The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  And with one dazling Waste fatigue the Eye.

  No gentle breathing Breeze prepares the Spring,

  No Birds within the Desart Region sing.

  The Ships unmov’d the boist’rous Winds defy,

  While rattling Chariots o’er the Ocean fly.

  The vast Leviathan wants Room to play,

  And spout his Waters in the Face of Day.

  The starving Wolves along the main Sea prowl,

  And to the Moon in Icy Valleys howl.

  For many a shining League the level Main

  Here spreads it self into a Glassy Plain:

  There solid Billows of enormous Size,

  Alpes of green Ice, in wild Disorder rise.

  And yet but lately have I seen, e’en here,

  The Winter in a lovely Dress appear.

  E’er yet the Clouds let fall the treasur’d Snow,

  Or Winds begun thro’ hazy Skies to blow.

  At Ev’ning a keen Eastern Breeze arose;

  And the descending Rain unsullied froze.

  Soon as the silent Shades of Night withdrew,

  The ruddy Morn disclos’d at once to View

  The Face of Nature in a rich Disguise,

  And brighten’d ev’ry Object to my Eyes.

  For ev’ry Shrub, and ev’ry Blade of Grass,

  And ev’ry pointed Thorn, seem’d wrought in Glass.

  In Pearls and Rubies rich the Hawthorns show,

  While thro’ the Ice the Crimson Berries glow.

  The thick-sprung Reeds the watry Marshes yield,

  Seem polish’d Lances in a hostile Field.

  The Stag in limpid Currents with Surprize

  Sees Chrystal Branches on his Forehead rise.

  The spreading Oak, the Beech, and tow’ring Pine,

  Glaz’d over, in the freezing Æther shine.

  The frighted Birds the rattling Branches shun,

  That wave and glitter in the distant Sun.

  When if a sudden Gust of Wind arise,

  The brittle Forrest into Atoms flies:

  The crackling Wood beneath the Tempest bends,

  And in a spangled Show’r the Prospect ends.

  Or if a Southern Gale the Region warm,

  And by Degrees unbind the Wintry Charm;

  The Traveller a miry Country sees,

  And Journeys sad beneath the dropping Trees.

  Like some deluded Peasant, Merlin leads

  Thro’ fragrant Bow’rs, and thro’ delicious Meads;

  While here inchanted Gardens to him rise,

  And airy Fabricks there attract his Eyes,

  His wand’ring Feet the Magick Paths pursue;

  And while he thinks the fair Illusion true,

  The trackless Scenes disperse in fluid Air,

  And Woods and Wilds, and thorny Ways appear:

  A tedious Road the weary Wretch returns,

  And, as He goes, the transient Vision mourns.

  1710

  JONATHAN SWIFT A Description of a City Shower

  Careful Observers may fortel the Hour

  (By sure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show’r:

  While Rain depends, the pensive Cat gives o’er

  Her Frolicks, and pursues her Tail no more.

  Returning Home at Night, you’ll find the Sink

  Strike your offended Sense with double Stink.

  If you be wise, then go not far to Dine,

  You spend in Coach-hire more than save in Wine.

  A coming Show’r your shooting Corns presage,

  Old Aches throb, your hollow Tooth will rage.

  Sauntring in Coffee-house is Dulman seen;

  He damns the Climate, and complains of Spleen.

  Mean while the South rising with dabbled Wings,

  A Sable Cloud a-thwart the Welkin flings,

  That swill’d more Liquor than it could contain,

  And like a Drunkard gives it up again.

  Brisk Susan whips her Linen from the Rope,

  While the first drizzling Show’r is born aslope,

  Such is that Sprinkling which some careless Quean

  Flirts on you from her Mop, but not so clean.

  You fly, invoke the Gods; then turning, stop

  To rail; she singing, still whirls on her Mop.

  Not yet, the Dust had shun’d th’ unequal Strife,

  But aided by the Wind, fought still for Life;

  And wafted with its Foe by violent Gust,

  ’Twas doubtful which was Rain, and which was Dust.

  Ah! where must needy Poet seek for Aid,

  When Dust and Rain at once his Coat invade;

  Sole Coat, where Dust cemented by the Rain,

  Erects the Nap, and leaves a cloudy Stain.

  Now in contiguous Drops the Flood comes down,

  Threat’ning with Deluge this Devoted Town.

  To Shops in Crouds the dagled Females fly,

  Pretend to cheapen Goods, but nothing buy.

  The Templer spruce, while ev’ry Spout’s a-broach,

  Stays till ’tis fair, yet seems to call a Coach.

  The tuck’d-up Sempstress walks with hasty Strides,

  While Streams run down her oil’d Umbrella’s Sides.

  Here various Kinds by various Fortunes led,

  Commence Acquaintance underneath a Shed.

  Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,

  Forget their Fewds, and join to save their Wigs.

  Box’d in a Chair the Beau impatient sits,

  While Spouts run clatt’ring o’er the Roof by Fits;

  And ever and anon with frightful Din

  The Leather sounds, he trembles from within.

  So when Troy Chair-men bore the Wooden Steed,

  Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed,

  (Those Bully Greeks, who, as the Moderns do,

  Instead of paying Chair-men, run them thro’.)

  Laoco’n struck the Outside with his Spear,

  And each imprison’d Hero quak’d for Fear.

  Now from all Parts the swelling Kennels flow,

  And bear their Trophies with them as they go:

  Filth of all Hues and Odours seem to tell

  What Streets they sail’d from, by the Sight and Smell.

  They, as each Torrent drives, with rapid Force

  From Smithfield, or St. Pulchre’s shape their Course,

  And in huge Confluent join at Snow-Hill Ridge,

  Fall from the Conduit prone to Holborn-Bridge.

  Sweepings from Butchers Stalls, Dung, Guts, and Blood,

  Drown’d Puppies, stinking Sprats, all drench’d in Mud,

  Dead Cats and Turnip-Tops come tumbling down the Flood.

  1712

  JOSEPH ADDISON Ode

  The Spacious Firmament on high,

  With all the blue Etherial Sky,

  And spangled Heav’ns, a Shining Frame,

  Their great Original proclaim:

  Th’ unwearied Sun, from Day to Day,

  Does his Creator’s Power display,

  And publishes to every Land

  The Work of an Almighty Hand.

  Soon as the Evening Shades prevail,

  The Moon takes up the wondrous Tale,

  And nightly to the listning Earth

  Repeats the Story of her Birth:

  Whilst all the Stars that round her burn,

  And all the Planets, in their turn,

  Confirm the Tidings as they rowl,

  And spread the Truth from Pole to Pole.

  What though, in solemn Silence, all

  Move round the dark terrestrial Ball?

  What tho’ nor real Voice nor Sound

  Amid their radiant Orbs be found?

  In Reason’s Ear they all rejoice,

  And utter forth a glorious Voice,

  For ever singing, as they shine,

  ‘The Hand that made us is Divine.’

  1713

  ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA
A Nocturnal Reverie

  In such a Night, when every louder Wind

  Is to its distant Cavern safe confin’d;

  And only gentle Zephyr fans his Wings,

  And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;

  Or from some Tree, fam’d for the Owl’s delight,

  She, hollowing clear, directs the Wand’rer right:

  In such a Night, when passing Clouds give place,

  Or thinly vail the Heav’ns mysterious Face;

  When in some River, overhung with Green,

  The waving Moon and trembling Leaves are seen;

  When freshen’d Grass now bears it self upright,

  And makes cool Banks to pleasing Rest invite,

  Whence springs the Woodbind, and the Bramble-Rose,

  And where the sleepy Cowslip shelter’d grows;

  Whilst now a paler Hue the Foxglove takes,

  Yet checquers still with Red the dusky brakes

  When scatter’d Glow-worms, but in Twilight fine,

  Shew trivial Beauties watch their Hour to shine;

  Whilst Salisb’ry stands the Test of every Light,

  In perfect Charms, and perfect Virtue bright:

  When Odours, which declin’d repelling Day,

  Thro’ temp’rate Air uninterrupted stray;

  When darken’d Groves their softest Shadows wear,

  And falling Waters we distinctly hear;

  When thro’ the Gloom more venerable shows

  Some ancient Fabrick, awful in Repose,

  While Sunburnt Hills their swarthy Looks conceal,

  And swelling Haycocks thicken up the Vale:

  When the loos’d Horse now, as his Pasture leads,

  Comes slowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining Meads,

  Whose stealing Pace, and lengthen’d Shade we fear,

  Till torn up Forage in his Teeth we hear:

  When nibbling Sheep at large pursue their Food,

  And unmolested Kine rechew the Cud;

  When Curlews cry beneath the Village-walls,

  And to her straggling Brood the Partridge calls;

  Their shortliv’d Jubilee the Creatures keep,

  Which but endures, whilst Tyrant-Man do’s sleep;

  When a sedate Content the Spirit feels,

  And no fierce Light disturb, whilst it reveals;

  But silent Musings urge the Mind to seek

  Something, too high for Syllables to speak;

  Till the free Soul to a compos’dness charm’d,

  Finding the Elements of Rage disarm’d,

  O’er all below a solemn Quiet grown,

  Joys in th’ inferiour World, and thinks it like her Own:

  In such a Night let Me abroad remain,

  Till Morning breaks, and All’s confus’d again;

  Our Cares, our Toils, our Clamours are renew’d,

  Or Pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pursu’d.

  1714

  SAMUEL JONES The Force of Love

  When Cleomira disbelieves

  Her shepherd, when he swears he lives

  Or dies i’ th’ smiles or frowns she gives,

  The echo mourns him to the plain,

  And pity moves in ev’ry swain,

  And makes the nymphs partake his pain.

  But pity and the fair ones prove,

  When Cleomira hates his love,

  Like strange embraces to a dove.

  For Cleomira’s hate can turn

  Fresh youth and beauty to an urn:

  Death sure than it’s much easier borne!

  But Cleomira’s love can bless,

  And turn t’ a grove a wilderness,

  A dungeon to a pleasant place.

  Without it, Pleasure’s self will show

  The ghost of sorrow haunting you

  In all the blissful things you do:

  And with it, Nature’s self may fall,

  Old Night and Death frail men appal,

  Without dismaying you at all.

  ALEXANDER POPE from The Rape of the Lock

  from Canto I

  Sol thro’ white Curtains shot a tim’rous Ray,

  And op’d those Eyes that must eclipse the Day;

  Now Lapdogs give themselves the rowzing Shake,

  And sleepless Lovers, just at Twelve, awake:

  Thrice rung the Bell, the Slipper knock’d the Ground,

  And the press’d Watch return’d a silver Sound.

  Belinda still her downy Pillow prest,

  Her Guardian Sylph prolong’d the balmy Rest.

  ’Twas he had summon’d to her silent Bed

  The Morning-Dream that hover’d o’er her Head.

  A Youth more glitt’ring than a Birth-night Beau,

  (That ev’n in Slumber caus’d her Cheek to glow)

  Seem’d to her Ear his winning Lips to lay,

  And thus in Whispers said, or seem’d to say.

  Fairest of Mortals, thou distinguish’d Care

  Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air!

  If e’er one Vision touch’d thy infant Thought,

  Of all the Nurse and all the Priest have taught,

  Of airy Elves by Moonlight Shadows seen,

  The silver Token, and the circled Green,

  Or Virgins visited by Angel-Pow’rs,

  With Golden Crowns and Wreaths of heav’nly Flow’rs,

  Hear and believe! thy own Importance know,

  Nor bound thy narrow Views to Things below.

  Some secret Truths from Learned Pride conceal’d,

  To Maids alone and Children are reveal’d:

  What tho’ no Credit doubting Wits may give?

  The Fair and Innocent shall still believe.

  Know then, unnumber’d Spirits round thee fly,

  The light Militia of the lower Sky;

  These, tho’ unseen, are ever on the Wing,

  Hang o’er the Box, and hover round the Ring.

  Think what an Equipage thou hast in Air,

  And view with scorn Two Pages and a Chair.

  As now your own, our Beings were of old,

  And once inclos’d in Woman’s beauteous Mold;

  Thence, by a soft Transition, we repair

  From earthly Vehicles to these of Air.

  Think not, when Woman’s transient Breath is fled,

  That all her Vanities at once are dead:

  Succeeding Vanities she still regards,

  And tho’ she plays no more, o’erlooks the Cards.

  Her Joy in gilded Chariots, when alive,

  And Love of Ombre, after Death survive.

  For when the Fair in all their Pride expire,

  To their first Elements their Souls retire:

  The Sprights of fiery Termagants in Flame