The beauties of English poesy: Selected by Oliver Goldsmith. In two volumes. ... [pt.1]

AN EPISTLE, FROM Mr. PHILIPS to the Earl of DORSET.

The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.

FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams that northern winds forbid to flow; What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects that to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flow'ry plains, and silver streaming floods, By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie, And, with one dazzling waste, fatigue the eye. No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desart region sing. The ships, unmov'd, the boist'rous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day, The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy vallies howl.

For many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: There solid billows, of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen, e'en here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds begun thro' hazy skies to blow, At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose; And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes: For ev'ry shrub, and every blade of grass, And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass, In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While thro' the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds the wat'ry marshes yield, Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field. The stag, in limpid currents, with surprize, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise. The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing aether shine. The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, That wave and glitter in the distant sun. When, if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies: The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, And in a spangled show'r the prospect ends;

Or, if a southern gale the region warm, And, by degrees, unbind the wintry charm, The traveller a miry country sees, And journies sad beneath the dropping trees. Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads; While here enchanted gardens to him rise, And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, His wondring feet the magic paths pursue; And, while he thinks the fair illusion true, The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear: A tedious road the weary wretch returns, And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.