A Pastoral Ode, to the Honourable Sir Richard Lyttleton

THE morn dispens'd a dubious light,
A sullen mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill,
When Damon left his humble bowers
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wand'ring rill.

Tho' school'd from Fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each low'ring sky
Would oft' his fate bemoan,
That he, in sylvan shades forlorn,
Must waste his cheerless ev'n and morn,
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.

No friend to Fame's obstrep'rous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murm'ring, not a foe,
The pleasures he thro' choice declin'd,
When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind,
It griev'd him to forego.

Griev'd him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcocks shun the day,
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the swain's familiar shade,
And scorn to quit their prey.

But see the radiant sun once more
The bright'ning face of heav'n restore,
And raise the doubtful dawn,
And more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightest train appear
That ever trod the lawn.

Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame,
To think Bridgewater's honour'd name
Should grace his rustic cell;
That she, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank, and state,
Should rove where shepherds dwell.

But true it is, the gen'rous mind,
By candour sway'd, by taste refin'd,
Will nought but vice disdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows
Deem every flower a weed that blows
Amid the desert plain.

Beseems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,
Nor equal meed receive;
At most such garlands from the field,
As cowslips, pinks, and pansies, yield,
And rural hands can weave.

Yet strive, ye Shepherds! strive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring,
If haply thus yon' lovely fair
May round her temples deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.

O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious lake betray'd
Athenia's placid mien!
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms requir'd the song,
'Mid hazel copses green!

Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclin'd,
While busy Fancy calls to mind
The glories of his line!
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder shed,
As thro' enchantment, shine.

But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph descend to stray
From Hagley's fam'd retreat?
Else by the blooming features fair,
The faultless make, the matchless air,
'Twere Cynthia's form complete.

So would some tuberose delight,
That struck the pilgrim's wond'ring sight
'Mid lonely deserts drear,
All as at eve the sov'reign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragrant year.

Ah! now no more, the shepherd cry'd,
Must I Ambition's charms deride,
Her subtle force disown;
No more of Fauns or Fairies dream,
While Fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.

By low-brow'd rock or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazzled eyes astray;
But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend
Its more illustrious ray?

Nor is it long—O plaintive swain!
Since Guernsey saw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,
The partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise,
Had stol'n thro' life unseen.

Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bow'r
To smile familiar here:
O form'd by Nature to disclose
How fair that courtesy which flows
From social warmth sincere!

Nor yet have many moons decay'd
Since Pollio sought this lonely shade,
Admir'd this rural maze:
The noblest breast that Virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,
Might pant for Pollio's praise.

Say, Thomson here was known to rest;
For him yon' vernal seat I drest,
Ah! never to return!
In place of wit and melting strains,
And social mirth, it now remains
To weep beside his urn.

Come then, my Lelius! come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore
With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward Fate accuse,
That envy'd his impartial Muse,
To sing your early praise.

While Philo, to whose favour'd sight
Antiquity, with full delight,
Her inmost wealth displays,
Beneath yon' ruin's moulder'd wall
Shall muse, and with his friend recall
The pomp of ancient days.

Here, too, shall Conway's name appear,
He prais'd the stream so lovely clear,
That shone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's polish'd tongue.

Ev'n Pitt, whose fervent periods roll
Resistless thro' the kindling soul
Of senates, councils, kings!
Tho' form'd for courts, vouchsaf'd to rove,
Inglorious, thro' the shepherd's grove,
And ope his bashful springs.

But what can courts discover more
Than these rude haunts have seen before,
Each fount and shady tree?
Have not these trees and fountains seen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless Aylesbury?

And Grenville, she whose radiant eyes
Have mark'd by slow gradation rise
The princely piles of Stow;
Yet prais'd these unembellish'd woods,
And smil'd to see the babbling floods
Thro' self-worn mazes flow.

Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd,
Again beneath your caves retir'd,
Shall grace the pensive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection sway'd?

Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear;
Ye Sailors! tho' his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other spheres to charm;
The shepherds' breasts tho' mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.

O Lyttleton! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy gen'rous breast,
Thy firm, yet polish'd, mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How Fortune, too, conspires with Fame,
The song should please mankind.