VERSES WRITTEN IN LONDON ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

EARLY the sun his radiant axle guides,
Sloping his steep course with the Pleiades;
On every fragant briar the flowret blooms,
And the wild woodlark chaunts his early song
In heedless carol, to the smiling Hours,
Young Maia's festive train; their wavy dance
She jocund leads, and from her horn profuse
Pours roses, violets, woodbines, eglantine,
Fair Flora's dower, what time the youthful Spring
Clasp'd her all-blushing in a secret bower:
Thou the mild offspring of their warm embrace,
Oh lovely May, and these thine heritage,
Which bounteous thou with an unsparing hand
Scatterest to all, tho' chief thou lov'st to deck
The village Phaebe's brow, and fairer far
Is thy adorning, than the sunny glow
Of eastern ruby, ill assorted grace
That decks not but deforms the faded cheek
Of the wan courtier. — Far more raptur'd greets
Fancy's sond ear, where'er she musing roves,
Thy minstrelsy untutor'd, than the trill
And languid descant of Italian art. 
[Page 140]23 Yet sings the woodlark, and the hawthorn blooms,
Unheard the song, the fragrance unperceiv'd
By me; tho' not among the sons of men
There lives, who listens with more raptur'd ear,
Or feels more lively, Nature's varied boon. 
For tho' confined in the city walls
To dwell with busy Care, and with him watch
The call of Interest, is my lot affix'd,
Far happier seems to me the peasant's life,
Who treads the furrow labouring, yet his mind
Vacant of thought can muse of what around
Strikes his rapt eye with beauty, or his ear
With pleasing song, than if a golden mine
Disclos'd its boundless treasures, but condemn'd
My carking thought, to watch the gilded mischief,
And cunningly devise t' increase the store. 

Bereav'd of every pleasure Nature gives
Each plain but heart-felt rapture, what is wealth? 
In artful mazes we but toil for bliss:
True Pleasure dwells not in the arched roof,
She sings no carol to the midnight ball;
The loaded board and Bacchus' flustering draughts
In vain are tryed, for ah she dwells not there! 
She dwells not with such rude ill-manner'd mirth,
But seeks with her mild sister Chearfulness
The russet plain; there prompts the virgin's song,
Breathes the brisk carol from the cottage reed,
Strikes the quick tabor glad with echoing pulse,
[Page 141]51  And animates the village holiday. 
Nor then alone but when his honest labour
Calls the good swain, she early joins his step;
For the mild radiance of the opening dawn
Gives to her sight the wide-extended view
Of hill and dale, hoar forest, flowering heath,
Rich harvest, verdant meadow, where the stream
Rolls far its plenteous wave, and all around
To Pleasure's ear most grateful, thousand birds,
Lark, linnet, thrush, and thou of all the grove
The sweetest songster, witching Philomel,
Art rising to hymn out thy morning song. 

Thou too at eve, when all his labour o'er,
He at the furrow's end unyokes the steer,
And seeks with weary step his rest at home,
Dost with thy tranquil warble sooth his soul;
Best prelude to the peace his cottage gives. 

There at the door his numerous offspring watch
Their sire's return, and eager run to tell
The tyding of his coming, while his dame
Plys her glad evening care, to deck the board
With food uncater'd by the baleful hand
Of Luxury, and fittest to refresh
His toil-worn spirit, and her smiling welcome
Gives its due relish to the simple fare. 

What are to this the proud luxurious feasts,
The City's boast, where distant colonies
Of East and Western worlds must be explor'd
[Page 142]79  To strike the sickly palate's feeble sense
With faint delight? Oh what are all our joys,
Ev'n those of monarchs, to the thousand beauties
That strike the rapt soul of the rudest hind? 

Can Art's best mimicry their form express? 
Can rich Loraine mix up the glowing tint
Bright as Aurora? Can he form a shade
To strike the fancy with a gloom so solemn
As every thicket, copse, or secret grove
At twilight hour affords? Can savage Rosa
With aught so wildly noble fill the mind,
As where the ancient oak in the wood's depth
Has shed his leafy honours, and around
The woodman with fell axe has lower'd the pride
Of many a tall tree, he deserted stands
A barren trunk, while rude winds howl around,
And dreary torrents lash his naked limbs? 
Mean time the rifting thunder dreadful roars,
The livid lightnings flash, and elements
Conjoin'd pour out their wrath, as if to rend
The lone, defenceless, aged, feeble oak. 
Such scenes awake Imagination's powers
To sacred thought; such Rosa cannot paint;
'Tis his alone to show the shatter'd trunk:
The winds keen howl, the thunder's aweful sound,
The dreary rain, these mock the pencil's power. 

Can aught of artful music sooth the soul
To so serene a temper, as the flight
[Page 143]107  Of songsters in the grove? or can thy strain,
(Tho' there Enchantment strike the magic chord)
Oh matchless Purcell! with so wild a charm
Transport the mind, as when at dusk of eve
From the hoar battlement the lone owl's cry
Pierces the awful silence, and the fall'n
And time-worn hollow towers convey the sound
To the near wood, where in the devious path
Retired Fancy wanders, on her ear
The faint sound murmurs, strait the distant low
Of unyok'd heifer, strait the cuckow's note
She hears, while oft the roving Zephyr's tread
Rustling alarms her, and the measur'd step
Of the slow steer, who brushes thro' the thicket
To seek his food, beats duly regular. 
As on he wanders, thro' the opening bower
He sees the pale moon rising; clouds on clouds
Pil'd mountainous awhile obstruct her beam,
Till labouring thence she lifts her silver brow,
And pours her full ray on the ivy'd steeple. 
And hark its bell now tolls the minute knell,
And thro' the churchway path the surplic'd priest
Walks slowly forward, while the snowy pall
Covering the relicks of some love lorn virgin,
Passes with aweful pace along the glade. 

Wrapt harmonist! what tho' thy studied chord
Can sound the slow knell, echo to the note
The lone owl utters, breathe the heifer's low,
[Page 144]135  And mark the funeral step with pausing cadence,
And music can no more, where is the tower
O'er-hung with-ivy, seen by the pale moon,
Whose faint beam glimmers on the snowy pall? 
Where are the rocky clouds from whence she breaks? 
Yet do not these, does not the rustling breeze
And the slow-treading heifer add delight? 
Do not accordant senses join to fill
The musing mind with calm and holy rapture? 
And can the city by the utmost force
Of mimic art, with labour'd imitation
So soothe the soul, or give such mild delight? 

Ye gay and sportive votaries of Joy,
Forgive the thoughtless Muse, for she has led me
To talk of pleasing horror, and the bliss
Which melancholy gives; ye cannot form
Amid the circling follies, which urge on
Your laughing hours, perhaps ye cannot form
A notion of these joys, and with a taunt
Of high contempt, despise the wild enthusiasm. 
Yet on the well-trod stage have ye not seen
Your Roscius fired by the natural bard,
Immortal Shakespear, wander the bleak heath
A poor and outcast king, nor blame the winds
Whose keen tooth seiz'd his age, nor chide the elements
For their unkindness, while the ruffling storm
Tore the proud garments from his shivering trunk,
And the fierce lightnings fir'd his maddening brain? 
[Page 145]163 Have you not then felt horror? Would ye not
Change your rich pomp for Edgar's naked hovel,
And be the poor king's host? — Have ye not wish'd
To range with Rosaline the forest wild,
Or live beneath the shelter of some oak
With melancholy Jaques? Tell me, why then
Ye look'd on wealth and greatness with a scorn? 
Why but because the Muse with native strength
Pour'd truth on Fancy's eye; and yet the Muse
Can only boast in the most warm description
A faint resemblance, nor has she such force
To strike as Nature has. Alas! her voice
But wakes remembrance of our absent bliss;
And when she sings of incense-breathing Spring,
She wafts no odours to the longing sense,
But only prompts our sigh, that we must dwell
Confin'd in the full city, distant far
From every scene of rural innocence,
Whose woods, whose shades, whose storms, or funerals,
Ev'n raise a sense of pleasure. What can then
The brighter views, what can the happy hour
That gives the blushing bride to the true arms
Of faithful Damon? Thenot pleas'd revives
To former youth, and gayest of the day
Provokes the village mirth, and from his soul
Enjoys the spousal of his boy, who scarce
(O'ercome with rapture) can himself conduct
His festival; and but for busy Thenot,
[Page 146]191  Each due right were neglected, and the guests
Unbidden by the tabor's sprightly sound
To seek the green, and in the jocund dance
Each maiden with her youth breathe sport and joy,
Save the still happier pair: their greater bliss
Fills the whole breast, nor leaves a vacant place
For lighter mirth. Unnotic'd speaks the pipe:
They hear no sound but the endearing voice
Of mutual love: they do not mark the joy
In every face around; for their attention,
Fix'd on each other, watches every glance
Diffused by the lovely languid eye. 
Well may all else be unperceiv'd; for who
Observes bright Hesper dart his pointed ray,
When riding high mild Cynthia pours serene
Her steady beam. Oh tell me, when compar'd
To these true raptures, what's the shadowy pomp
And artful splendour, when the golden shackles
Fetter two venal souls, by interest call'd
To prostitute the ever-hallow'd rites
Of holy Hymen? — On the village plain
Nought joins but mutual love; no sordid motive
Promotes unnatural union; but the flame
That first united glows throughout their life
A steady fire, whose unabating light
Gilds Youth with rapture, and with fostering warmth
Chears drooping Age, who smiling sees his offspring
Step forth to claim the joys he celebrates
[Page 147]219  With annual hospitality, what time
The circling year brings round the happy day
That shower'd down blessings on him, when it gave
To his fond vow the willing Sylvia's charms,
Then blooming young, now hoary, but her heart
Unchang'd by time; for still the same desire
To add to every joy, or fondly soothe
Each woe he feels, reigns unabated there. 
His social roof receives each welcome guest,
His open heart diffuses round his pleasure,
And each plain neighbour with unfeigning tongue
Congratulates his bliss. Who would not leave
For these sincere delights, the pageant pomp,
The rich array, the courtly formal speech
Unutter'd by the heart, the birth-day wish
Of venal hirelings, who for interest croud
The glittering levee? Happier (Reason deems
View'd in each light) the simple village life,
Than all that courtiers wish, or kings bestow. 
Kings cannot give a boon of so rich price
As are thy smiles, O lovely Health! and thou
Shunning the tumult, to the rural green
Retirest. There, not built by mortal hand,
Stands on the southern slope of the fresh hill
Thy temple, from whose roof the eglantine
And vagrant woodbine hang; and at the porch
Sits thy good priestess Ease, administring
To Exercise (who up the gentle slope
[Page 148]247  By moderate footing moves) the holy cup
Of Temperance, nymph of the crystal spring
That dwells beneath thy altar; and from thence
Warbling with gentle lapse joins the full stream,
That winding wild delays its silver course
In the rich mead, whose bank the peasant oft
Approaches to allay his thirst, and quaffs
The simple beverage from the limpid fount. 
Bright virgin, thee of all the Powers who range
The rural plain, I woo with constant vow
Most ardent! Deign around my temples bind
Thy fragrant wreath, and deck my purpled cheek
With thy rich glow. Then undisturb'd the mind
Musing pursues its holy meditation,
And rapt in trance, can trace a thousand gifts
Shower'd by the gracious hand of Nature's King
To deck the various field. The wondering eye
Roams o'er the fair creation; then to heaven
Unbidden soars; for the full soul imprest
With holy transport, there directs its view
From whence its blessings flow, and the rapt voice
Accordant hymns the grateful song of praise. 
The rapid gusts of passion, which or pride,
Or folly, or the thousand varying forms
Of courtly affectation ever raise,
Here all subside, and the composed breast
Expands with love, and to its utmost power
Diffuses blessings to mankind, nor fears
[Page 149]275  Ingratitude should check, or pride should spurn
The offer'd bounties of the generous heart. 

Bless'd be the day, and doubly bless'd the hour,
When my Fidele with unfeigned vow
Gave her fond hand, and own'd her constant love:
Tho' since that hour already thrice the sun
From every sign has seen our growing bliss;
And tho' thy smile of unaffected love
Adds joy to every joy, and charms to ease
The brow of Care; tho' thou art all that heaven
Could give in woman, tenderness, and truth,
And all my heart e'er wish'd, when warmest Fancy
Form'd the fond future view of houshold bliss;
Yet happier still perhaps our lot had been,
Hadst thou beneath the rural thatch receiv'd
My faithful vow, and we had never heard
Of town or city life; a Marian thou,
And rustic Corin I. Then on the plain
Contented we had pass'd Life's little day. 
While Youth with sprightly beam illum'd her hours,
They would move on with joy; and when at noon
Firm Manhood call'd us forth to till the soil,
And with our labouring hand direct the plough,
We would be ready, nor refuse the task,
Due tribute to the public; till at eve
Our vigour lost, when Age came creeping on,
We would unyoke our heifers, and retire
To welcome ease, our best skill then employ'd
[Page 150]303  At our own home; attentive there to thatch
The chinks which Time had made, and to root up
Each foul weed that deform'd our little plot. 
This business over, calm we should attend
Th' approaching hour of our eternal rest;
And when it came, borne to our peaceful grave
By the plain villager; what tho' no tomb
Of sculptur'd marble call'd the passing eye
To read our story, yet the cottage tear
Should on our ashes fall, and the good heart
O'erflow sincerely for a neighbour lost:
Upon our bier the virgin troop would hang
Fresh-woven chaplets of the sweetest flowers:
Green turf should deck our grave; and every year
In spring-time would some friendly hand with care
Bind the fresh briar around, to guard the place
From the rude insult of the careless step;
And faithful Memory to late time record,
We were the happiest pair of human kind. 

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Title (in Source Edition): VERSES WRITTEN IN LONDON ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Author: Anonymous

Themes: rural life; happiness; contentment; nature

Genres: blank verse; meditation

References: DMI 32506

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Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. II. [The second edition]. London: printed for G. Pearch, 1770, pp. 139-150. 4v. ; 8⁰. (ESTC T116245; DMI 1135; OTA K093079.002) (Page images digitized from a copy in the Bodleian Library [(OC) 280 o.789].)

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VERSES WRITTEN IN LONDON ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

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