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- I HATE that drum's discordant sound,
- Parading round, and round, and round:
- To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
- And lures from cities and from fields,
- To sell their liberty for charms
- Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
- And when Ambition's voice commands,
- To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.
- I hate that drum's discordant sound,
- Parading round, and round, and round;
- To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
- And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
- And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
- And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
- And all that Misery's hand bestows,
- To fill the catalogue of human woes.
- John Scott of Amwell
- A Sonnet, 1766
- WHY asks my friend what cheers my passing day,
- Where these lone fields my rural home enclose,
- That all the pomp the crowded city shows
- Ne'er from that home allures my steps away?
- Now through the upland shade I musing stray,
- And catch the gale that o'er the woodbine blows;
- Now in the meads on river banks repose,
- And breathe rich odour from the new-mown hay:
- Now pleas'd I read the poet's lofty lay,
- Where music fraught with useful knowledge flows;
- Now Delia's converse makes the moments gay,
- The maid for love and innonence I chose:
- O friend! the man who joys like these can taste,
- On vice and folly needs no hour to waste.
- John Scott of Amwell
- To a Friend
- HOW steep yon mountains rise around,
- How bold yon gloomy woods ascend!
- How loud the rushing torrents sound
- That midst these heaps of ruin bend,
- Where one arch'd gateway yet remains,
- And one long aisle its roof retains,
- And one tall turret's walls impend!
- Here once a self-sequester'd train
- Renounc'd life's tempting pomp and glare;
- Rejected pow'r, relinquish'd gain,
- And shun'd the great, and shun'd the fair:
- The voluntary slaves of toil,
- By day they till'd their little soil,
- By night they woke, and rose to prayer.
- Though Superstition much we blame,
- That bade them thus consume their years;
- Their motive still our praise must claim,
- Their constancy our thought reveres:
- And sure their solitary scheme
- Must check each passion's wild extreme,
- And save them cares, and save them fears.
- Their convent's round contain'd their all;
- Their minds no sad presage oppress'd,
- What fate might absent wealth befall,
- How absent friends might be distress'd:
- Domestic ills ne'er hurt their ease;
- They nought of pain could feel from these,
- Who no domestic joys possess'd.
- But imperfection haunts each place:
- Would this kind calm atone to thee
- For Fame's or Fortune's sprightly chase,
- Whose prize in prospect still we see;
- Or Hymen's happy moments bless'd,
- With Beauty leaning on thy breast,
- Or childhood prattling at thy knee?
- John Scott of Amwell
- July 1757
- THREE hours from noon the passing shadow shows,
- The sultry breeze glides faintly o'er the plains,
- The dazzling ether fierce and fiercer grows,
- And human nature scarce its rage sustains.
- Now still and vacant is the dusty street,
- And still and vacant all yon fields extend,
- Save where those swains, oppress'd with toil and heat,
- The grassy harvest of the mead attend.
- Lost is the lively aspect of the ground,
- Low are the springs, the reedy ditches dry;
- No verdant spot in all the vale is found,
- Save what yon stream's unfailing stores supply.
- Where are the flow'rs, the garden's rich array?
- Where is their beauty, where their fragrance fled?
- Their stems relax, fast fall their leaves away,
- They fade and mingle with their dusty bed:
- All but the natives of the torrid zone,
- What Afric's wilds, or Peru's fields display,
- Pleas'd with a clime that imitates their own,
- They lovelier bloom beneath the parching ray.
- Where is wild Nature's heart-reviving song,
- That fill'd in genial spring the verdant bow'rs?
- Silent in gloomy woods the feather'd throng
- Pine through this long, long course of sultry hours.
- Where is the dream of bliss by summer brought?
- The walk along the riv'let-water'd vale?
- The field with verdure clad, with fragrance fraught?
- The Sun mild-beaming, and the fanning gale?
- The weary soul Imagination cheers,
- Her pleasing colours paint the future gay:
- Time passes on, the truth itself appears,
- The pleasing colours instant fade away.
- In diff'rent seasons diff'rent joys we place,
- And these will spring supply, and summer these;
- Yet frequent storms the bloom of spring deface,
- And summer scarcely brings a day to please.
- O from some secret shady cool recess,
- Some Gothic dome o'erhung with darksome trees,
- Where thick damp walls this raging heat repress,
- Where the long aisle invites the lazy breeze!
- But why these plaints?--reflect, nor murmur more--
- Far worse their fate in many a foreign land,
- The Indian tribes on Darien's swampy shore,
- The Arabs wand'ring over Mecca's sand.
- Far worse, alas! the feeling mind sustains,
- Rack'd with the poignant pangs of fear or shame;
- The hopeless lover bound in Beauty's chains,
- The bard whom Envy robs of hard-earn'd fame;
- He, who a father or a mother mourns,
- Or lovely consort lost in early bloom;
- He, whom fell Febris, rapid fury! burns,
- Or Phthisis slow leads ling'ring to the tomb--
- Lest man should sink beneath the present pain;
- Lest man should triumph in the present joy;
- For him th' unvarying laws of Heav'n ordain,
- Hope in his ills, and to his bliss alloy.
- Fierce and oppressive is the heat we bear,
- Yet not unuseful to our humid soil;
- Thence shall our fruits a richer flavour share,
- Thence shall our plains with riper harvests smile.
- Reflect, nor murmur more--for, good in all,
- Heav'n gives the due degrees of drought or rain;
- Perhaps ere morn refreshing show'rs may fall,
- Nor soon yon Sun rise blazing fierce again:
- Ev'n now behold the grateful change at hand!
- Hark, in the east loud blust'ring gales arise;
- Wide and more wide the dark'ning clouds expand,
- And distant lightnings flash along the skies!
- O, in the awful concert of the storm,
- While hail, and rain, and wind, and thunder join;
- May deep-felt gratitude my soul inform,
- May joyful songs of rev'rent praise be mine.
- John Scott of Amwell
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