeks his pleasing
Of winding walks, smooth lawns, and shady greens:
Where China's willow hangs its foliage fair,
And Po's tall poplar waves its top in air,
And the dark maple spreads its umbrage wide,
And the white bench adorns the basin side;
At morn reclin'd, perhaps, he sits to view
The bank's neat slope, the water's silver hue.
"Where midst thick oaks the subterraneous way
To the arch'd grot admits a feeble ray ;
Where glossy pebbles pave the varied floors,
Andrough flint-walls are deck'd with shells and ores,
And silvery pearls, spread o'er the roofs on high,
Glimmer like faint stars in a twilight sky;
From noon's fierce glare, perhaps, he pleas'd retires,
Indulging musings which the place inspires.
"Now where the airy octagon ascends,
And wide the prospect o'er the vale extends,
Midst evening's calm, intent perhaps he stands,
And looks o'er all that length of sun-gilt lands,
Of bright green pastures, stretch'd by rivers clear,
And willow groves, or osier islands near."
Alas, my friend, how strangely men mistake, Who guess what others most their pleasure make! These garden scenes, which Fashion o'er our plains Spreads round the villas of our wealthy swains, Though Envy grudge, or Friendship wish to share, They claim but little of their owner's care.
For me, my groves not oft my steps invite, And far less oft they fail to' offend my sight: In vain the senna waves its glossy gold, In vain the cistus' spotted flowers unfold, In vain the' acacia's snowy bloom depends, In vain the sumach's scarlet spike ascends, In vain the woodbine's spicy tufts disclose, And green slopes redden with the shedding rose: These neat-shorn hawthorns' useless verdant bound, This long straight walk, that pool's unmeaning [trees,
These short-curv'd paths that twist beneath the
Disgust the eye, and make the whole displease.
"No scene like this," I say, "did Nature raise,
Brown's fancy form, orWalpole's* judgment praise ;
No prototype for this did I survey
In Woollet'st landscapes, or in Mason's lay.
But might thy genius, friend, an Eden frame,
Profuse of beauty, and secure from blame;
See Mr. Walpole's ingenious History of the Modern Taste in Gardening, at the end of the fourth volume of his Anecdotes of Painting.
The above-named excellent artist, several years ago, drew and engraved a number of beautiful views in some of our most celebrated modern gardens.
Where round the lawn might wind the varied way, Now lost in gloom, and now with prospect gay; Now screen'd with clumps of green, for wintry bow'rs;
Now edg'd with sunny banks, for summer flow'rs;
Now led by crystal lakes with lilies dress'd,
Or where light temples court the step to rest-
Time's gradual change, or Tempest's sudden rage,
There with thy peace perpetual war would wage.
That tyrant oak, whose arms so far o'ergrow, [low;
Shades some poor shrub that pines with drought be-
These rampant elms, those hazels branching wide,
Crowd the broad pine, the spiry larix hide.
That lilac brow, where May's unsparing hand
Bade one vast swell of purple bloom expand,
Soon past its prime, shows signs of quick decay,
The naked stem, and scanty-cover'd spray.
Fierce Boreas calls, and Ruin waits his call;
Thy fair catalpa's broken branches fall;
Thy soft magnolia mourns her blasted green,
And blighted laurel's yellowing leaves are seen.
But Discontent alone, thou'lt say, complains
For ill success, where none perfection gains :
True is the charge; but from that tyrant's sway
What art, what power, can e'er redeem our day?
To me, indeed, short ease he sometimes yields,
When my lone walk surrounds the rural fields;
There no past errors of my own upbraid,
No time, no wealth, expended unrepaid :
There Nature dwells, and throws profuse around
Each pastoral sight, and every pastoral sound;
From Spring's green copse, that pours the cuckoo's
strain,
And evening bleatings of the fleecy train,
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