The Banks of Chelmer

Tho' Windsor boasts her tyrants and her kings,
Her shady groves, her forest and her springs;
Her lofty temples, and her costly gems,
Her murm'ring Loddon, and her silver Thames;
Admit my Muse so tread in humbler lays,
And sing, tho' lowly, in fair CHELMER's praise.
What tho' thy banks, by kings were never trod,
No stately savage grac'd thee with a nod;
Thou happ'ly 'scap'd the arbitrary frown,
Nor felt the curse, of being near a crown.

Once, on a time, there liv'd a rural pair,
The gentle Philo, and Salina fair;
The sad Leander lov'd not more than he,
When, arm'd with love, he dar'd the raging sea;
No story'd fair cou'd ever boast a mind
More pure; no maid cou'd shew an heart more kind
Than she; her tresses play'd about her waist
In flowing curls; her head, with posies grac'd,
Like the fair lilly essenc'd ev'ry gale,
While o'er the lawn she tript, or thro' the dale.

On CHELMER's banks the gentle pair first trod,
Ere this fair land felt vile oppression's rod;
In golden times, when love o'er interest stood,
And statesmen fought their king and country's good;
He tended flocks, while she the diffaff play'd,
Upon the brow, or near some friendly shade.

Long had their breasts felt Cupid's gentle flame,
And stifl'd love with common friendship's name;
Till bursting forth, the blaze dispell'd the smoke,
And Philo first to his Salina spoke:—
We've long, my fair Salina, trod these plains,
In summer's heat, and winter's drenching rains;
We often steal the honey from the bees,
And oft we pluck the blossom from the trees,
Their tempting sweetness urge us to the deed,
But yet we find 'em cloy us as we feed.
There grows one flower, yet, that I revere,
Survives in bloom, throughout the killing year,
Whose tempting blush, and never-fading smell,
By far, all blossoms of the spring excel;
Whose damask leaves distil a balmy dew,
That breeds desire, and maintains it too;
I oft behold it, as I tread the mead,
And every day, my longing eyes I feed
With fond desire; till at last I pine,
Sigh to myself, and wish the blossom mine.
Still must I pine, still must I sigh in vain,
'Tis you must ease my hopes, and cure my pain;
Within your reach it hangs, within your breast,
To make me wretched, or to make me blest.

Nay, cease to grieve, the fair Salina cry'd,
Have you e'er ask'd me ought, that I deny'd?
Sure you have found me selfish and unkind,
To think, I bear about so poor a mind:
Did you a Lambkin or an heifer chuse,
You never knew me such a boon refuse.
Then bring me, Philo, where this wonder grows,
Be it a lilly, hyacinth or rose;
Be it the fairest bud that ever sprung,
The sweetest blue-bell ever fairy rung,
Within my reach, or in my power to give,
If Philo ask it, Philo shall receive.

Thanks lovely maid,—but O! you'll change your mind,
When you this fair, this blooming beauty find.

Nay doubt me not, nor yet my truth decry,
Let not my word, upon suspicion, die;
Let not your thoughts be timid and unkind,
Till I've my promise, and my truth declin'd:
No tempting sweet, no rose that ever sprung,
Shall make me faulter in my heart or tongue;
Ne'er let me tread these fertile banks again,
Nor walk with Philo o'er the verdant plain,
When I forget the promise I have made,
Banish Salina to some distant shade.

Nay, lovely maid, be ever, ever near,
Shou'd you, shou'd fair Salina disappear,
These lonely plains wou'd be more lonely still,
And burs and thistles grow on ev'ry hill;
To yonder brook then let us bend our way,
And there behold the prodigy of May;
And there behold, my heart's, my soul's delight,
My wish by day, and all my dreams by night.

Methinks, 'tis strange, that one poor simple flower,
Shou'd, o'er an heart like yours, obtain such power;
The bee, 'tis true, and butterfly will rove,
And sport around, with animated love,
When ev'ry flower rising to their sight,
Invites the heart, and yields 'em new delight;
The sun declines apace, let's instant go,
And try, if I will keep my word, or no.

Then straight they trip together o'er the plain,
And bands of Cupids follow'd in a train.
To bind two hearts with wreaths that never fade,
And prove the promise of a tender maid;
The banks they reach, and next, the crystal brook,
In which young Philo bid Salina look.

The banks are pleasant, and the stream is clear,
But yet I see no rose or lilly near;
Some cruel swain has stole it, e'er we came;
In such a case, can I be ought to blame?

Say, can you nothing in the stream behold?
No perfect beauty of celestial mould?
See you not something, like yourself appear?
The substance of that shadow, I revere;—
Thou art the substance, thou, my boasted bloom,
'Tis thou must ease my heart, or seal my doom.

Ungen'rous swain, how cou'd you thus ensnare,
With study'd arts, a poor unguarded fair!
Am I the fairest, Philo ever saw,
Cou'd poor Salina such defire draw?
Alas! I grieve to think what I have done,
Things end in sorrow, that are rash begun;
Let me recall it, sure I was asleep;
Must I, indeed, my artless promise keep?
Must I, perforce then, give myself away,
To be the idol of a single Day?
To be forgot, if Philo e'er shou'd see,
Some other maid, still fairer yet than me?
But O! remember, shou'd you ever find
Some other maid, more fair, more true, more kind,
Forget not then, who once you deem'd a prize,
Nor make your captive fair, a sacrifice.

O never! never! talk not so again,
Such fancy'd ills will rive my heart in twain.—
Here do I vow, and when I prove unkind,
Teem down ye clouds, and unloose the wind;
Let forked lightning thro' my cottage shoot,
And thunder tear whole forests by the root;
Let every lamb, that in my pastures stray,
By turgid floods be caught, and wash'd away;
Let me be sunk in famine and despair,
Beneath the horror of the warring air.

Nay, gentle swain, my heart wou'd bleed, to see
Thee made the spectacle of misery;
Shou'd thou prove kind, and keep thy passion true,
I won'd not wish a fairer swain than you.

When I prove false,—but that can never be,
My health, my life, my ev'ry hope's in thee;
If this fond heart shou'd e'er a traytor prove,
And violate the sacred laws of love,
Let shame be painted on my guilty breast,
And sorrow hunt me from the bed of rest.
What shall I say,—for O, I cannot feign
What I am not, were I the world to gain;
What shall I say, to make my fair believe,
These tears are real,

Cease, O! cease to grieve;
Here, take my hand, my heart I wou'd resign,
But that has fled this many a day to thine;
My breast, forlorn, oft led me to despair,
Save when, methought, I felt my Philo's there.

O! let me clasp it to my panting breast,
Heal my fond heart, and give it endless rest.
Ye woods and vales, that heard the lovely sound,
Tell it in echoes to the plains around;
Let the sweet woodlark raise his notes divine,
Telling each swain, that fair Salina's mine.