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of Richard Jago
Written for the Jubilee at Stratford-upon-Avon, 1769
Sisters of the tuneful train,
Attend your parent' s jocund strain,
'Tis Fancy calls you; follow me
To celebrate the Jubilee.
On Avon's banks, where Shakespeare's bust
Points out, and guards his sleeping dust;
The sons of scenic mirth agree,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
Come, daughters, come, and bring with you,
Th'aerial Sprites and Fairy-crew,
And the sister Graces three,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
Hang around the sculptur'd tomb
The 'broider'd vest, the nodding plume,
And the mask of comic glee,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
From Birnam Wood, and Bosworth Field,
Bring the standard, bring the shield,
With drums and martial symphony,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
In mournful numbers now relate
Poor Desdemona's hapless fate,
With frantic deeds of jealousy,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
Nor be Windsor's Wives forgot,
With their harmless merry plot,
The whitening mead, and haunted tree,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
Now in jocund strains recite
The humours of the braggard Knight,
Fat Knight, and ancient Pistol he,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
But see in crowds the Gay, the Fair,
To the splendid scene repair,
A scene as line as fine can be,
To celebrate the Jubilee.
With leaden foot Time creeps along,
While Delia is away,
With her, nor plaintive was the song,
Nor tedious was the day.
Ah! envious power! reverse my doom,
Now double thy career;
Strain every nerve, stretch every plume,
And rest them when she's here.
From Edge-Hill, Book III
Hail, Solihull! respectful I salute
Thy walls; more awful once! when, from the sweets
Of festive freedom and domestic ease,
With throbbing heart, to the stem discipline
Of pedagogue morose I sad return'd.
But though no more his brow severe, nor dread
Of birchen sceptre awes my riper age,
A sterner tyrant rises to my view,
With deadlier weapon arm'd. Ah, critic! spare,
Oh, spare the Muse, who feels her youthful fears
On thee transfer'd, and trembles at thy lash.
Against the venal tribe that prostitutes
The tuneful art, to soothe the villain's breast,
To blazon fools, or feed the pamper'd lust
Of bloated vanity; against the tribe
Which casts its wanton jests at holy truths,
Or clothes with virtue's garb th'accursed train
Of loathsome vices, lift thy vengeful arm,
And all thy just severity exert.
Enough to venial faults and hapless want
Of animated numbers, such as breathe
The soul of epic song, hath erst been paid
Within these walls, still stain'd with infant blood.
Yet may I not forget the pious care
Of love parental, anxious to improve
My youthful mind. Nor yet the debt disown
Due to severe restraint and rigid laws,
The wholesome curb of Passion's headstrong reign.
To them I owe, that e'er with painful toil
Through Priscian's crabbed rules, laborious task!
I held my course; till the dull tiresome road
Plac'd me on classic ground, that well repaid
The labours of the way.
Nor can the Muse, while she these scenes surveys,
Forget her Shenstone, in the youthful toil
Associate; whose bright dawn of genius oft
Smooth'd my incondite verse; whose friendly voice
Call'd me from giddy sports to follow him
Intent on better themes - call'd me to taste
The charms of British song, the pictured page
Admire, or mark his imitative skill;
Or with him range in solitary shades,
And scoop rude grottos in the shelving bank.
Such were the joys that cheer'd life's early morn;
Such the strong sympathy of soul, that knit
Our hearts congenial in sweet amity!
On Cherwell's banks, by kindred science nurs'd;
And well-matur'd in life's advancing stage,
When on Ardenna's plain we fondly stray'd,
With mutual trust and amicable thought;
Or in the social circle gaily join'd:
Or round his Leasowes' happy circuit rov'd;.
On hill and dale invoking every Muse,
Nor Tempo's shade, nor Aganippe's fount
Envied; so willingly the Dryads nurs'd
His groves; so liberally their crystal urns
The Naiads poured, enchanted with his spells;
And pleas'd to see their ever-flowing streams
Led by his hand, in many a mazy line
Or in the copious tide collected large,
Or tumbling from the rock in sportive falls,
Now from the lofty bank, precipitate;
And now, in gentler course, with murmurs soft
Soothing the ear! and now, in concert join'd,
Fall above fall, oblique and intricate,
Among the twisted roots. An I whilst I write,
In deeper murmur flows the saddening stream;
Wither the groves; and from the beauteous scene,
Its soft enchantments fly. No more for me
A charm it wears, since he, alas! is gone,
Whose genius plann'd it, and whose spirit grac'd.
Ah! hourly does the fatal doom, pronounc'd
Against rebellious sin, some social band
Dissolve, and leave a thousand friends to weep;
Soon such themselves, as those they now lament!
This mournful tribute to thy memory paid,
The Muse pursues her solitary way;
But heavily pursues, since thou art gone,
Whose counsel brighten'd, and whose friendship shar'd
The pleasing task
From Edge-Hill, Book I
Hail, beauteous Avon, hail! on whose fair banks
The smiling daisies, and their sister tribes,
Violets, and cuckoo-buds, and lady-smocks,
A brighter dye disclose, and proudly tell,
That Shakspeare, as he stray'd these meads along,
Their simple charms admir'd, and in his verse
Preserv'd, in never-fading bloom to live.
And thou, whose birth these walls unrival'd boast,
That mock' st the rules of the proud Stagyrite,
And learning's tedious toil hail, mighty bard!
Thou great magician, hail! Thy piercing thought
Unaided saw each movement of the mind,
As skilful artists view the small machine,
The secret springs and nice dependencies,
And to thy mimic scenes, by fancy wrought
To such a wondrous shape, th'impassion'd breast
In floods of grief or peals of laughter bow d,
Obedient to the wonder-working strain,
Like the tun'd string responsive to the touch,
Or to the wizard s charm, the passive storm
Humour and wit, the tragic pomp, or phrase
Familiar, flow'd spontaneous from thy tongue,
As flowers from Nature s lap. Thy potent spells
From their bright seats aerial sprites detain'd,
Or from their unseen haunts, and slumbering shades,
Awak'd the fairy tribes, with jocund step
The circled green and leafy hail to tread
While, from his dripping caves, old Avon sent
His willing Naiads to their harmless rout.
Page created 9 January 2000 and last
updated 28 October 2002
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