IL LATTE: AN ELEGY. Edward Jerningham Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1135 K093079.002 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. II. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 123-127. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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IL LATTE : AN ELEGY . BY THE SAME . YE fair , for whom the hands of Hymen weave The nuptial wreath to deck your virgin brow , While pleasing pains the conscious bosom heave , And on the kindling cheeks the blushes glow : Whose spotless soul contains the better dower , Whose life unstain'd full many virtues vouch , For whom now Venus frames the fragrant bower , And scatters roses o'er th' expecting couch : To you I sing . — Ah ! ere the raptur'd youth With trembling hand removes the jealous veil , Where , long regardless of the vows of truth , Unsocial coyness stamp'd th' ungrateful soul , A low the Poet round your flowing hair , Cull'd from an humble vale , a wreath to twine , To Beauty's altar with the Loves repair , And wake the lute beside that living shrine : That sacred shrine ! where female virtue glows , Where ev'n the Graces all their treasures bring , And where the lilly , temper'd with the rose , Harmonious contrast ! breathes an Eden spring : That shrine ! where Nature with presaging aim , What time her friendly aid Lucina brings , The snowy nectar pours , delightful stream ! Where fluttering Cupids dip their purple wings : For you who bear a Mother's sacred name , Whose cradled offspring , in lamenting strain , With artless eloquence asserts his claim , The boon of Nature , but asserts in vain . Say why , illustrious daughters of the great , Lives not the nursling at your tender breast ? By you protected in his frail estate ? By you attended , and by you caress'd ? To foreign hands , alas ! can you resign The parent's task , the mother's pleasing care ? To foreign hands the smiling babe consign ? While Nature starts , and Hymen sheds a tear . When , 'mid the polish'd circle ye rejoice , Or roving join fantastic Pleasure's train , Unheard perchance the nursling lifts his voice , His tears unnotic'd , and unsooth'd his pain : Ah ! what avails the coral crown'd with gold ? In heedless infancy the title vain ? The colours gay the purfled scarfs unfold ? The splendid nursery , and th' attendant train ? Far better hadst thou first beheld the light , Beneath the rafter of some roof obscure ! There in a mother's eye to read delight , And in her cradling arm repos'd secure . — No wonder , should Hygeia , blissful Queen ! Her wonted salutary gifts recall , While haggard Pain applies his dagger keen , And o'er the cradle Death unfolds his pall . The flowret ravish'd from its native air , And bid to flourish in a foreign vale , Does it not oft elude the planter's care , And breathe its dying odours on the gale ? For you , ye plighted fair , when Hymen crowns With tender offspring your unshaken love , Behold them not with Rigour's chilling frowns , Nor from your sight unfeelingly remove . Unsway'd by Fashion's dull unseemly jest , Still to the bosom let your infant cling , There banquet oft , an ever-welcome guest , Unblam'd inebriate at that healthful spring . With fond solicitude each pain asswage , Explain the look , awake the ready smile , Unfeign'd attachment so shall you engage , To crown with gratitude maternal toil : So shall your daughters in affliction's day , When o'er your form the gloom of age shall spread , With lenient converse chase the hours away , And soothe with Duty's hand the widow'd bed : Approach , compassionate , the voice of Grief , And whisper patience to the closing ear ; From Comfort's chalice minister relief , And in the potion drop a filial tear . So shall your sons , when beauty is no more , When fades the languid lustre in your eye , When Flattery shuns her dulcet notes to pour , The want of beauty , and of praise , supply . Ev'n from the wreathe that decks the warrior's brow , Some chosen leaves your peaceful walks shall strew . And ev'n the flowers on classic ground that blow , Shall all unfold their choicest sweets for you . When to th' embattled host the trumpet blows , While at the call fair Albion's gallant train Dare to the field their triple-number'd foes , And chase them speeding o'er the frighten'd plain : The mother kindles at the glorious thought , And to her son's renown adjoins her name ; For , at the nurturing breast , the hero caught The love of virtue , and the love of fame . Or in the senate when Britannia's cause With generous themes inspires the glowing mind , While listening Freedom grateful looks applause , Pale Slavery drops her chain , and sculks behind : With conscious joy the tender parent fraught , Still to her son's renown adjoins her name ; For , at the nurturing breast , the patriot caught The love of virtue , and the love of same .