Archive for March 14th, 2018

Wednesday, 14 March 2018

Autumn. An Imitation of Spenser by Moses Mendez

See jolly AUTUMN, clad in Hunter’s Green,
In wholesome lusty-hed doth mount the Sphere,
A leafy Girlond binds her Temples sheen,
Instudded richly with the spiky Ear.
Her right Hand bears a vine-incircl’d Spear,
Such as the Crew did wield whom Bacchus lad,
When to the Ganges he his Course did steer;
And in her left a Bugle-horn she had,
On which she eft did blow, and made the Heart right glad.

In slow Procession moves the tott’ring Wain,
The sun-burnt Hinds their finish’d Toil ensue;
Now in the Barn they house the glit’ring Grain,
And there the Cries of ‘harvest home’ renew,
The honest Farmer doth his Friends salew;
And them with Jugs of Ale his Wife doth treat,
Which, for that Purpose, she at Home did brew;
They laugh, they sport, and homely Jests repeat,
Then smack their Lasses lips, their Lips as Honey sweet.

On ev’ry Hill the purple-blushing Vine
Beneath her Leaves her racy Fruit doth hide.
Albe she pour not Floods of foaming Wine,
Yet are we not Potations bland deny’d;
See where the Pear-tree doth in Earth abide,
Bruise her rich Fruitage, and the Grape disdain;
The Apple too will grant a gen’rous Tyde,
To sing whose Honours Thenot rais’d his Strain,
Whose soul-inchanting Lays still charm the list’ning Plain.

Thro’ greyish Mists behold Aurora dawns,
And to his Sport the wary Fowler hies;
Crouching to Earth his guileful Pointer fawns,
Now the thick Stubble, now the Clover tries,
To find where, with his Race, the Partridge lies;
Ah! luckless Sire, ah! luckless Race, I ween,
Whom Force compels, or subtle Arts surprize;
More Uncles wait to cause thee dolorous Teen,
Doom’d to escape the Deep, and perish on the Green.

The full-mouth’d Hounds pursue the timorous Hare,
And the Hills eccho to the joyful Cry;
Ah! borrow the light Pennons of the Air,
If you’re arraught, you die, poor Wretch, you die.
Nought will avail the pity-pleading Eye,
For our good ‘Squire doth much against you rail,
And saith you often magic Arts do try;
At Times you wave Grimalkin’s sooty Tail,
Or on a Beesom vild you thro’ the Welkin sail.

The Stag is rous’d; he stems the threat’ning Flood
That shall ere long his matchless Swiftness quell;
And, to avoid the Tumult of the Wood,
Amongst his well-known Pheers attempts to mell:
With Horn and Hoof his Purpose they repell.
Thus, should a Maid from Virtue’s Lore ystray,
Your sex, my Daphne, show their Vengeance fell;
Your cruel selves with Gall the Shaft embay,
And lash from Pardon’s Shrine the Penitent away.

Now silence charms the Sages of the Gown,
To purer Air doth speed each crafty Wight;
The well-squeez’d Client quits the dusty Town,
Grown grey in the asserting of his Right,
With Head yfraught with Law, and Pockets light,
Well pleas’d he wanders o’er the fallow Lea,
And views each rural Object with Delight.
Ne’er be my Lot the brawling Courts to see;
Who trusts to Lawyer’s Tongue doth much misween, perdy.

Right bless’d the Man who free from bitter Bale,
Doth in the little, peaceful Hamlet dwell,
No loud Contention doth his Ears assail,
Save when the Tempest whistles o’er his Cell;
The Fruitful Down, the flow’r-depainted Dell,
To please his Eyne are variously array’d;
And when in Roundelay his Flame he’d tell,
He gains a Smile from his beloved Maid;
By such a gentle Smile, an Age of Pain’s repaid.


Date: 1751

By: Moses Mendez (c1690-1758)