Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 31

[Footnote 3: 'Neptune's wide domain:' the Low Countries, and their revolt from Spain, are here alluded to.]

[Footnote 4: 'Uri's rocks:' alluding to the known story of William Tell and his a.s.sociates.]

[Footnote 5: 'Calvi's rocky sh.o.r.e:' the n.o.ble stand made by Paschal Paoli, and his a.s.sociates, against the usurpations of the French king.]

SONG.

1 While with fond rapture and amaze, On thy transcendent charms I gaze, My cautious soul essays in vain Her peace and freedom to maintain: Yet let that blooming form divine, Where grace and harmony combine, Those eyes, like genial orbs that move, Dispensing gladness, joy, and love, In all their pomp a.s.sail my view, Intent my bosom to subdue, My breast, by wary maxims steel'd, Not all those charms shall force to yield.

2 But when, invoked to Beauty's aid, I see the enlighten'd soul display'd; That soul so sensibly sedate Amid the storms of froward fate, Thy genius active, strong, and clear, Thy wit sublime, though not severe, The social ardour, void of art, That glows within thy candid heart; My spirits, sense, and strength decay, My resolution dies away, And, every faculty oppress'd, Almighty Love invades my breast!

SONG.

1 To fix her!--'twere a task as vain To count the April drops of rain, To sow in Afric's barren soil, Or tempests hold within a toil.

2 I know it, friend, she's light as air, False as the fowler's artful snare, Inconstant as the pa.s.sing wind, As winter's dreary frost unkind.

3 She's such a miser, too, in love, Its joys she'll neither share nor prove, Though hundreds of gallants await From her victorious eyes their fate.

4 Blus.h.i.+ng at such inglorious reign, I sometimes strive to break her chain, My reason summon to my aid, Resolved no more to be betray'd.

5 Ah! friend, 'tis but a short-lived trance, Dispell'd by one enchanting glance; She need but look, and, I confess, Those looks completely curse or bless.

6 So soft, so elegant, so fair, Sure something more than human's there; I must submit, for strife is vain, 'Twas Destiny that forged the chain.

SONG.

1 Let the nymph still avoid and be deaf to the swain, Who in transports of pa.s.sion affects to complain; For his rage, not his love, in that frenzy is shown, And the blast that blows loudest is soon overblown.

2 But the shepherd whom Cupid has pierced to the heart, Will submissive adore, and rejoice in the smart; Or in plaintive, soft murmurs his bosom-felt woe, Like the smooth-gliding current of rivers, will flow.

3 Though silent his tongue, he will plead with his eyes, And his heart own your sway in a tribute of sighs: But when he accosts you in meadow or grove, His tale is all tenderness, rapture, and love.

SONG.

1 From the man whom I love though my heart I disguise, I will freely describe the wretch I despise; And if he has sense but to balance a straw, He will sure take the hint from the picture I draw.

2 A wit without sense, without fancy a beau, Like a parrot he chatters, and struts like a crow; A peac.o.c.k in pride, in grimace a baboon, In courage a hind, in conceit a Gascon.

3 As a vulture rapacious, in falsehood a fox, Inconstant as waves, and unfeeling as rocks; As a tiger ferocious, perverse as a hog, In mischief an ape, and in fawning a dog.

4 In a word, to sum up all his talents together, His heart is of lead, and his brain is of feather; Yet, if he has sense but to balance a straw, He will sure take the hint from the picture I draw.

SONG.

1 Come listen, ye students of every degree; I sing of a wit and a tutor _perdie,_ A statesman profound, a critic immense, In short, a mere jumble of learning and sense; And yet of his talents though laudably vain, His own family arts he could never attain.

2 His father, intending his fortune to build, In his youth would have taught him the trowel to wield.

But the mortar of discipline never would stick, For his skull was secured by a facing of brick; And with all his endeavours of patience and pain, The skill of his sire he could never attain.

3 His mother, a housewife, neat, artful, and wise, Renown'd for her delicate biscuit and pies, Soon alter'd his studies, by flattering his taste, From the raising of wall to the rearing of paste; But all her instructions were fruitless and vain, The pye-making mystery he could ne'er attain.

4 Yet, true to his race, in his labours were seen A jumble of both their professions, I ween; For when his own genius he ventured to trust, His pies seem'd of brick, and his houses of crust; Then, good Mr Tutor, pray be not so vain, Since your family arts you could never attain.

END OF SMOLLETT'S POEMS.