Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE ENTHUSIAST, OR, THE LOVER OF NATURE, by JOSEPH WARTON Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Ye green-robed dryads, oft at dusky eve Last Line: Grace the soft warbles of her honied voice. Subject(s): Nature; Simplicity | ||||||||
Ye green-robed Dryads, oft at dusky eve By wondering shepherds seen, to forests brown, To unfrequented meads, and pathless wilds, Lead me from gardens decked with art's vain pomps. Can gilt alcoves, can marble-mimic gods, Parterres embroidered, obelisks, and urns Of high relief; can the long, spreading lake, Or vista lessening to the sight; can Stowe With all her Attic fanes, such raptures raise, As the thrush-haunted copse, where lightly leaps The fearful fawn the rustling leaves along, And the brisk squirrel sports from bough to bough, While from an hollow oak the busy bees Hum drowsy lullabies? The bards of old, Fair Nature's friends, sought such retreats, to charm Sweet Echo with their songs; oft too they met, In summer evenings, near sequestered bowers, Or Mountain-Nymph, or Muse, and eager learned The moral strains she taught to mend mankind. As to a secret grot Egeria stole With patriot Numa, and in silent night Whispered him sacred laws, he listening sat Rapt with her virtuous voice; old Tiber leaned Attentive on his urn, and hushed his waves. Rich in her weeping country's spoils, Versailles May boast a thousand fountains, that can cast The tortured waters to the distant heavens; Yet let me choose some pine-topped precipice Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy stream, Like Anio, tumbling roars; or some bleak heath, Where straggling stand the mournful juniper, Or yew-tree scathed; while in clear prospect round, From the grove's bosom spires emerge, and smoke In bluish wreaths ascends, ripe harvests wave, Herds low, and straw-roofed cots appear, and streams Beneath the sunbeams twinkle. The shrill lark, That wakes the woodman to his early task, Or love-sick Philomel, whose luscious lays Soothe lone night-wanderers, the moaning dove Pitied by listening milkmaid, far excel The deep-mouthed viol, the soul-lulling lute, And battle-breathing trumpet. Artful sounds! That please not like the choristers of air, When first they hail th'approach of laughing May. Can Kent design like Nature? Mark where Thames Plenty and pleasure pours thro' Lincoln's meads; Can the great artist, tho' with taste supreme Endu'd, one beauty to this Eden add? Tho' he, by rules unfetter'd, boldly scorns Formality and method, round and square Disdaining, plans irregularly great. Creative Titian, can thy vivid strokes, Or thine, O graceful Raphael, dare to vie With the rich tints that paint the breathing mead? The thousand-colour'd tulip, violet's bell Snow-clad and meek, the vermeil-tinctur'd rose, And golden crocus? -- Yet with these the maid, Phillis or Phoebe, at a feast or wake, Her jetty locks enamels; fairer she, In innocence and homespun vestments dress'd, That if coerulean saphires at her ears Shone pendent, or a precious diamond-cross Heav'd gently on her panting bosom white. Yon shepherd idly stretch'd on the rude rock, Listening to dashing waves, and sea-mews clang High-hovering o'er his head, who views beneath The dolphin dancing o'er the level brine, Feels more true bliss that the proud admiral, Amid his vessels bright with burnish'd gold And silken streamers, tho' his lordly nod Ten thousand war-worn mariners revere. And great AEneas gaz'd with more delight On the rough mountain shagg'd with horrid shades (Where cloud-compelling Jove, as fancy dream'd, Descending, shook his direful AEgis black) Than if he enter'd the high Capitol On golden columns rear'd, a conquer'd world Exhausted, to enrich its stately head. More pleas'd he slept in poor Evander's cott On shaggy skins, lull'd by sweet nightingales, Than if a Nero, in an age refin'd, Beneath a gorgeous canopy had plac'd His royal guest, and bade his minstrels sound Soft slumb'rous Lydian airs, to soothe his rest. Happy the first of men, ere yet confin'd To smoaky cities; who in sheltering groves, Warm caves, and deep-sun vallies liv'd and lov'd, By cares unwounded; what the sun and showers, And genial earth untillag'd, could produce, They gather'd grateful, or the acorn brown, Or blushing berry; by the liquid lapse Of murm'ring waters call'd to slake their thirst, Or with fair nymphs their sun-brown limbs to bathe; With nymphs who fondly clasp'd their fav'rite youths, Unaw'd by shame, beneath the beechen shade, Nor wiles, nor artificial coyness knew. Then doors and walls were not; the melting maid Nor frown of parents fear'd, nor husband's threats; Nor had curs'd gold their tender hearts allur'd: Then beauty was not venal. Injur'd love, O! whither, God of raptures, art thou fled? While Avarice waves his golden wand around, Abhorr'd magician, and his costly cup Prepares with baneful drugs, t' enchant the souls Of each low-thoughted fair to wed for gain. In earth's first infancy (as sung the bard Who strongly painted what he boldly thought), Tho' the fierce north oft smote with iron whip Their shiv'ring limbs, tho' oft the bristly boar Or hungry lion 'woke them with their howls, And scar'd them from their moss-grown caves, to rove Houseless and cold in dark tempestuous nights; Yet were not myriads in embattl'd fields Swept off at once, nor had the raging seas O'erwhelmed the found'ring bark and shrieking crew; In vain the glassy ocean smil'd to tempt The jolly sailor, unsuspecting harm, For commerce ne'er had spread her swelling sails, Nor had the wond'ring Nereids ever heard The dashing oar: then famine, want, and pine, Sunk to the grave their fainting limbs; but us, Diseaseful dainties, riot, and excess, And feverish luxury destroys. In brakes, Or marshes wild unknowingly they crop'd Herbs of malignant juice; to realms remote While we for powerful poisons madly roam, From every noxious herb collecting death. What tho' unknown to those primeval sires The well-arch'd dome, peopled with breathing forms By fair Italia's skillful hand, unknown The shapely column, and the crumbling busts Of awful ancestors in long descent? Yet why should man, mistaken, deem it nobler To dwell in palaces, and high roof'd halls, Than in God's forests, architect supreme! Say, is the Persian carpet, than the field's Or meadow's mantle gay, more richly wov'n; Or softer to the votaries of ease Than bladed grass, perfum'd with dew-drop'd flow'rs? O taste corrupt! that luxury and pomp In specious names of polish'd manners veil'd, Should proudly banish Nature's simple charms! All-beauteous Nature! by thy boundless charms Oppress'd, O where shall I begin thy praise, Where turn th' ecstatick eye, how ease my breast That pants with wild astonishment and love! Dark forests, and the opening lawn, refresh'd With ever-gushing brooks, hill, meadow, dale, The balmy bean-field, the gay-clover'd close, So sweetly interchang'd, the lowing ox, The playful lamb, the distant water-fall Now faintly heard, now swelling with the breeze, The sound of pastoral reed from hazel-bower, The choral birds, the neighing steed, that snuffs His dappled mate, stung with intense desire, The ripen'd orchard when the ruddy orbs Betwixt the green leaves blush, the azure skies, The cheerful sun that thro' earth's vitals pours Delight and health and heat; all, all conspire To raise, to soothe, to harmonize the mind, To lift on wings of praise, to the great sire Of being and beauty, at whose nod Creation started from the gloomy vault Of dreary Chaos, while the grisly king Murmur'd to feel his boisterous power confin'd. What are the lays of artful Addison, Coldly correct, to Shakespeare's warblings wild? Whom on the winding Avon's willow'd banks Fair fancy found, and bore the smiling babe To a close cavern: (still the shepherds shew The sacred place, whence with religious awe They hear, returning from the field at eve, Strange whisp'rings of sweet musick thro' the air) Here, as with honey gather'd from the rock, She fed the little prattler, and with songs Oft sooth'd his wondering ears, with deep delight On her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds. Oft near some crouded city would I walk, Listening the far-off noises, rattling cars, Loud shouts of joy, sad shrieks of sorrow, knells Full slowly tolling, instruments of trade, Striking mine ears with one deep-swelling hum. Or wand'ring near the sea, attend the sounds Of hollow winds, and ever-beating waves. Ev'n when wild tempests swallow up the plains, And Boreas' blasts, big hail, and rains combine To shake the groves and mountains, would I sit, Pensively musing on th' outrageous crimes That wake heav'n's vengeance: at such solemn hours, Daemons and goblins thro' the dark air shriek, While Hecat, with her black-brow'd sisters nine, Rides o'er the earth, and scatters woes and death. Then too, they say, in drear AEgyptian wilds The lion and the tiger prowl for prey With roarings aloud! the list'ning traveller Starts fear-struck, while the hollow-echoing vaults Of pyramids encrease the deathful sounds. But let me never fail in cloudless nights, When silent Cynthia in her silver car Thro' the blue concave slides, when shine the hills, Twinkle the streams, and woods look tip'd with gold, To seek some level mead, and there invoke Old Midnight's sister Contemplation sage (Queen of the rugged brow, and stern-fix'd eye) To lift my soul above this little earth, This folly-fetter'd world: to purge my ears, That I may hear the rolling planets' song, And tuneful turning spheres: if this be barr'd, The little Fayes that dance in neighbouring dales, Sipping the night-dew, while they laugh and love, Shall charm me with aerial notes. -- As thus I wander musing, lo, what awful forms Yonder appear! sharp-ey'd Philosophy Clad in dun robes, an eagle on his wrist, First meets my eye; next, virgin Solitude Serene, who blushes at each gazer's sight; Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch in hand, Trembling, and bent with age; last, Virtue's self, Smiling, in white array'd, who with her leads Sweet Innocence, that prattles by her side, A naked boy! -- Harass'd with fear, I stop, I gaze, when Virtue thus -- "Whoe'er thou art, Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld In these my midnight-walks; depart, and say That henceforth I and my immortal train Forsake Britannia's isle; who fondly stoops To Vice, her favourite paramour." -- She spoke, And as she turn'd, her round and rosy neck, Her flowing train, and long ambrosial hair, Breathing rich odours, I enamour'd view. O who will bear me then to western climes (Since Virtue leaves our wretched land), to fields Yet unpolluted with Iberian swords: To isles of innocence, from mortal view Deeply retir'd, beneath a plantane's shade, Where Happiness and Quiet sit enthron'd, With simple Indian swains, that I may hunt The boar and tiger thro' Savannah's wild, Thro' fragrant desarts and thro' citron-groves. There, fed on dates and herbs, would I despise The far-fetch'd cates of Luxury, and hoards Of narrow-hearted Avarice; nor heed The distant din of the tumultuous world. So when rude whirlwinds rouze the roaring main, Beneath fair Thetis sits, in coral caves, Serenely gay, nor sinking sailors' cries Disturb her sportive nymphs, who round her form The light fantastick dance, or for her hair Weave rosy crowns, or with according lutes Grace the soft warbles of her honied voice. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WANTS OF MAN by JOHN QUINCY ADAMS FIRST BOOK OF AIRS: 20. A HAPPY MARRIAGE by THOMAS CAMPION ODE AGAINST DESPAIR: LE SPLEEN by JOSEPH WARTON |
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