Hymn to the Naiads. MDCCXLVI

O'er yonder eastern hill the Twilight pale Walks forth from darkness, and the god of Day With bright Astraea seated by his side Waits yet to leave the ocean. Tarry, Nymphs! Ye Nymphs! ye blueey'd progeny of Thames! Who now the mazes of this rugged heath Trace with your fleeting steps, who all night long Repeat amid the cool and tranquil air Your lonely murmurs, tarry, and receive My offer'd lay. To pay you homage due I leave the gates of Sleep; nor shall my lyre Too far into the splendid hours of Morn Engage your audience; my observant hand Shall close the strain ere any sultry beam Approach you: to your subterranean haunts Ye then may timely steal, to pace with care The humid sands, to loosen from the soil The bubbling sources, to direct the rills To meet in wider channels, or beneath Some grotto's dripping arch at height of noon To slumber, shelter'd from the burning heav'n.

Where shall my song begin ye Nymphs! or end? Wide is your praise and copious.—First of things, First of the lonely pow'rs, ere Time arose, Were Love and Chaos; Love the fire of Fate, Elder than Chaos. Born of Fate was Time, Who many sons and many comely births Devour'd, relentless Father! till the child Of Rhea drove him from the upper sky, And quell'd his deadly might. Then social reign'd The kindred pow'rs Tethys and rev'rend Ops, And spotless Vesta, while supreme of sway Remain'd the Cloudcompeller. From the couch Of Tethys sprang the sedgy-crowned race Who from a thousand urns o'er ev'ry clime Send tribute to their parent; and from them Are ye O Naiads! Arethusa fair, And tuneful Aganippe, that sweet name Bandusia, that soft family which dwelt With Syrian Daphne, and the honour'd tribes Belov'd of Paeon. Listen to my strain Daughters of Tethys! listen to your praise.

You Nymphs! the winged offspring which of old Aurora to divine Astraeus bore Owns, and your aid beseecheth. When the might Of Hyperion from his noontide throne Unbends their languid pinions aid from you They ask; Favonius and the mild Southwest From you relief implore: your sallying streams Fresh vigour to their weary wings impart; Again they fly disporting from the mead Half ripen'd and the tender blades of corn To sweep the noxious mildew, or dispel Contagious steams, which oft' the parched earth Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve Along the river and the paved brook Ascend the cheerful breezes, hail'd of bards Who fast by learned Cam th' Aeolian lyre Solicit, nor unwelcome to the youth Who on the heights of Tibur all inclin'd Or rushing Anio, with a pious hand The rev'rend scene delineates, broken fanes Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp Of ancient Time, and haply while he scans The ruins with a silent tear revolves The fame and fortune of imperious Rome.

You too O Nymphs! and your unenvious aid, The rural pow'rs confess, and still prepare For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands Oft' as the Delian king with Sirius holds The central heav'ns, the Father of the Grove Commands, his Dryads over your abodes To spread their deepest umbrage. Well the god Rememb'reth how indulgent ye supply'd Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime.

Pales, the Pasture's queen, where'er ye stray Pursues your steps delighted, and the path With living verdure clothes. Around your haunts The laughing Chloris with profusest hand Throws wide her blooms, her odours. Still with you Pomona seeks to dwell; and o'er the lawns And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thames Ye love to wander, Amalthea pours Wellpleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian horn, Her dow'r, unmindful of the fragrant isles Nysaean or Atlantick. Nor canst thou, (Albeit oft' ungrateful thou dost mock The bev'rage of the sober Naiad's urn, O Bromius! O Lenaean!) nor canst thou Disown the pow'rs whose bounty ill repaid With nectar feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me, Yet, blameless Nymphs! from my delighted lyre, Accept the rites your bounty well may claim, Nor heed the scoffings of th' Edonian band.

For better praise awaits you. Thames your sire, As down the verdant slope your duteous rills Descend, the tribute stately Thames receives Delighted, and your piety applauds, And bids his copious tide roll on secure, For faithful are his daughters, and with words Auspicious gratulates the bark which now His banks forsaking her advent'rous wings Yields to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts Extremest isles to bless. And oft' at morn, When Hermes from Olympus bent o'er earth To bear the words of Jove on yonder hill Stoops lightly sailing, oft' intent your springs He views, and waving o'er some newborn stream His blest pacifick wand, "And yet," he cries, "Yet," cries the son of Maia, "tho' recluse "And silent be your stores from you, fair Nymphs! "Flows wealth and kind society to men; "By you my function and my honour'd name "Do I possess while o'er the Boetick vale, "Or thro' the tow'rs of Memphis or the palms "By sacred Ganges water'd, I conduct "The English merchant, with the buxom fleece "Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe "Sarmatian kings, or to the household gods "Of Syria from the bleak Cornubian shore "Dispense the min'ral treasure which of old "Sidonian pilots sought, when this fair land "Was yet unconscious of those gen'rous arts "Which wise Phoenicia from their native clime "Transplanted to a more indulgent heav'n."

Such are the words of Hermes, such the praise O Naiads! which from tongues celestial waits Your bounteous deeds. From bounty iffueth pow'r, And those who sedulous in prudent works Relieve the wants of Nature Jove repays With noble wealth; and his own seat on earth, Fit judgments to pronounce and curb the might Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns Not vainly to the hospitable arts Of Hermes yield their store; for O ye Nymphs! Hath he not won th' unconquerable queen Of Arms to court your friendship? You she owns The fair associates who extend her sway Wide o'er the mighty deep, and grateful things Of you she uttereth oft' as from the shore Of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green banks Of Vecta, she her thund'ring navy leads To Calpe's foaming channel or the rough Cantabrian surge, her auspices divine Imparting to the senate and the prince Of Albion to dismay barbarick kings, Th' Iberian or the Celt. The pride of kings Was ever scorn'd by Pallas, and of old Rejoic'd the virgin from the brazen prow Of Athens o'er Aegina's gloomy surge To drive her clouds and storms, o'erwhelming all The Persian's promis'd glory, when the realms Of Indus and the soft Ionian clime, When Libya's torrid champain, and the rocks Of cold Imaus, join'd their servile bands To sweep the sons of Liberty from earth. In vain! Minerva on the bounding prow Of Athens stood, and with the thunder's voice Denounc'd her terrours on their impious heads, And shook her burning egis. Xerxes saw; From Heracleum on the mountain's height Thron'd in his golden car he knew the sign Celestial, felt unrighteous hope forsake His falt'ring heart, and turn'd his face with shame.

Hail! ye who share the stern Minerva's pow'r, Who arm the hand of Liberty for war, And give to the renown'd Britannick name To awe contending monarchs, yet benign, Yet mild of nature, to the works of peace More prone, and lenient of the many ills Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid Hygeia well can witness, she who saves From pois'nous cates and cups of pleasing bane The wretch devoted to th' entangling snares Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him she leads To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To spread the toils, To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn At dawn of day to summon the loud hounds, She calls the ling'ring sluggard from his dreams, And where his breast may drink the mountain breeze, And where the fervour of the sunny vale May beat upon his brow, thro' devious paths Beckons his rapid courser. Nor when ease, Cool ease and welcome slumbers, have becalm'd His eager bosom, does the queen of Health Her pleasing care withhold. His decent board She guards presiding, and the frugal pow'rs With joy sedate leads in, and while the brown Ennaean dame with Pan presents her stores, While changing still and comely in the change Vertumnus and the Hours before him spread The garden's banquet, you to crown his feast, To crown his feast O Naiads! you the fair Hygeia calls; and from your shelving seats And groves of poplar plenteous cups ye bring To slake his veins, till soon a purer tide Flows down those loaded channels, washeth off The dregs of luxury, the lurking seeds Of crude disease, and thro' th' abodes of life Sends vigour, sends repose. Hail, Naiads! hail, Who give to Labour health, to stooping Age The joys which Youth had squander'd: oft' your urns Will I invoke, and frequent in your praise Abash the frantick thyrsus with my song.

For not estrang'd from your benignant arts Is he the god to whose mysterious shrine My youth was sacred and my votive cares Belong, the learned Paeon. Oft' when all His cordial treasures he hath search'd in vain, When herbs and potent trees, and drops of balm Rich with the genial influence of the sun (To rouse dark Fancy from her plaintive dreams, To brace the nerveless arm, with food to win Sick appetite, or hush the unquiet breast Which pines with silent passion) he in vain Hath prov'd, to your deep mansions he descends; Your gares of humid rock, your dim arcades, He ent'reth, where impurpled veins of ore Gleam on the roof, where thro' the rigid mine Your trickling rills insinuate: there the god From your indulgent hands the streaming bowl Wafts to his paleey'd suppliants, wafts the seeds Metallick, and the elemental salts Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. Theydrink, and soon Flies pain, flies inauspicious care, and soon The social haunt or unfrequented shade Hears Io, Io Paean! as of old When Python fell. And O propitious Nymphs! Oft' as for hapless mortals I implore Your salutary springs, thro' ev'ry urn Oh shed your healing treasures! with the first And finest breath which from the genial strife Of min'ral fermentation springs, like light O'er the fresh morning's vapours, lustrate then The fountain, and inform the rising wave!

My lyre shall pay your bounty: scorn not ye That humble tribute. Tho' a mortal hand Excite the strings to utt'rance, yet for themes Not unregarded of celestial pow'rs I frame their language, and the Muses deign To guide the pious tenour of my lay. The Muses (sacred by their gifts divine) In early days did to my wond'ring sense Their secrets oft' reveal; oft' my rais'd ear In slumber selt their musick; oft' at noon Or hour of sunset by some lonely stream, In field or shady grove, they taught me words Of pow'r from death and envy to preserve The good man's name; whence yet with gratefulmind And off'rings unprofan'd by ruder eye My vows I send, my homage, to the seats Of rocky Cirrha where with you they dwell, Where you their chaste campanious they admit Thro' all the hallow'd scene, where oft' intent And leaning o'er Castalia's mossy verge They mark the cadence of your confluent urns How tuneful, yielding gratefullest repose To their consorted measure, till again With emulation all the sounding choir, And bright Apollo leader of the song, Their voices thro' the liquid air exalt, And sweep their lofty strings; those pow'rful strings That charm the mind of gods, that fill the courts Of wide Olympus with oblivion sweet Of evils, with immortal rest from cares, Assuage the terrours of the throne of Jove, And quench the formidable thunderbolt Of unrelenting fire. With slacken'd wings While now the solemn concert breathes around Incumbent o'er the sceptre of his lord Sleeps the stern eagle, by the number'd notes Possess'd, and satiate with the melting tone, Sov'reign of birds! The furious god of War His darts forgetting and the winged wheels That bear him vengeful o'er th' embattled plain, Relents and sooths his own fierce heart to ease, Most welcome ease. The fire of gods and men In that great moment of divine delight Looks down on all that live, and whatsoe'er He loves not o'er the peopled earth and o'er Th' interminated ocean he beholds Curs'd with abhorrence by his doom severe, And troubled at the sound. Ye Naiads! ye With ravish'd ears the melody attend Worthy of sacred silence, but the slaves Of Bacchus with tempest'ous clamours strive To drown the heav'nly strains, of highest Jove Irrev'rent, and by mad presumption fir'd Their own discordant raptures to advance With hostile emulation. Down they rush From Nysa's vine-impurpled cliff the dames Of Thrace, the Satyrs, and th' unruly Fauns, With old Silenus reeling thro' the crowd Which gambols round him, in convulsions wild Tossing their limbs, and brandishing in air The ivy-mantled thyrsus, or the torch Thro' black smoke flaming, to the Phrygian pipe's Shrill voice, and to the clashing cymbals, mix'd With shrieks and frantick uproar. May the gods From ev'ry unpolluted ear avert Their orgies! If within the seats of men, Within the walls, the gates, where Pallas holds The guardian key, if haply there be found Who loves to mingle with the revel band And hearken to their accents, who aspires From such instructers to inform his breast With verse, let him, fit votarist! implore Their inspiration. He perchance the gifts Of young Lyaeus and the dread exploits May sing in aptest numbers; he the fate Of sober Pentheus, he the Paphian rites, And naked Mars with Cytherea chain'd, And strong Alcides in the spinster's robes, May celebrate applauded; but with you O Naiads! far from that unhallow'd rout Must dwell the man whoe'er to praised themes Invokes th' immortal Muse. Th' immortal Muse To your calm habitations, to the cave Corycian or the Delphick mount, will guide His footsteps, and with your unsully'd streams His lips will bathe, whether th' eternal lore Of Themis or the majesty of Jove To mortals he reveal, or teach his lyre Th' unenvy'd guerdon of the patriot's toils, In those unfading islands of the blest Where sacred bards abide. Hail! honour'd Nymphs! Thrice hail! for you the Cyrenaick shell Behold I touch revering: to my songs Be present ye with favourable feet, And all profaner audience far remove.