free-verse137 lines
Eclogue, Summer
by Thomas OldhamDAVID.
My task is done; no further will I mow;
I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow.
Well, Giles, what cheer? how far behind you lag!
Badly your practice answers to your brag.
GILES.
Deuce take the scythe! no wonder I am last;
The wonder is I work'd my way so fast;
Sure such another never yet was made;
It's maker must have been a duller blade;
The bungling fool, might I his fault chastise,
Should use it for a razor till he dies.
DAVID.
Ha, ha, well said, young jester; though bereft
Of strength and patience, yet your wit is left.
But come, good friend, to dinner let us go;
Tired are my limbs, my wasted spirits low.
GILES.
Poor David! age is weak, soon jaded out;
I feel, as when beginning, fresh and stout;
Your easy task is ended, therefore dine:
I scorn refreshment till I finish mine.
DAVID.
Then to yon grassy bank I will retreat,
Shaded by willows from the oppressive heat;
There may we dine, and seated all at ease,
Imbibe fresh vigour with the cooling breeze.
GILES.
Curse his old arms! so nimble and so strong;
How calmly did he seem to creep along!
While I for conquest strove with eager pain,
And labour'd, sweated, panted all in vain!
This awkward tool yet no defect I see
The ground uneven some cause must there be.
He the best mower? let it not be known;
No, crafty Giles, that secret is your own.
Fatigue, thirst, hunger, strongly urge me hence.
I'll e'en o'ertake him with some fair pretence.
DAVID.
Ha, ha, the foolish vanity of youth,
Such painful efforts to disguise the truth!
Who comes? what, Giles! so quickly change your mind?
Too wise, I thought, to tarry long behind.
GILES.
In one employment when good fellows meet,
They should together toil, together eat.
DAVID.
Here let us sit; against this trunk I'll lean,
You against that; the dinner placed between.
GILES.
Now rest we silent till our meal be done;
While in our ears sweet watery murmurs run.
DAVID.
Right! when the body feels recruited force,
More eloquently will the mind discourse.
GILES.
Now, David, I'll attempt a loftier strain;
Listen, and judge of my poetic vein.
See Phoebus his meridian height attains,
And, like a king, in all his splendour reigns;
Beneath his scorching radiance Nature lies
Feverish and faint; her beauteous verdure dies;
Oppress'd and panting with the sultry heat,
The flocks and herds to shades or streams retreat;
Through the still air no Zephyr dares to play, }
Lest his soft pinion melt in heat away; }
But if, to mitigate the solar ray, }
A lucid cloud should kindly intervene;
Then the glad Zephyrs sport beneath the grateful screen.
DAVID.
How beautiful the thoughts! and how sublime!
Rich is the language, and exact the rhyme.
Inform me, friend, are those fine strains your own?
They rise superior to the rustic tone.
GILES.
Why not be mine? does then the gift of song
To wealth and rank exclusively belong?
Fancy with choice unbribed her few selects,
Nor affluence, nor exalted birth respects;
The kingly mansion she will oft forsake,
Pleased with the shepherd her abode to make:
With me the kind Enchantress long has dwelt;
Long has my soul her inspirations felt.
DAVID.
I once the feelings of a poet knew;
(Though in my best of days no match for you,)
But now my genius yields to conquering time;
Yet still I keep my judgment and my rhyme;
Then what that judgment dictates I declare:
No tuneful shepherd can with you compare;
Although in many a county I have been,
And many a rural poet I have seen.
GILES.
O cease your high applauses, kindest friend!
For sure my merit they must far transcend.
How different men in different ways excel!
My forte is rhyming, your's is mowing well;
And while to me you deign in song to yield,
You bear the scythe triumphant through the field.
DAVID.
That only Youth, whose sweetly-flowing lays,
Resembling your's, deserve the second praise,
Dwelt near this place or memory I lack
Yes! now I recollect five summers back,
When to these parts for harvest-work I came,
How all the fields resounded with his fame.
The Bard I ne'er beheld; but heard the swains
Still, with delight, repeat his peerless strains:
Not less by Fortune, than the Muses, blest,
No cares of life disturb'd his peaceful breast;
For poesy alone his happy soul possest.
Did you not know that youth?
GILES.
Full well I knew;
Nor is he, David, quite unknown to you;
That Youth am I! (with what surprize you gaze!)
Then was I blest indeed with golden days;
My parents' only child, at home I dwelt,
Indulged, caress'd, nor cares, nor wishes felt:
How did they joy my verses to peruse!
How praise each effort of my lisping Muse!
Then sweetly glided on the stream of time;
I tended flocks, or meditated rhyme.
Alas! my friend, those blissful hours are o'er,
My then-propitious stars now rule no more.
Long has my Father slept among the dead:
With his last breath my joys, my hopes all fled.
The wealth he left, which might our woes have eased,
His greedy creditors unpitying seized:
My Mother and myself (our sole resource)
For livelihood to labour took recourse.
DAVID.
Affecting tale! I've heard it with a tear.
GILES.
No longer sit we idly chatting here;
The village clock has struck; come, let us up!
To-night, friend David, we'll together sup.