Have Other Nations Got That Tempting Art? Poem by William Bosworth

To Mr. John Emely upon his Travells

Have other Nations got that tempting art?
Or Seas? (O thou the second of my heart)
To steal thee from us? shall thy presence plant
Those goods elsewhere, which Countrey thine doth want?
And chiefly me, who every winde abjure
That loudly roars, to make thy passage sure,
As much I blame the calms, for secret fear,
Though without cause, in all things will appear.
And now my thinks the Cantabrician flood,
With open jawes growes thirsty for thy blood,
Which if great Cælums off-spring doth appall
The calm I fear sits smiling at thy fall.
Or if Sicilian Seas thou furrowest o're,
Thy danger by Charibdis I deplore,
And Scilla's rock, whose bloody mouth doth lye
For thee, if more towards the North you flye.
If to Eoum, or to Indus arm,
Paropanisian rocks will do thee harm.
If on Propontis, or Tanais flood,
Tanai's and Hellespont are stain'd with blood.
What pleasure then allures thee to their coast?
In safest beds pleasure resideth most.
Nor Countrey can, nor other Nations give
More sweet content, than where thy Parents live.
What will it boot to view the snowy hills
Of Alpine high? whose fleecy moisture fills
The humble dales? or what will it prevail,
To hear th'exub'rance of a forrain tale?
What joy can it produce to hear the swains,
Leading their flocks along the Scythian plains,
T'accord their voices to the slender reeds
Of Amarillis praise? or what exceeds
With sweeter pleasure, and more bright doth shine
In other Countryes, than it doth in thine?
Now to Olimpian hills thou tak'st thy way,
Farr happier wouldst thou in our valleys stay,
And see thy Countrey Hero's sports prepare,
More pleasant than Olimpian pleasures are.
No service we to Nereus Altar vow,
Nor dread we Neptune, nor to Neptune bow,
But free from fear, in blushing mornings walk,
Through shady groves, to hear woods chanters talk
Ruddy Auroras praise, and with free mone,
To Eccho's only sigh our loves alone.
In Summer time we walk the flowry meads,
Where Flora o're her spotted Carpet leads
Our eyes, and gluts us with discoloured shows
Of Flowers, which on her am'rous bosome grows.
Then Zephirus with fair Nepenthe sents,
Comes stealing o're the flowers, and presents
Sweets odors to us, while by silver brook,
We sit, and cheat the Fishes with a hook.
And when the Meadows are disburthened
Of grasse, and with their withred Cocks are spred,
Then with our Nymphs and Ladies we resort,
Vnto those Cocks, and on, and o're them sport.
So Frisking Kidds their pleasures will display,
And with their loves in smiling Evenings play.
When going forwards with sweet tunes receiv'd
Our fingers in each others interweav'd,
We chat of love, and all the way we walke,
We make the boy the subject of our talk;
So sport we o're the Meads, till Hesper come,
Allur'd by our delights to light us home.
The night we pass in contemplations sweet,
(Contented thoughts makes sable night more fleet)
And in the morning (morning beautifi'd
With glorious Sol, who decks it with his pride)
We ride about the fields to recreate
Our o're-joy'd minds, minds never staind with hate.
Where fearfull hares before our Greyhounds flye,
A while they run, and run awhile they dy.
Then cast we off our nimble winged hawk,
Whose speedy flight all baser preys doth bawk,
And up, his envying strength doth manage well,
'Gainst him, who from Minervas turrets fell.
Now to her Altar we, whose golden hairs
Presents our corn, whole handfulls of our ears
Do bear, who smiling on her Altar, takes
Our Off'rings, and next fruitfull harvest makes.
When you Carpathean, and Aegæan Seas
With odors stain, their flatt'red God to please.
If palsie Hyems with his frozen head
Doth hide fair Ceres in his Icy bed,
With gins we snatch the silly birds; and snare
With our deceitfull toyls, the fearfull Hare.
And now Sydonian Bores with angry pace,
Through thick Stymphalian Woods our Hounds doe chase;
Who o're our steepy hills their way doe flye,
Where Countrey swains their speedy flight descry:
And with a hollow of rejoycing sounds,
Blown up, encourage our pursuing Hounds.
Retiting home, we praise, or discommend
Their long-maintained race, or hasty end.
When loggs of wood in spacious Chimneys laid
Of a consuming fire, a fire are made,
And we with our beloved wives declare,
Those sweet contents in Countrey pleasures are.
O might I taste those Marriage joyes, and tell
What pure delight in upright Love doth dwell.
And now to feast lov'd Christmas with delight,
Our neighbours to our suppers we invite;
Which past, and stools before the fier set,
All former wrath and wranglings we forget,
And while the Apples in the fiers rost,
Of kindnesse wee, and Countrey friendship boast,
Till with a Wassell, which our wives impart
With sugred hands, we close the night, and part.
These things thy nation yields us, and would prove
More blest, wouldst thou adorn her with thy love.
For if thou still depriv'st us of that light
Thy presence gives, and that intire delight,
By which thy Country smiles, she will decay
In fame, and her renown will fade away.
And I pursue thee o're Bononian Rhyne,
And to thee my dejected life confine.