Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 382, July 25, 1829 - Various - Страница 1

Courting the muse, thro' Hagley Park thou strayst.

Thy British Tempe! There along the dale,

With woods o'erhung, and shagg'd with mossy rocks,

Whence on each hand the gushing waters play,

And down the rough cascade white dashing fall,

Or gleam in lengthen'd vista through the trees,

You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade

Of solemn oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts

Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand,

And pensive listen to the various voice

Of rural peace; the herds, the flocks, the birds,

The hollow-whispering breeze, the 'plaint of rills,

That, purling down amid the twisted roots

Which creep around their dewy murmurs shake

On the sooth'd ear.

"LYTTLETON, the friend!"

This unadorned stone was placed here

By the particular desire and express

Directions of the Right Honourable

Here Pope! ah, never must that towering mind

To his loved haunts, or dearer friend return;

What art, what friendship! oh! what fame resign'd;

In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.

Hence, faithless wretch! thou hast forgot the hand

That sav'd thee from oppression—from the grasp

Of want. I fed you once—then you was poor:

Even as I am now. Yet from the store

Of your abundance, you refuse to grant

The veriest trifle. May the bounty

Of that great God who gave you what you have

Ne'er from you flow. You have forgot me, sir,

But I remember ere I left this land,

By way of traffic for the western world,

I had a favourite, faithful dog,

Who for the kindnesses I pour'd upon him

Would fawn upon me: not in flattery,

But in a sort that spoke his generous nature.

Lasting as memory,

Faster than friendship—deeper than the wave

Is the affection of a mindless brute.

In a few hours (for I can almost see

The cot wherein these travell'd bones were cradled,)

I shall have ended an untoward enterprize,

And if that honest creature I have told you of

Still breathes this vital air, and will not know me,

May hospitality keep closed her gates

Against me, till I find a home within

The grave.CYMBELINE.

Industrious man, thou art a prize to me,

The best of masters—surely born for thee;

Thou keeper art of this my rural seat,4

Kept at my charge to keep my garden neat;

To train the woodbine and to crop the yew—

In th' art of gard'ning equall'd p'rhaps by few.

O! could I cultivate my barren soul,

As thou this garden canst so well control;

Pluck up each brier and thorn, by frequent toil,

And clear the mind as thou canst cleanse the soil5

But now, my faithful servant, Anthony,

Just speak, and tell me what you think of me;

When through the day amidst the gard'ning trade

You bear the wat'ring pot, or wield the spade,

And by your labour cause each part to yield,

And make my garden like a fruitful field;

What say you, when you see me musing there

With looks intent as lost in anxious care,

And sending forth my sentiments in words

That oft intimidate the peaceful birds?

Dost thou not then suppose me void of rest,

Or think some demon agitates my breast?

Yon villagers, you know, are wont to say

Thy master's fam'd for writing many a lay,

'Mongst other matters too he's known to sing

The glorious acts of our victorious king;6

Whose martial fame resounds thro' every town;

Unparallel'd in wisdom and renown.

You know it well—and by this garden wall

P'rhaps Mons and Namur7 at this instant fall.

What shouldst thou think if haply some should say

This noted chronicler's employ'd to-day

In writing something new—and thus his time

Devotes to thee—to paint his thoughts in rhyme?

My master, thou wouldst say, can ably teach,

And often tells me more than parsons preach;

But still, methinks, if he was forc'd to toil

Like me each day—to cultivate the soil,

To prune the trees, to keep the fences round;

Reduce the rising to the level ground,

Draw water from the fountains near at hand

To cheer and fertilize the thirsty land,

He would not trade in trifles such as these,

And drive the peaceful linnets from the trees.

Now, Anthony, I plainly see that you

Suppose yourself the busiest of the two;

But ah, methinks you'd tell a diff'rent tale

If two whole days beyond the garden pale

You were to leave the mattock and the spade

And all at once take up the poet's trade:

To give a manuscript a fairer face,

And all the beauty of poetic grace;

Or give the most offensive flower that blows

Carnation's sweets, and colours of the rose;

And change the homely language of the clown

To suit the courtly readers of the town—

Just such a work, in fact, I mean to say,

As well might please the critics of the day!

Soon from this work returning tir'd and lean,

More tann'd than though you'd twenty summers seen,

The wonted gard'ning tools again you'd take

Your long-accustom'd shovel and your rake;

And then exclaiming, you would surely say,

'Twere better far to labour many a day

Than e'er attempt to take such useless flights,

And vainly strive to gain poetic heights,

Impossible to reach—I might as soon

Ascend at once and land upon the moon!

Come, Anthony, attend: let me explain

(Although an idler) weariness and pain.

Man's ever rack'd and restless, here below,

And at his best estate must labour know.

Then comes fatigue. The Sisters nine may please

And promise poets happiness and ease;

But e'en amidst those trees, that cooling shade,

That calm retreat for them expressly made,

No rest they find—there rich effusions flow

In all the measures bardic numbers know:

Thus on their way in endless toil they move,

And spend their strength in labours that they love.

Beneath the trees the bards the muses haunt,

And with incessant toil are seen to pant;

But still amidst their pains, they pleasure find

An ample entertainment for the mind.

But, after all, 'tis plain enough to me,

A man unstudious, must unhappy be;

Who deems a dull, inactive life the best,

A life of laziness, a life of rest;

A willing slave to sloth—and well I know,

He suffers much who nothing has to do.

His mind beclouded, he obscurely sees,

And free from busy life imagines ease.

All sinful pleasures reign without control,

And passions unsubdued pollute the soul;

He thus indulges in impure desires,

Which long have lurk'd within, like latent fires:

At length they kindle—burst into a flame

On him they sport—sad spectacle of shame.

Remorse ensues—with every fierce disease.

The stone and cruel gout upon him seize;

To quell their rage some fam'd physicians come

Who scarce less cruel, crowd the sick man's room;

On him they operate—these learned folk,

Make him saw rocks, and cleave the solid oak;8

And gladly would the man his fate resign

For such an humble, happy state as thine.

Be thankful, Anthony, and think with me,

The poor hardworking man may happier be

If blest with strength, activity, and health,

Than those who roll in luxury and wealth.

Two truths important, I proceed to tell,

One is a truth, you surely know full well;

That labour is essential here below

To man—a source of weal instead of woe:

The other truth, few words suffice to prove,

No blame attaches to the life I love.

So still attend—but I must say no more,

I plainly see, you wish my sermon o'er;

You gape, you close your eyes, you drop your chin,

Again methinks I'd better not begin.

Besides, these melons seem to wish to know

The reason why they are neglected so;

And ask if yonder village holds its feast

And thou awhile art there detained a guest,

While all the flowery tribes make sad complaint.

For want of water they are grown quite faint.