No touch of discord to disclose!
So well her mind and voice agree,
That every thought is melody:
While bending o’er the charmed stream,
His conscious sighs approved the theme:
Nor long, nor true, he touched the lyre,
Such pleasing woe her notes inspire,
Such thoughts of joy by fortune crost,
Such dear regret of raptures lost,
Such eager hope of future bliss,
That melting, in a fancied kiss,
In amorous frame he lost his care,
And sought another Daphne there;
’Twas then Euterpe ceased: ’twas then
She ceased! — and stole her Brother’s Pen.
Her pen is taught her notes to suit,
And prove her musically mute;
Who would not then, if Bard he were,
And knew like me, the accomplished fair,
Affirm, it was no mortal Maid
We sung, but from the Muse’s shade
Euterpe: then ‘twere fair to tell
How sweetly near the sacred well,
One night she chanced in softer strain
To sing of Love and Lover’s pain,
Till Phoebus came the bank along,
And caught his harp to join the song.
13. TO HYMEN
TEACH me, kind Hymen! teach — for thou
Must be my only tutor now, —
Teach me some innocent employ
That shall the hateful thought destroy,
That I this whole long night must pass
In exile from my love’s embrace.
Alas! thou hast no wings, oh, Time!
It was some thoughtless lover’s rhyme,
Who, writing in his Chloe’s view,
Paid her the compliment through you;
For had he, if he truly loved,
But once the pangs of absence proved,
He’d cropt thy wings, and in their stead,
Have painted thee with heels of lead.
But ’tis the temper of the mind,
Where we, thy regulator find:
Still o’er the gay and o’er the young,
With unfelt steps you flit along;
As Virgil’s nymph o’er ripen’d corn,
With such etherial haste was borne,
That every stock with upright head
Denied the pressure of her tread;
But o’er the wretched oh, how slow
And heavy sweeps thy scythe of woe!
Oppressed beneath each stroke they bow,
Thy course engraven on their brow.
A day of absence shall consume
The glow of youth, and manhood’s bloom;
And one short night of anxious fear
Shall leave the wrinkles of a year.
For me, who, when I’m happy, owe
No thanks to fortune that I’m so; —
Who long have learned to look at one
Dear object, and at one alone,
For all the joy and all the sorrow
That gilds the day or threats the morrow; —
I never felt thy footsteps light,
But when sweet love did aid thy flight;
And, banish’d from his blest dominion,
I cared not for thy borrow’d pinion.
True, she is mine, and since she’s mine,
At trifles I should not repine;
But oh! the miser’s real pleasure
Is not in knowing he has treasure:
He must behold his golden store,
And feel and count his riches o’er.
Thus I, of one dear gem possess’d
And in that treasure only blest,
There every day would seek delight,
And clasp the casket every night.
14. WHEN’TIS NIGHT, AND THE MID-WATCH IS COME
(For the pantomime of Harlequin Fortunatus.)
WHEN ’tis night, and the mid-watch is come,
And chilling mists hang o’er the darken’d main,
Then sailors think of their far distant home,
And of those friends they ne’er may see again:
But when the fight’s begun,
Each serving at his gun,
Should any thought of them come o’er our mind,
We think but, should the day be won,
How ‘twill chear their hearts to hear
That their old companion he was one.
Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind
Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true,
Who many a night doth listen to the wind,
And wakes to think how it may fare with you;
O! when the fight’s begun,
Each serving at his gun,
Should any thought of her come o’er your mind,
Think only, should the day be won,
How ‘twill chear her heart to hear
That her own true sailor he was one.
15. CHEARLY, MY HEARTS, OF COURAGE
CHEARLY, my hearts, of courage true!
The hour’s at hand to try your worth;
A glorious peril waits for you,
And valour pants to lead you forth;
Mark where the enemy’s colours fly, boys;
There some shall conquer, and some must die, boys;
But that appals not you or me,
For our watch-word it shall be,
“Britons, strike home!”
Chorus
“Britons, strike home! revenge your country’s wrong!”
When rolling mists their march shall hide,
At dead of night a chosen band,
List’ning to the dashing tide,
With silent tread shall print the sand:
Then where the Spanish colours fly, boys,
We’ll scale the walls, or bravely die, boys;
For we are Britons bold and free,
And our watch-word it shall be,
“Britons, strike home!” &c.
The cruel Spaniard, then too late,
Dismay’d, shall mourn th’ avenging blow,
Yet, vanquish’d, meet the milder fate
Which mercy grants a fallen foe.
Thus shall the British banners fly, boys,
On you proud turrets rais’d on high, boys;
And while the gallant flag we see,
We’ll swear our watch-word still shall be,
“Britons, strike home!” &c.
16. WE TWO, EACH OTHER’S ONLY PRIDE
(From The Foresters, an unfinished opera.)
WE two, each other’s only pride,
Each other’s bliss, each other’s guide,
Far from the world’s unhallow’d noise,
Its coarse delights and tainted joys,
Through wilds will roam and deserts rude —
For, Love, thy home is solitude.
There shall no vain pretender be,
To court thy smile and torture me,
No proud superior there be seen,
But nature’s voice shall hail thee, queen.
With fond respect and tender awe,
I will receive thy gentle law,
Obey thy looks, and serve thee still,
Prevent thy wish, foresee thy will,
And, added to a lover’s care,
Be all that friends and parents are.
17. LINES BY A LADY OF FASHION
THEN, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat,
And so, like a cornet’s, tuck’d under my hat.
Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark,
And, follow’d by John, take the dust in High Park.
In the way I am met by some smart macaroni,
Who rides by my side on a little bay pony —
No sturdy Hibernian, with shoulders so wide,
But as taper and slim as the ponies they ride;
Their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider,
Dear sw
eet little creatures, both pony and rider!
But sometimes, when hotter, I order my chaise,
And manage, myself, my two little greys.
Sure never were seen two such sweet little ponies,
Other horses are clowns, and these macaronies,
And to give them this title, I’m sure isn’t wrong,
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long.
In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down,
You know was the fashion before you left town, —
The thing’s well enough, when allowance is made
For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade,
But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords
To those noisy, impertinent creatures called birds,
Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene,
Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen.
Yet, tho’ ’tis too rural — to come near the mark,
We all herd in one walk, and that, nearest the Park,
There with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket,
The chimneys of Knightsbridge and — footmen at cricket.
I must tho’, injustice, declare that the grass,
Which, worn by our feet, is diminished apace,
In a little time more will be brown and as flat
As the sand at Vauxhall or as Ranelagh mat.
Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees,
We may see rolls and butter spread under the trees,
With a small pretty band in each seat of the walk,
To play little tunes and enliven our talk.
18. TO LAURA
NEAR Avon’s ridgy bank there grows
A willow of no vulgar size,
That tree first heard poor Silvio’s woes,
And heard how bright were Laura’s eyes.
Its boughs were shade from heat and show’r,
Its roots a moss-grown seat became;
Its leaves would strew the maiden’s bow’r,
Its bark was shatter’d with her name!
Once on a blossom-crowned day
Of mirth-inspiring May,
Silvio, beneath this willow’s sober shade
In sullen contemplation laid,
Did mock the meadow’s flowery pride, —
Rail’d at the dance and sportive ring; —
The tabor’s call he did deride,
And said, it was not Spring.
He scorn’d the sky of azure blue,
He scorn’d whate’er could mirth bespeak;
He chid the beam that drank the dew,
And chid the gale that fann’d his glowing cheek.
Unpaid the season’s wonted lay,
For still he sigh’d, and said, it was not May.
Ah, why should the glittering stream
Reflect thus delusive the scene?
Ah, why does a rosy-ting’d beam,
Thus vainly enamel the green?
To me nor joy nor light they bring
I tell thee, Phoebus, ’tis not Spring.
“Sweet tut’ress of music and love,
Sweet bird, if ’tis thee that I hear,
“Why left you so early the grove,
To lavish your melody here?
Cease, then, mistaken thus to sing,
Sweet nightingale! it is not Spring.
“The gale courts my locks but to tease,
And, Zephyr, I call’d not on thee;
Thy fragrance no longer can please,
Then rob not the blossoms for me:
But hence unload thy balmy swing,
Believe me, Zephyr, ’tis not Spring.
“Yet the lily has drank of the show’r,
And the rose ‘gins to peep on the day;
And you bee seems to search for a flow’r,
As busy as if it were May: —
In vain, thou senseless flutt’ring thing,
My heart informs me, ’tis not Spring.”
May pois’d her roseate wings, for she had heard
The mourner, as she pass’d the vales along;
And, silencing her own indignant bird,
She thus reprov’d poor Silvio’s song.
“How false is the sight of a lover;
How ready his spleen to discover
What reason would never allow!
Why, — Silvio, my sunshine and show’rs,
My blossoms, my birds, and my flow’rs,
Were never more perfect than now.
“The water’s reflection is true,
The green is enamell’d to view,
And Philomel sings on the spray;
The gale is the breathing of spring,
’Tis fragrance it bears on its wing,
And the bee is assur’d it is May.”
“Pardon” (said Sylvio with a gushing tear)
“’Tis Spring, sweet Nymph, but Laura is not here.”
19. THE GONDOLIER’S SONG
(From The Carnival of Venice.)
I
SOON as the busy Day is o’er,
And Evening comes with pleasant shade,
We Gondoliers from shore to shore,
Merrily ply our jovial trade.
And while the Moon shines on the stream,
And as soft music breathes around;
The feathering oar returns the gleam,
And dips in concert to the sound.
II
Down by some Convent’s mould’ring walls
Oft we hear the enamoured Youth;
Softly the watchful Fair he calls,
Who whispers vows of Love and Truth.
And while the Moon[&c.]
And oft where the Rialto swells,
With happier pairs we circle round;
Whose secret sighs fond Eccho tells,
Whose murmur’d vows she bids resound.
And while the Moon [&c.]
IV
Then joy’s the Youth, that Love conceal’d,
That fearful Love must own its sighs.
Then smiles the Maid, to hear reveal’d
How more than ever she complies.
20. BY ADVERSE FATE
(From The Carnival of Venice.)
BY adverse Fate when Beauty sighs,
A mingled claim our bosoms prove;
’Tis Virtue grac’d with gentler ties,
’Tis Pity soften’d into Love.
Blest, doubly blest, his transport glows,
Whose Pity can each joy refine;
When from that God-like source it flows,
The generous passion is divine.
21. THE GENTLE PRIMROSE
(From The Carnival of Venice.)
I
THE gentle Primrose of the vale,
Whose tender bloom rude winds assail,
Droops its meek leaves, and scarce sustains
The night’s chill snow and beating rains.
II
’Tis past — the morn returns — sweet Spring
Is come — and hills and valleys sing.
But low the gentle Primrose lies,
No more to bloom, no more to rise.
22. IF FORTUNE
I
IF Fortune to thee treasures gave,
Each debt of mine thou’dst gladly pay,
And nothing for thyself would save
Nor deem thy bounty thrown away.
II
Cruel Eliza! would this ease
My burdens, or make me more free
When the wish only does increase
The debt of love I owe to thee?
23 AS SHEPHERDS THROUGH THE VAPOURS GREY
AS shepherds thro’ the vapours grey
Behold the dawning light,
Yet doubt it is the rising day,
Or meteor of the night;
So varying passions in my breast,
Its former calm destroy —
By Hope and Fear at once oppress’d,
I tremble at m
y joy!
24. EPITAPH ON BROOKS
ALAS! that Brooks, returned to dust
Should pay at length the debt that we,
Averse to parchment, mortgage, trust,
Shall pay, when forced, as well as he.
And die so poor, too! He whose trade
Such profits cleared by draught and deed,
Though pigeons called him murmuring Brooks
And dipped their bills in him at need.
At length his last; conveyance see,
Each witness mournful as a brother,
To think that this world’s mortgagee
Must suffer judgment in another!
Where no appeals to court can rest,
Reversing a Supreme decree,
But each decision stands expressed
A final precedent in re.
25. ON TWO DEAD SPEAKERS
MOURN, mourn, St. Stephen’s Choirs, with ceaseless grieving
Two kindred spirits from the senate fled,
In the same chair we heard them both lie living,
On the same day we see them both lie dead.
Sure in one grave they ought to lie together,
Then in their praise should fiction’s self be loath;
The stone that says a civil thing of either,
May praise impartially, and lie for both.
26. ELEGY ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF AN AVADAVAT
I
WHY trickles the tear from Elizabeth’s eye?
Why thus interrupted her elegant chat?
Ah! bootless that tear and bootless that sigh,
They cannot revive your poor Avadavat.
II
Each bird that is born of an egg has its date,
No power can lengthen its days beyond that;
Then let us submit to the dictates of Fate,
And no longer lament the poor Avadavat.
III
Some comfort it is that no violent death,
Assailed it from shooter, from birdlime or cat,
But a common disorder arrested its breath.
’Twas the husk served its writ on the Avadavat.
IV
The prisoner insolvent who dies in the Fleet
From death gets his Habeas as Wilkes did from Pratt,
When caged up for life, no joys could be sweet
And this was the case of the Avadavat.
V
And now it has flown to new scenes of delight,
Where Venus’s pigeons long cooing have sat.
While Lesbia’s sparrow from envy moults white
Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan Page 61
