AN IMITATION OF SPENSER. GOLD OLDEN Apollo, that through heaven wide Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth his beams, In lucent words my darkling voices dight, And wash my earthly mind in thy clear streams, That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams, All while the jocund Hours in thy train Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet; And, when thou yield'st to Night thy wide domain, Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain. For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse, Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray (For Ignorance is folly's leasing nurse, And love of Folly needs none other's curse) Midas the praise hath gained of lengthened ears, For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse To sit in council with his modern peers, And judge of tinkling rhymes and elegances terse. And thou, Mercurius, that with winged bow Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky, And through heaven's halls thy airy flight dost throw, Entering with holy feet to where on high Jove weighs the counsel of futurity; Then laden with eternal fate, dost go Down, like a fallen star, from Autumn sky, If thou arrivest at the sandy shore Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell, Thy golden rod thrown on the dusty floor, Can charm to harmony with potent spell; Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore; And cause in sweet society to dwell Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell. O Mercury, assist my labouring sense That round the circle of the world would fly, As the winged eagle scorns the towery fence Of Alpine hills round his high aëry, And searches through the corners of the sky, Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound, And see the winged lightnings as they fly; Then, bosomed in an amber cloud, around Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high. And thou, O warrior maid invincible, Armed with the terrors of Almighty Jove, Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible, Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove, In solemn gloom of branches interwove? Or bear'st thy ægis o'er the burning field The weary wanderer through the desert rove? Or does the afflicted man thy heavenly bosom move? BLIND-MAN'S BUFF. WHE HEN silver snow decks Susan's clothes, The blushing bank is all my care, With hearth so red, and walls so fair. The well-washed stools, a circling row, Jenny her silken kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds. Now laughing stops, with "Silence, hush!" "See what it is to play unfair! Where cheating is, there's mischief there." But Roger still pursues the chase, "He sees! he sees!" cries softly Grace; "O Roger, thou, unskilled in art, Must, surer bound, go through thy part!" |