THE VALETUDINARIAN. AN ODE. SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY DR. MARRIOTT. INHERITANCE of weak, but proud Mortality, Hence, Disease and pining Pain; With all your pale and ghastly train, Tossings dire, heart-piercing Moans, Sighs, and Tears, and hollow Groans, The harbingers of Death: Whether ye be The spawn of bloated Luxury, Or of the pestilential breath Of Eurus bred: or from the eastern clime: Hence! to your ancient seat, Where ebbing Nilus leaves his putrid slime, To Volga's banks retreat, Or to the Caspian, or Bengala's bay; From Britain's happy lands Haste to Arabian sands, While winds sulphureous burn, and urge your way: But, Goddess of the dimpled cheek, Whom the wanton Cupids seek, Come, fair Health, to grace the song, Bring the chearful Muse along; Bring laughing Youth, who looks behind; Love on Fancy's breast reclin'd; Wit, no poison'd dart who flings, Or but retorts when Envy stings. Come with antic Merriment, And the placid child Content; All with happy steps advance, Join the song, and lead the dance. Oft, O Goddess! let thy feet Visit this my lone retreat; Where my oak extends its pride Of twisted arms; and fit to ride Sublime on Neptune's swelling wave, Now the roaring winds doth brave; Where the vine's soft tendrils run, And swell to meet the southern sun: Where Contemplation, wont to stray, Winds thro' the wood her easy way, Or marks the lake, the field, or sky; The silent Angler's stedfast eye; The Gunner's aim: or Industry, Who, with his loud resounding blow, Lays the nodding forest low; Or teaches where to wind the stream; Or whistles to his labouring team: The meads which suck the dews of morn; Or uplands crown'd with golden corn, Richer than Iberia's mine: The bleating flocks; the lowing kine; The smoking cots, and pointed spires, The setting sun's reflecting fires; Woods dark waving in the dale; Rays which gleam; and clouds which sail; Shades and lights by turns contending; Gradual colours softly blending; All as Nature's pencil clear Marks the variegated year: These, O Goddess! these are thine; Offspring of immortal line; Who with mortals deign'st to dwell, In some low and rural cell: To haunt the brink of tinkling rills; The flowery vales, or sloping hills; And when the plowman turns the soil, To chear his song, and guide his toil. With vest succinct in Dian's train Oft art thou seen to brush the plain, While thy shrill horns sweet Echo rouse, Slumbering on the mountain's brows: Oft when Winter clouds the air, To the blazing hearth repair Thy social feet, where-e'er the bowl Of moderate Mirth unlocks the soul, When tales of time, and ancient fear Suspend the young astonish'd ear: Or carrols quaint in long-drawn note Swell the rustic's ample throat: Or where high lifted steps resound, When the peasant thumps the ground With aukward heel; and gives a fall To mistress of the rural ball: Or presses with his iron hand, And whirls her thro' the shouting band. Nor art thou wont with these to sport Alone: but where the Loves resort, With all the young and shining train Of Cytherea's golden reign, More elegant, to lead is thine The dance; which waves its easy line; Marks the graceful, and the strong; Where speech to which no words belong Makes love by actions never pain'd, All oppos'd, but nought constrain'd: Movements mixing, swift, and slow, And foot, ear, eye, together go. Thus flush'd with all thy native charms, My Delia spreads her winning arms, Uplisted soft, and seems to tread On yielding air, or ocean's bed: And, as she grants her modest hand, Damon's happy eyes demand, While mov'd by her he seems to live, The heart, which she half seems to gives If these delights, O Goddess! wait Ever on thy happy state, Best of blessings understood, Only source of mortal good; Hither, bright Hygeia, fly With rosy cheek, and sparkling eye, Such as thou dost oft appear When thy Heberden is near. Rich with Nature's genuine grace, Come, Goddess! to my warm embrace, Far from all I fear, or hate; From splendid life's delusive state, Smiles that stab, or that betray: Gloom of heart with visage gay; Splender canker'd with distress, Grandeur mix'd with littleness, Words of wind, and hopes of air, Clouds which threaten dark despair, Craft disloyal to his trust, Here High Birth licking low the dust, There upstart Meanness set astride The world, too narrow for his pride. Far from Trade's too busy seat, Of Loss and Gain the low deceit, Aukward Pomp, and Vanity, Who restless drive, and mount the sky, Proud of misus'd Liberty; While sordid Cunning, Passion blind, Ride on the gilded car behind. From Law's grimace, and mean chicane, Which rivets, when it seems the chain To loose; receives the golden shower, And offers hecatombs to Power. From language low, which vulgars prize, Creeping Arts which mean to rise; Labyrinths, which ever wind In the dark and double mind: From Profession's learned scene; Cant of words, which little mean: Physic, child of Luxury; Clok'd in shallow mystery: False Religion's forms, which bind The body to enslave the mind: Disputation's rage and trouble: Philosophic system's bubble: From War's parade; or Eloquence In senates, big with smooth pretence Of public good: from Envy mean, Who midst the liberal Arts is seen, Corrodes the page which Genius drew, And turns aside her sullen view, Each work of Merit pleas'd to blast, Then feeds upon herself at last. From these, immortal Goddess! fly, And bless thy humble votary. Give me Reason's lasting pleasure, Ease, but not ignoble leisure: Far be wild Ambition's fires, Hopeless Love, and fierce Desires. I ask not Fortune's glittering charms, The pride of courts, the spoils of arms; By silver stream, and haunted grove, O give my peaceful steps to rove: Beneath the shade of pendent hills, I'll listen to the falling rills, That chafe the pebble, as they stray; And haste, like human life, away: Then on the flowery carpet green I'll sit and trace the rural scene; While by the mimic pencil drawn The herds shall seem to crop the lawn; The piping swain, the distant towers, The moss-grown knotted oaks, and bowers, As bending to the whispering breeze, Some thatch'd cot rising 'mong the trees, In rude and artless lines design'd, Shall faintly mark the Master's mind. Or, if soft verse delight us more, O grant of verse the wonderous power Strong ideas to inspire; Words which paint, and sounds which fire; Which calls up shades of heroes bold, Whose virtues warm'd the times of old, Dressing the historic page With Terror, Pity, Love, and Rage; Or gives to Truth the tuneful art With moral song to mend the heart: Flow it easy, soft, and free, From ill-conceiv'd obscurity; Affectation's crowded plumes, All that strains, or that assumes; Nature may it e'er pursue, Describing, as we feel, the true: Her magic glass while Fancy brings, Which shews the fleeting form of things, Each fair assemblage knows to trace All that Nature hath of Grace; While Reason lends her sacred aid, And in the beautiful display'd, Sees with sound philosophy The reflected Deity. Thus on thro' Manhood, Youth, and Age, Nor stain'd with guilt, nor rough with rage, In smooth maeanders life shall glide, And roll a clear and peaceful tide.