The Sheep and the Bramble-Bush

A THICK-TWISTED brake, in the time of a storm,

Seem'd kindly to cover a sheep:

So snug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm,

It quietly sooth'd him asleep.

The clouds are now scatter'd--the winds are at peace,

The sheep to his pasture inclin'd;

But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,

Consider before you get in;

Tho' judgment and sentence are pass'd on your side,

By Jove, you'll be fleec'd to your skin.

John Cunningham

The Hawthorn Bower

       A Song

PALEMNON, in the hawthorn bower,

With fond impatience lay,

He counted every anxious hour

That stretch'd the tedious day.

The rosy dawn, Pastora nam'd,

And vow'd that she'd be kind;

But ah! the setting sun proclaim'd

That woman's vows are--wind.

The fickle sex, the boy defy'd!

And swore, in terms profane,

That beauty in her brightest pride

Might sue to him in vain.

When Delia from the neighb'ring glade

Appear'd in all her charms,

Each angry vow Palemon made

Was lost in Delia's arms.

The lovers had not long reclin'd

Before Pastora came;

"Inconstancy," she cry'd, "I find

In every heart's the same.

"For young Alexis sigh'd and press'd,

With such bewitching power,

I quite forgot the wishing guest

That waited in the bower."

John Cunningham

Content

       A Pastoral

O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,

As wilder'd and weary'd I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,

And leads me--o'er lawns--to her home,

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,

Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,

And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast:

Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me the best:

While, thrown from my guard by some glances she cast,

Love slily stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly reply'd,

(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)

I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd,

But take me, fond shepherd--I'm thine.

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek!

So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!

I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,

And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms!

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,

And if, by yon prattler, the stream,

Reclin'd on her bosom, I sink into sleep,

Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,

Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,

And point out new themes for my muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,

The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager, Peace, is well known for her fire,

And shepherds have nam'd her Content.

John Cunningham

A Landscape

Rura mihi et irrigui placeant in vallibus omnes.

                     --VIRGIL

NOW that summer's ripen'd bloom

Frolics where the winter frown'd,

Stretch'd upon these banks of broom,

We command the landscape round.

Nature in the prospect yields

Humble dales and mountains bold,

Meadows, woodlands, heaths--and fields

Yellow'd o'er with waving gold.

Goats upon that frowning steep

Fearless with their kidlings browse;

Here a flock of snowy sheep,

There an herd of motley cows.

On the uplands ev'ry glade

Brightens in the blaze of day;

O'er the vales the sober shade

Softens to an ev'ning gray.

Where the rill by slow degrees

Swells into a crystal pool,

Shaggy rocks and shelving trees

Shoot to keep the waters cool.

Shiver'd by a thunderstroke

From the mountain's misty ridge,

O'er the brook a ruin'd oak

Near the farmhouse forms a bridge.

On her breast the sunny beam

Glitters in meridian pride,

Yonder as the virgin stream

Hastens to the restless tide.

Where the ships by wanton gales

Waft'd o'er the green waves run,

Sweet to see their swelling sails

Whiten'd by the laughing sun.

High upon the daisy'd hill,

Rising from the slope of trees,

How the wings of yonder mill

Labour in the busy breeze!--

Cheerful as a summer's morn,

Bouncing from her loaded pad,

Where the maid presents her corn,

Smirking to the miller's lad.

O'er the green a festal throng

Gambols in fantastic trim

As the full cart moves along:

Hearken!--'tis the harvest hymn.

Linnets on the crowded sprays

Chorus--and the woodlarks rise,

Soaring with a song of praise

Till the sweet notes reach the skies.

Torrents in extended sheets

Down the cliffs dividing break;

'Twixt the hills the water meets,

Settling in a silver lake.

From his languid flocks the swain,

By the sunbeams sore opprest,

Plunging on the wat'ry plain,

Ploughs it with his glowing breast.

Where the mantling willows nod

From the green bank's slopy side,

Patient, with his well-thrown rod,

Many an angler breaks the tide.

On the isles, with osiers drest,

Many a fair-plum'd halcyon breeds;

Many a wild bird hides her nest,

Cover'd in yon crackling reeds.

Fork-tail'd prattlers, as they pass

To their nestlings in the rock,

Darting on the liquid glass,

Seem to kiss the mimic'd flock.

Where the stone cross lifts its head,

Many a saint and pilgrim hoar

Up the hill was wont to tread

Barefoot in the days of yore.

Guardian of a sacred well,

Arch'd beneath yon rev'rend shades,

Whilome in that shatter'd cell

Many a hermit told his beads.

Sultry mists surround the heath

Where the Gothic dome appears,

O'er the trembling groves beneath

Tott'ring with a load of years.

Turn to the contrasted scene,

Where, beyond these hoary piles,

Gay upon the rising green,

Many an Attic building smiles.

Painted gardens--grots--and groves,

Intermingling shade and light,

Lengthen'd vistas, green alcoves,

Join to give the eye delight.

Hamlets--villages, and spires,

Scatter'd on the landscape lie,

Till the distant view retires,

Closing in an azure sky.

John Cunningham