The Enthusiast, or The Lover of Nature
by Joseph Warton
Ye green-rob’d Dryads,oft’ at dusky Eve
By wondering Shepherds seen, to Forests brown,
To unfrequented Meads, and pathless Wilds,
Lead me from Gardens deckt with Art’s vain Pomps.
Can gilt Alcoves, can Marble-mimic Gods,
Parterres embroider’d, Obelisks, and Urns
Of high Relief; can the long, spreading Lake,
Or Vista lessening to the Sight; can Stow
With all her Attic Fanes, such Raptures raise,
As the Thrush-haunted Copse, where lightly leaps
The fearful Fawn the rustling Leaves along,
And the brisk Squirrel sports from Bough to Bough,
While from an hollow Oak the busy Bees
Hum drowsy Lullabies? The Bards of old,
Fair Nature’s Friends, sought such Retreats, to charm
Sweet Echo with their Songs; oft’ too they met,
In Summer Evenings, near sequester’d Bow’rs,
Or Mountain-Nymph, or Muse, and eager learnt
The moral Strains she taught to mend Mankind.
As to a secret Grot Aegeria stole
With Patriot Numa, and in silent Night
Whisper’d him sacred Laws, he list’ning sat
Rapt with her virtuous Voice, old Tyber leant
Attentive on his Urn, and husht his Waves.
Rich in her weeping Country’s Spoils Versailles
May boast a thousand Fountains, that can cast
The tortur’d Waters to the distant Heav’ns;
Yet let me choose some Pine-topt Precipice
Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy Stream,
Like Anio, tumbling roars; or some bleak Heath,
Where straggling stand the mournful Juniper,
Or Yew-tree scath’d; while in clear Prospect round,
From the Grove’s Bosom Spires emerge, and Smoak
In bluish Wreaths ascends, ripe Harvests wave,
Herds low, and Straw-rooft Cotts appear, and Streams
Beneath the Sun-beams twinkle—The shrill Lark,
That wakes the Wood-man to his early Task,
Or love-sick Philomel, whose luscious Lays
Sooth lone Night-wanderers, the moaning Dove
Pitied by listening Milkmaid, far excell
The deep-mouth’d Viol, the Soul-lulling Lute,
And Battle-breathing Trumpet. Artful Sounds!
That please not like the Choristers of Air,
When first they hail th’ Approach of laughing May.
Creative Titian, can thy vivid Strokes,
Or thine, O graceful Raphael, dare to vie
With the rich Tints that paint the breathing Mead?
The thousand-colour’d Tulip, Violet’s Bell
Snow-clad and meek, the Vermil-tinctur’d Rose,
And golden Crocus?—Yet with these the Maid,
Phillis or Phoebe, at a Feast or Wake,
Her jetty Locks enamels; fairer she,
In Innocence and home-spun Vestments drest,
Than if coerulean Sapphires at her Ears
Shone pendant, or a precious Diamond-Cross
Heav’d gently on her panting Bosom white.
Yon’ Shepherd idly stretcht on the rude Rock,
Listening to dashing Waves, and Sea-Mews Clang
High-hovering o’er his Head, who views beneath
The Dolphin dancing o’er the level Brine,
Feels more true Bliss than the proud Ammiral,
Amid his Vessels bright with burnish’d Gold
And silken Streamers, tho’ his lordly Nod
Ten thousand War-worn Mariners revere.
And great Aeneas gaz’d with more Delight
On the rough Mountain shagg’d with horrid Shades,
(Where Cloud-compelling Jove, as Fancy dream’d,
Descending shook his direful Aegis black)
Than if he enter’d the high Capitol
On golden Columns rear’d, a conquer’d World
Contributing to deck its stately Head:
More pleas’d he slept in poor Evander‘s Cott
On shaggy Skins, lull’d by sweet Nightingales,
Than if a Nero, in an Age refin’d,
Beneath a gorgeous Canopy had plac’d
His royal Guest, and bade his Minstrels sound
Soft slumb’rous Lydian Airs to sooth his Rest.
Happy the first of Men, ere yet confin’d
To smoaky Cities; who in sheltering Groves,
Warm Caves, and deep-sunk Vallies liv’d and lov’d,
By Cares unwounded; what the Sun and Showers,
And genial Earth untillag’d could produce,
They gather’d grateful, or the Acorn brown,
Or blushing Berry; by the liquid Lapse
Of murm’ring Waters call’d to slake their Thirst,
Or with fair Nymphs their Sun-brown Limbs to bathe;
With Nymphs who fondly clasp’d their fav’rite Youths,
Unaw’d by Shame, beneath the Beechen Shade,
Nor Wiles, nor artificial Coyness knew.
Then Doors and Walls were not; the melting Maid
Nor Frowns of Parents fear’d, nor Husband’s Threats;
Nor had curs’d Gold their tender Hearts allur’d;
Then Beauty was not venal. Injur’d Love,
O whither, God of Raptures, art thou fled?
While Avarice waves his golden Wand around,
Abhorr’d Magician, and his costly Cup
Prepares with baneful Drugs, t’enchant the Souls
Of each low-thoughted Fair to wed for Gain.What tho’ unknown to those primaeval Sires,The well-arch’d Dome, peopled with breathing FormsBy fair Italia‘s skilful Hand, unknownThe shapely Column, and the crumbling Busts
Of awful Ancestors in long Descent?Yet why should Man mistaken deem it noblerTo dwell in Palaces, and high-rooft Halls,Than in God’s Forests, Architect supreme!Say, is the Persian Carpet, than the Field’sOr Meadow’s Mantle gay, more richly wov’n;Or softer to the Votaries of Ease,Than bladed Grass, perfum’d with dew-dropt Flow’rs?O Taste corrupt! that Luxury and PompIn specious Names of polish’d Manners veil’d,Should proudly banish Nature’s simple Charms.Tho’ the fierce North oft smote with Iron WhipTheir shiv’ring Limbs, tho’ oft the bristly BoarOr hungry Lion ‘woke them with their Howls,And scar’d them from their Moss-grown Caves to rove,Houseless and cold in dark, tempestuous Nights;Yet were not Myriads in embattled FieldsSwept off at once, nor had the raving SeasO’erwhelm’d the foundering Bark, and helpless Crew;In vain the glassy Ocean smil’d to temptThe jolly Sailor, unsuspecting Harm,For Commerce was unknown. Then Want and PineSunk to the Grave their fainting Limbs; but UsExcess and endless Riot doom to die.They cropt the poisonous Herb unweetingly,But wiser we spontaneously provideRare powerful Roots, to quench Life’s chearful Lamp.What are the Lays of artful Addison,Coldly correct, to Shakespear‘s Warblings wild?Whom on the winding Avon‘s willow’d BanksFair Fancy found, and bore the smiling BabeTo a close Cavern: (still the Shepherds shewThe sacred Place, whence with religious AweThey hear, returning from the Field at Eve,Strange Whisperings of sweet Music thro’ the Air)Here, as with Honey gather’d from the Rock,She fed the little Prattler, and with SongsOft’ sooth’d his wondering Ears, with deep DelightOn her soft Lap he sat, and caught the Sounds.Oft’ near some crowded City would I walk,Listening the far-off Noises, rattling Carrs,Loud Shouts of Joy, sad Shrieks of Sorrow, KnellsFull slowly tolling, Instruments of Trade,Striking mine Ears with one deep-swelling Hum.Or wandering near the Sea, attend the SoundsOf hollow Winds, and ever-beating Waves.Ev’n when wild Tempests swallow up the Plains,And Boreas’ Blasts, big Hail, and Rains combineTo shake the Groves and Mountains, would I sit,Pensively musing on th’ outragious CrimesThat wake Heav’n’s Vengeance: at such solemn Hours,Daemons and Goblins thro’ the dark Air shriek,While Hecat with her black-brow’d Sisters nine,Rides o’er the Earth, and scatters Woes and Deaths.Then too, they say, in drear Aegyptian WildsThe Lion and the Tiger prowl for PreyWith Roarings loud! the list’ning TravellerStarts Fear-struck, while the hollow-echoing VaultsOf Pyramids encrease the deathful Sounds.But let me never fail in cloudless Nights,When silent Cynthia in her silver CarThro’ the blue Concave slides, when shine the Hills,Twinkle the Streams, and Woods look tipt with Gold,To seek some level Mead, and there invokeOld Midnight’s Sister Contemplation sage,(Queen of the rugged Brow, and stern-fixt Eye)To lift my Soul above this little Earth,This Folly-fetter’d World; to purge my Ears,That I may hear the rolling Planets Song,And tuneful-turning Spheres: If this debarr’d,The little Fayes that dance in neighbouring Dales,Sipping the Night-dew, while they laugh and love,Shall charm me with aërial Notes.—As thusI wander musing, lo, what awful FormsYonder appear! sharp-ey’d PhilosophyClad in dun Robes, an Eagle on his Wrist,First meets my Eye; next, Virgin SolitudeSerene, who blushes at each Gazer’s Sight;Then Wisdom‘s hoary Head, with Crutch in Hand,Trembling, and bent with Age; last Virtue‘s selfSmiling, in White array’d, who with her leadsFair Innocence, that prattles by her Side,A naked Boy!—Harrass’d with Fear I stop,I gaze, when Virtue thus—’Whoe’er thou art,‘ Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld,‘ In these my Midnight-Walks; depart, and say‘ That henceforth I and my immortal Train‘ Forsake Britannia‘s Isle; who fondly stoops‘ To Vice, her favourite Paramour.’—She spoke,And as she turn’d, her round and rosy Neck,Her flowing Train, and long, ambrosial Hair,Breathing rich Odours, I enamour’d view.
O who will bear me then to Western Climes,(Since Virtue leaves our wretched Land) to ShadesYet unpolluted with Iberian Swords;With simple Indian Swains, that I may huntThe Boar and Tiger thro’ Savannah‘s wild?There fed on Dates and Herbs, would I despiseThe far-fetch’d Cates of Luxury, and HoardsOf narrow-hearted Avarice; nor heedThe distant Din of the tumultuous World.So when rude Whirlwinds rouze the roaring Main,Beneath fair Thetis sits, in coral Caves,Serenely gay, nor sinking Sailors CriesDisturb her sportive Nymphs, who round her formThe light fantastic Dance, or for her HairWeave rosy Crowns, or with according LutesGrace the soft Warbles of her honied Voice.
About the Author:
Joseph Warton (April 1722 – 23 February 1800) was an English literary critic.