If I forget Judea's mournful land,
May nothing prosper that I take in hand!
Or if I string the lyre, or tune my voice,
Till thy deliverance cause me to rejoice;
O may my tongue forget her art to move,
And may I never more my speech improve!
Return, O Lord! avenge us of our foes,
Destroy the men that up against us rose:
Let Edom's sons thy just displeasure know,
And, like us, serve some foreign conquering foe
In distant realms; far from their native home,
To which dear seat O let them never come!
Thou, Babel's daughter! author of our wo,
Shalt feel the stroke of some revenging blow: --
Thy walls and towers be levell'd with the ground,
Sorrow and grief shall in each soul be found:
Thrice blest the man, who, that auspicious night,
Shall seize thy trembling infants in thy sight;
Regardless of thy flowing tears and moans,
And dash the tender babes against the stones.*
COME, gentle muse, and once more lend thine aid,
O bring thy succor to a humble maid!
How often dost thou liberally dispense
To our dull breast thy quick'ning influence!
By thee inspired, I'll cheerful tune my voice,
And love and sacred friendship make my choice.
In my pleased bosom you can freely pour,
A greater treasure than Jove's golden shower.
Come now, fair muse, and fill my empty mind,
With rich ideas, great and unconfin'd.
Instruct me in those secret arts that lie
Unseen to all but to a poet's eye.
Her father says of this Paraphrase, "The serious melancholy Psalm is well turned in the most parts of it, considering your years and advantages for such a performance. You speak of a single withered willow which they hung their barps on; but Euphrates was covered with willows along the banks of it, so that it has been called the River of Willows. I hope, my dear, your lyre will not be hung on such a sorrowful shrub. Go on in sacred songs, and we'll hang it on the stately cedars of Lebanon. Or let the pleasant elm before the door where you are suffice for you."
O let me burn with Sappho's noble fire,
But not like her for faithless man expire.
And let me rival great Orinda's fame,
Or like sweet Philomela's* be my name.
Go lead the way, my muse, nor must you stop
Till we have gain'd Parnassus' shady top:
Till I have view'd those fragrant soft retreats,
Those fields of bliss, the muses' sacred seats.
I'll then devote thee to fair virtue's fame,
And so be worthy of a poet's name.
ON THE POEMS OF SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.
BLACKMORE, thou wondrous bard! whose name inspires
My glowing breast to imitate thy fires,
O that my muse could give a lasting fame!
Then should my verse immortalize thy name.
Thy matchless lines thy inborn worth displays,
Inspires our souls, and fills our mouths with praise.
Thou for mankind's preceptor Heaven design'd,
To form their manners, and instruct their mind.
In virtue's cause undaunted you engage,
To stem the tide of vice, reform the stage,
And place the present with the golden age.
What eyes can view thy heroes, and not find
In them the lively copy of thy mind?
None but a soul profusely great and good,
A soul with every princely gift endow'd,
Could draw such virtues in their native light;
Virtues in which heroic souls delight.
With what sweet majesty Eliza stands,
While valiant Vere attends her high commands?
The vanquish'd Gauls before her cohorts fly,
And with their blood the Danube's current dye.
Here pious Arthur ploughs the watery main,
Heaven's righteous cause and worship to maintain;
His pious deeds and his victorious arms
Are crown'd with peace, and Ethelina's charms.
The virtuous Alfred next imbark'd we find,
In quest of wisdom for a princely mind,
To empire born and for a throne design'd.
Sages and kings alike the prince admire,
The schools and courts yield him his whole desire:
* Philomela was the name on the title page of Miss Singer's poems. it seems, had not forgotten to discourse to his daughter of the fair maid of Bath.
His virtue, faithful Guithun, was thy care;
Nobly he fled the lewd Sicilian fair!
Chaste he return'd, and as an angel wise,
And more than crowns he found in fair Elsitha's eyes.
Thus Arthur, Alfred, and Eliza stand,
Drawn for examples by your matchless hand.
Had but the Mantuan felt that heavenly fire, That warms thy breast, whene'er you tune the lyre, Rome ne'er had known a rival in her praise,
Nor to Augusta e'er resign'd the bays.
To sacred numbers next your lyre is strung, And mysteries divine flow from your tongue.
What heart's not sad, what eye flows not with tears,
When Job in all the pomp of grief appears?
His learned friends in vain attempt and try
God's secret springs of acting to descry;
And Job condemn, till God does justify.
With Israel's Psalmist next in cheerful lays,
Raptur'd in sacred love and heavenly praise,
To Israel's God your purer offerings rise,
For a sweet smell and grateful sacrifice.
No more shall Epicurean doctrine find
Belief in any but a sickly mind;
Nor will the Stagyrite again persuade,
"Twas not in time these mighty orbs were made,
Who read creation by your wit display'd.
Nor the bold Arian, whose blasphemous breath
The impure steam of sulphurous hell and death,
Shall scan the Almighty's ways, his truths deny,
And from the Saviour tear the Deity:
No more shall he the gazing world delude,
Nor on mankind his hellish schemes obtrude:
While you Redemption sing our faith does cry,
"My God, my God, I see thy deity!"
O happy land! and of unrivall'd fame,
That claims thy birth, and boasts so great a name!
Albion alone is blest with such a son,
A birth to ages past, and thee, O Greece, unknown.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY, IN IMITATION OF
FROM the soft shades, and from the balmy sweets
Of Medford's flowery vales, and green retreats,
Your absent Delia to her father sends
And prays to see him ere the Summer ends.
Now while the earth's with beauteous verdure dyed,
And Flora paints the meads in all her pride;
While laden trees Pomona's bounty own,
And Ceres' treasures do the fields adorn,
From the thick smokes, and noisy town, O come,
And in these plains awhile forget your home.
Though my small incomes never can afford,
Like wealthy Celsus to regale a lord;
No ivory tables groan beneath the weight
Of sumptuous dishes, served in massy plate:
The forest ne'er was search'd for food for me,
Nor from my hounds the timorous hare does flee:
No leaden thunder strikes the fowl in air,
Nor from my shaft the winged death do fear:
With silken nets I ne'er the lakes despoil,
Nor with my bait the larger fish beguile.
No luscious sweetmeats, by my servants plac'd
In curious order e'er my table grac'd;
To please the taste, no rich Burgundian wine,
In chrystal glasses on my sideboard shine;
The luscious sweets of fair Canary's isle
Ne'er fill'd my casks, nor in my flagons smile:
No wine, but what does from my apples flow,
My frugal house on any can bestow :
Except when Cæsar's birth day does return,
And joyful fires throughout the village burn;
Then moderate each takes his cheerful glass,
And our good wishes to Augustus pass.
But though rich dainties never spread my board,
Nor my cool vaults Calabrian wines afford;
Yet what is neat and wholesome I can spread,
My good fat bacon and our homely bread,
With which my healthful family is fed.
Milk from the cow, and butter newly churn'd,
And new fresh cheese, with curds and cream just turn'd. For a dessert upon my table 's seen
The golden apple, and the melon green;
The blushing peach and glossy plum there lies,
And with the mandrake tempt your hands and eyes.
These I can give, and if you'll here repair, To slake your thirst a cask of Autumn beer, Reserv'd on purpose for your drinking here.
Under the spreading elms our limbs we'll lay,
While fragrant Zephyrs round our temples play.
Retir'd from courts, and crowds, secure we 'll set,
And freely feed upon our country treat.
No noisy faction here shall dare intrude,
Or once disturb our peaceful solitude.
No stately beds my humble roofs adorn
Of costly purple, by carved panthers borne;
Nor can I boast Arabia's rich perfumes,
Diffusing odors through our stately rooms.
For me no fair Egyptian plies the loom,
But my fine linen all is made at home.
Though I no down or tapestry can spread,
A clean soft pillow shall support your head,
Fill'd with the wool from off my tender sheep,
On which with ease and safety you may sleep.
The nightingale shall lull you to your rest,
And all be calm and still as is your breast.
Or the Rev. Mr Adams's life very little is known. All that we have been able to collect of his history, is embraced in the concise summary of his birth in 1705; his graduation from Harvard College in 1721; his settlement in the ministry at Newport, Rhode Island, in 1728, his dismissal from his church in 1730; and his death at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1740. The confident predictions of his immortality,* recorded in the preface to a little collection of his poems published after Mr Adams's death, serve only to excite a desire of knowing something of a character so lauded as his, but we are furnished with nothing that can gratify our curiosity. The productions in this volume have an internal evidence of the author's fervent
"His own works," says his culogist, "are the best encomium that can be given him, and as long as learning and politeness shall prevail, his Sermons will be his Monument, and his Poetry his Epitaph." The former, alas, are forgotten, and the labors of a second Old Mortality would hardly revive the latter.
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