A Divine Pastorall
Strephon & I upon a bank were laid,
Where the gay spring in varied colours playd,
& her rich odours lavish nature shed.
When thus the Youth, while this we wondring view
Can we but wonder at its maker too,
Amintas, if I know him, did not use
Shoud such a subject call, to want a muse,
Oh sing the great, the wise creating powr,
While silent I admire, & in your words adore.
Then I, for long before the thought was mine,
Did thus to meet the good demand begin.
Ye Mountains, & ye hills which lower rise,
Ye humble vallies, & ye spreading trees,
Ye pleasant meadows, & thou easy stream,
O praise the Lord, O magnify his name!
Yes, as you can you tell his name abroad,
The wondrous work proclaims the worker God.
Gently awhile sweet Breezes move along,
Then swiftly bear aloft my finisht song.
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Health, An Eclogue
Now early Shepherds o'er the Meadow pass,
And print long Foot-steps in the glittering Grass;
The Cows neglectful of their Pasture stand,
By turns obsequious to the Milker's Hand.
When Damon softly trod the shaven Lawn,
Damon a Youth from City Cares withdrawn;
Long was the pleasing Walk he wander'd thro',
A cover'd Arbour clos'd the distant view;
There rests the Youth, and while the feather'd Throng
Raise their wild Musick, thus contrives a Song.
Here wafted o'er by mild Etesian Air,
Thou Country Goddess, beauteous Health! repair;
Here let my Breast thro' quiv'ring Trees inhale
Thy rosy Blessings with the Morning Gale.
What are the Fields, or Flow'rs, or all I see?
Ah! tastless all, if not enjoy'd with thee.
Joy to my Soul! I feel the Goddess nigh,
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Book-Worm
Come hither, Boy, we'll hunt to Day
The Book-Worm, ravening Beast of Prey,
Produc'd by Parent Earth, at odds
(As Fame reports it) with the Gods.
Him frantick Hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand Authors Lives:
Thro' all the Fields of Wit he flies;
Dreadful his Head with clust'ring Eyes,
With Horns without, and Tusks within,
And Scales to serve him for a Skin.
Observe him nearly, lest he climb
To wound the Bards of antient Time,
Or down the Vale of Fancy go
To tear some modern Wretch below:
On ev'ry Corner fix thine Eye,
Or ten to one he slips thee by.
See where his Teeth a Passage eat:
We'll rouse him from the deep Retreat.
But who the Shelter's forc'd to give?
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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An Allegory On Man
A thoughtful Being, long and spare,
Our Race of Mortals call him Care:
(Were Homer living, well he knew
What Name the Gods have call'd him too)
With fine Mechanick Genius wrought,
And lov'd to work, tho' no one bought.
This Being, by a Model bred
In Jove's eternal sable Head,
Contriv'd a Shape impow'rd to breathe,
And be the Worldling here beneath.
The Man rose staring, like a Stake;
Wond'ring to see himself awake!
Then look'd so wise, before he knew
The Bus'ness he was made to do;
That pleas'd to see with what a Grace
He gravely shew'd his forward Face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An Under-something of the Sky.
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr II. To T:--- M.---y. On Law.
Health & advice an old acquaintance sends,
Health & advice, the wish & debt of friends,
Tis fitt I teach the templar how to thrive,
Who teaches me with temperance to live.
Be still then murmuring Clients for a while,
Ye noisy four Court walls awhile be still,
Splitt with hard banter, & the Lawyers tongue,
Now Give a gentler Eccho to my song.
Of Law I sing, inspire my weaker pen,
Lost Suits, & pleaders little usd to gain.
That angry Justice to her heaven went
There seems not so confessd an argument,
As Lawyers thriving in her name below,
When were she here again, again she'd go.
Thus courtiers, if a Kings from care wthdrawn,
Rise without meritt, & with fraud rule on.
All Law was conscience once, unmixd wth tricks,
Found out by interest, or for politicks:
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Dr. Parnel To Dr. Swift, On His Birth-day, November 30th, MDCCXIII
Urg'd by the warmth of Friendship's sacred flame,
But more by all the glories of thy fame;
By all those offsprings of thy learned mind,
In judgment solid, as in wit refin'd,
Resolv'd I sing: Tho' lab'ring up the way
To reach my theme, O Swift, accept my lay.
Rapt by the force of thought, and rais'd above,
Thro' Contemplation's airy fields I rove;
Where pow'rful Fancy purifies my eye,
And lights the beauties of a brighter sky;
Fresh paints the meadows, bids green shades ascend,
Clear rivers wind, and op'ning plains extend;
Then fills its landscape thro' the vary'd parts
With Virtues, Graces, Sciences, and Arts:
Superiour Forms, of more than mortal air,
More large than mortals, more serenely fair.
Of these two Chiefs, the guardians of thy name,
Conspire to raise thee to the point of fame.
Ye Future Times, I heard the silver sound!
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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To Mr. Pope
To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to show, the Sensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the Friend,
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Music tune them, what affection fire?
O might thy Genius in my bosom shine!
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine;
The brightest Ancients might at once agree,
To sing within my lays, and sing of thee.
Horace himself wou'd own thou dost excell
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the Dame,
Whom Windsor-Forest sees a gliding stream:
On silver feet, with annual Osier crown'd,
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair,
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr VI. The Spleen
Hail to the sacred silence of this Grove
Hail to the greens below the greens above
Oft have I found beneath these shady trees
A reall in imaginary bliss
for they my fancy sooth she's a cheat
Which can agreably adorn deceit
some state of life she draws with pleasing art
brings Enchanted reason to her part
Reason awhile is captive by consent
acts from all its rigid rules unbent
from our own selves conceales our reall case
Nor shows us what may be but what may please
When I by these am from my self with drawn
I straight become what ere I think upon
Now do I turn a statesman of the rate
that furnishes the world beside with chat
I many use I make a friend of none
if I flatter tis my prince alone
Mankind well versd in various villany
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr III. Virtue
Is virtue something reall here below
Or but an Idle name & empty show
While on this head I take my thoughts to task
Methinks young Freedom answers wt I ask
In his own moralls thus the Spark goes on
Or thus if he were here he might have don
In what wild hill or unfrequented plain
hast thou been bred so ignorant of men
Such doubts in such a world to entertain
Or has thy father had an hopefull son
by Colledge education quite undon
& therefore wisely gave his others none
Believe me Sr that what you faign woud know
is but a word to signify a show
Often it is 'tis often not designd
& still it makes a riddle of the mind.
Now see how evidently this appears
in the clear language of particulars.
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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An Eclogue
Now early shepheards ore ye meadow pass,
And print long foot-steps in the glittering grass;
The Cows unfeeding near the cottage stand,
By turns obedient to the Milkers hand,
Or loytring stretch beneath an Oaken shade,
Or lett the suckling Calf defraud the maid.
When Harry softly trod the shaven lawn,
Harry a youth from Citty care with drawn,
Unlike the lowly swains Arcadia bore,
Their Pipes but sounded in the days of yore:
Now Gales regardless range the Vaults above,
And No fond swain believes they sigh for love,
No more the Waters sympathising weep;
Our Lads unskilld in musick tend the sheep;
For Tom and Will our Yellow Ceres waves,
And Kate instead of Chloris binds ye sheaves.
Sicilian Muse thy higher strains explore,
Thy higher strains may suit with nature more.
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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