Poems By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes |
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| ELEGIAC PIECES. |
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164
ELEGIAC PIECES.
THE ELEGIES OF TYRTÆUS.
ELEGY THE FIRST.
I would not value, or transmit the fame
Of him, whose brightest worth in swiftness lies;
Nor would I chaunt his poor unwarlike name
Who wins no chaplet but the wrestler's prize.
Of him, whose brightest worth in swiftness lies;
Nor would I chaunt his poor unwarlike name
Who wins no chaplet but the wrestler's prize.
165
In vain, for me, the Cyclops' giant might
Blends with the beauties of Tithonus' form;
In vain the racer's agile powers unite,
Fleet as the whirlwind of the Thracian storm.
Blends with the beauties of Tithonus' form;
In vain the racer's agile powers unite,
Fleet as the whirlwind of the Thracian storm.
In vain, for me, the riches round him glow
A Midas or a Cinyras possess'd;
Sweet as Adrastus' tongue his accents flow,
Or Pelops' sceptre seems to stamp him blest.
A Midas or a Cinyras possess'd;
Sweet as Adrastus' tongue his accents flow,
Or Pelops' sceptre seems to stamp him blest.
Vain all the dastard honours he may boast,
If his soul thirst not for the martial field;
Meet not the fury of the rushing host,
Nor bear o'er hills of slain the untrembling shield.
If his soul thirst not for the martial field;
Meet not the fury of the rushing host,
Nor bear o'er hills of slain the untrembling shield.
166
This—this is virtue: This—the noblest meed
That can adorn our youth with fadeless rays;
While all the perils of the adventurous deed,
The new-strung vigour of the state repays.
That can adorn our youth with fadeless rays;
While all the perils of the adventurous deed,
The new-strung vigour of the state repays.
Amid the foremost of the embattled train,
Lo the young hero hails the glowing fight;
And, tho' fall'n troops around him press the plain,
Still fronts the foe, nor brooks inglorious flight.
Lo the young hero hails the glowing fight;
And, tho' fall'n troops around him press the plain,
Still fronts the foe, nor brooks inglorious flight.
His life—his fervid soul oppos'd to death,
He dares the terrours of the field defy;
Kindles each spirit with his panting breath,
And bids his comrade-warriours nobly die!
He dares the terrours of the field defy;
Kindles each spirit with his panting breath,
And bids his comrade-warriours nobly die!
See, see, dismay'd, the phalanx of the foe
Turns round, and hurries o'er the plain afar;
While doubling, as afresh, the deadly blow,
He rules, intrepid chief, the waves of war.
Turns round, and hurries o'er the plain afar;
While doubling, as afresh, the deadly blow,
He rules, intrepid chief, the waves of war.
167
Now fall'n, the noblest of the van, he dies,
His city by the beauteous death renown'd;
His low-bent father marking, where he lies,
The shield, the breast-plate hackt by many a wound.
His city by the beauteous death renown'd;
His low-bent father marking, where he lies,
The shield, the breast-plate hackt by many a wound.
168
The young, the aged, alike mingling tears—
His country's heavy grief bedews the grave;
And all his race in verdant lustre wears
Fame's richest wreath, transmitted from the brave.
His country's heavy grief bedews the grave;
And all his race in verdant lustre wears
Fame's richest wreath, transmitted from the brave.
Tho' mixt with earth the perishable clay,
His name shall live, while glory loves to tell,
‘True to his country how he won the day,
‘How firm the hero stood, how calm he fell!’
His name shall live, while glory loves to tell,
‘True to his country how he won the day,
‘How firm the hero stood, how calm he fell!’
But if he 'scape the doom of death (the doom
To long—long dreary slumbers) he returns,
While trophies flash, and victor-laurels bloom,
And all the splendour of the triumph burns.
To long—long dreary slumbers) he returns,
While trophies flash, and victor-laurels bloom,
And all the splendour of the triumph burns.
The old—the young—caress him, and adore;
And with the city's love, thro' life, repay'd,
He sees each comfort, that endears, in store,
Till, the last hour, he sinks to Pluto's shade.
And with the city's love, thro' life, repay'd,
169
Till, the last hour, he sinks to Pluto's shade.
Old as he droops, the citizens, o'eraw'd,
(Ev'n veterans) to his mellow glories yield;
Nor would in thought dishonour or defraud
The hoary soldier of the well-fought field.
(Ev'n veterans) to his mellow glories yield;
Nor would in thought dishonour or defraud
The hoary soldier of the well-fought field.
Be your's to reach such eminence of fame;
To gain such heights of virtue nobly dare,
My youths! and, 'mid the fervour of acclaim,
Press, press to glory; nor remit the war!
To gain such heights of virtue nobly dare,
My youths! and, 'mid the fervour of acclaim,
Press, press to glory; nor remit the war!
170
ELEGY THE SECOND.
Rouse, rouse, my youths! the chain of torpour break;
Spurn idle rest, and couch the glittering lance!
What! Does not shame with blushes stain your cheek
Quick-mantling, as ye catch the warriour's glance?
Spurn idle rest, and couch the glittering lance!
What! Does not shame with blushes stain your cheek
Quick-mantling, as ye catch the warriour's glance?
Ignoble youths! Say, when shall valour's flame
Burn in each breast? Here, here, while hosts invade,
And war's wild clangours all your courage claim,
Ye sit, as if still peace embower'd the shade.
Burn in each breast? Here, here, while hosts invade,
And war's wild clangours all your courage claim,
Ye sit, as if still peace embower'd the shade.
But, sure, fair honour crowns the auspicious deed,
When patriot love impels us to the field;
When, to defend a trembling wife, we bleed,
And when our shelter'd offspring bless the shield.
When patriot love impels us to the field;
When, to defend a trembling wife, we bleed,
And when our shelter'd offspring bless the shield.
171
What time the fates ordain, pale death appears:
Then, with firm step and sword high drawn, depart;
And, marching thro' the first thick shower of spears,
Beneath thy buckler guard the intrepid heart.
Then, with firm step and sword high drawn, depart;
172
Beneath thy buckler guard the intrepid heart.
173
Each mortal, tho' he boast celestial sires,
Slave to the sovereign destiny of death,
Or mid the carnage of the plain expires,
Or yields unwept at home his coward breath.
Slave to the sovereign destiny of death,
Or mid the carnage of the plain expires,
Or yields unwept at home his coward breath.
Yet sympathy attends the brave man's bier;
Sees on each wound the balmy grief bestow'd;
And, as in death the universal tear,
Thro' life inspires the homage of a god.
Sees on each wound the balmy grief bestow'd;
And, as in death the universal tear,
Thro' life inspires the homage of a god.
For like a turret his proud glories rise,
And stand, above the rival's reach, alone;
While millions hail, with fond adoring eyes,
The deeds of many a hero meet in one!
And stand, above the rival's reach, alone;
While millions hail, with fond adoring eyes,
The deeds of many a hero meet in one!
174
ELEGY THE THIRD.
Yet are ye Hercules' unconquer'd race—
Remand, heroic tribe, your spirit lost!
Not yet all-seeing Jove averts his face;
Then meet without a fear the thronging host.
Remand, heroic tribe, your spirit lost!
Not yet all-seeing Jove averts his face;
Then meet without a fear the thronging host.
175
Each to the foe his steady shield oppose,
Accoutred to resign his hateful breath:
The friendly sun a mild effulgence throws
On valour's grave, tho' dark the frown of death.
Accoutred to resign his hateful breath:
The friendly sun a mild effulgence throws
On valour's grave, tho' dark the frown of death.
Yes! ye have known the ruthless work of war!
Yes! ye have known its tears—its heavy woe;
When, scattering in pale flight, ye rush'd afar,
Or chas'd the routed squadrons of the foe.
Yes! ye have known its tears—its heavy woe;
When, scattering in pale flight, ye rush'd afar,
Or chas'd the routed squadrons of the foe.
176
Of those who dare, a strong compacted band,
Firm for the fight their warriour-spirits link,
And grapple with the foeman, hand to hand,
How few, thro' deadly wounds expiring, sink.
Firm for the fight their warriour-spirits link,
And grapple with the foeman, hand to hand,
How few, thro' deadly wounds expiring, sink.
They, foremost in the ranks of battle, guard
The inglorious multitude that march behind;
While shrinking fears the coward's step retard,
And dies each virtue in the feeble mind.
The inglorious multitude that march behind;
While shrinking fears the coward's step retard,
And dies each virtue in the feeble mind.
But 'tis not in the force of words to paint
What varied ills attend the ignoble troop,
Who trembling on the scene of glory faint,
Or wound the fugitives that breathless droop.
What varied ills attend the ignoble troop,
Who trembling on the scene of glory faint,
Or wound the fugitives that breathless droop.
Basely the soldier stabs, with hurried thrust,
The unresisting wretch, that shieldless flies!
At his last gasp dishonour'd in the dust
(His back transfix'd with spears) the dastard lies!
The unresisting wretch, that shieldless flies!
At his last gasp dishonour'd in the dust
(His back transfix'd with spears) the dastard lies!
177
Thus then, bold youth, the rules of valour learn:
Stand firm, and fix on earth thy rooted feet;
Bite with thy teeth thy eager lips; and stern
In conscious strength, the rushing onset meet:
Stand firm, and fix on earth thy rooted feet;
Bite with thy teeth thy eager lips; and stern
In conscious strength, the rushing onset meet:
And shelter with thy broad and bossy shield
Thy thighs and shins, thy shoulders and thy breast;
The long spear ponderous in thy right-hand wield,
And on thy head high nod the dreadful crest.
Thy thighs and shins, thy shoulders and thy breast;
The long spear ponderous in thy right-hand wield,
And on thy head high nod the dreadful crest.
Mark well the lessons of the warlike art,
That teach thee, if the shield with ample round
Protect thy bosom, to approach the dart,
Nor chuse with timid care the distant ground.
That teach thee, if the shield with ample round
Protect thy bosom, to approach the dart,
Nor chuse with timid care the distant ground.
But, for close combat with the fronting foe,
Elate in valorous attitude draw near;
And aiming, hand to hand, the fateful blow,
Brandish thy temper'd blade or massy spear.
Elate in valorous attitude draw near;
And aiming, hand to hand, the fateful blow,
Brandish thy temper'd blade or massy spear.
178
Yes! for the rage of stubborn grapple steel'd,
Grasp the sword's hilt, and couch the long-beat lance;
Foot to the foeman's foot, and shield to shield,
Crest ev'n to crest, and helm to helm, advance.
Grasp the sword's hilt, and couch the long-beat lance;
Foot to the foeman's foot, and shield to shield,
Crest ev'n to crest, and helm to helm, advance.
But ye light-arm'd, who, trembling in the rear,
Bear smaller targets, at a distance, throw
The hissing stone, or hurl the polisht spear,
(Plac'd nigh your panoply) to mar the foe.
Bear smaller targets, at a distance, throw
The hissing stone, or hurl the polisht spear,
(Plac'd nigh your panoply) to mar the foe.
179
ELEGY THE FOURTH.
If, fighting for his dear paternal soil,
The soldier in the front of battle fall;
'Tis not in fickle fortune to despoil
His store of fame, that shines the charge of all.
The soldier in the front of battle fall;
'Tis not in fickle fortune to despoil
His store of fame, that shines the charge of all.
But if, opprest by penury, he rove
Far from his native town and fertile plain;
And lead the sharer of his fondest love
Is youth too tender, with her infant train;
Far from his native town and fertile plain;
And lead the sharer of his fondest love
Is youth too tender, with her infant train;
180
And if his aged mother—his shrunk sire
Join the sad groupe; see many a bitter ill
Against the houseless family conspire,
And all the measure of the wretched fill.
Join the sad groupe; see many a bitter ill
Against the houseless family conspire,
And all the measure of the wretched fill.
Pale shivering want, companion of his way,
He meets the lustre of no pitying eye,
To hunger and dire infamy a prey:
Dark hatred scowls, and scorn quick passes by.
He meets the lustre of no pitying eye,
To hunger and dire infamy a prey:
Dark hatred scowls, and scorn quick passes by.
Alas! no traits of beauty or of birth—
No blush now lingers in his sunken face!
Dies every feeling (as he roams o'er earth)
Of shame transmitted to a wandering race.
No blush now lingers in his sunken face!
Dies every feeling (as he roams o'er earth)
Of shame transmitted to a wandering race.
But be it ours to guard this hallow'd spot,
To shield the tender offspring and the wife;
Here steadily await our destin'd lot,
And, for their sakes, resign the gift of life.
To shield the tender offspring and the wife;
Here steadily await our destin'd lot,
And, for their sakes, resign the gift of life.
181
The valorous youths, in squadrons close combin'd,
Rush, with a noble impulse, to the fight!
Let not a thought of life glance o'er your mind,
And not a momentary dream of flight.
Rush, with a noble impulse, to the fight!
Let not a thought of life glance o'er your mind,
And not a momentary dream of flight.
[illeg.] your hoar seniors bent by feeble age,
Whose weak knees fail, tho' strong their ardour glows;
[illeg.] leave such warriours to the battle's rage,
But round their awful spirits firmly close.
Whose weak knees fail, tho' strong their ardour glows;
[illeg.] leave such warriours to the battle's rage,
But round their awful spirits firmly close.
Base—base the sight, if, foremost on the plain,
In dust and carnage the fall'n veteran roll;
And ah! while youths shrink back, unshielded, stain
His silver temples, and breathe out his soul!
In dust and carnage the fall'n veteran roll;
And ah! while youths shrink back, unshielded, stain
His silver temples, and breathe out his soul!
185
THE EPITAPH ON ADONIS.
FROM BION.
‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
[illeg.] hapless Queen, thy purple robes forego—
Leave thy gay couch, and snatch the weeds of woe!
Beat—beat thy breast, and tell: ‘Tho’ fair he shone,
‘Alas, Adonis, tho' so fair, is gone!
Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
[illeg.] hapless Queen, thy purple robes forego—
Leave thy gay couch, and snatch the weeds of woe!
186
‘Alas, Adonis, tho' so fair, is gone!
‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
I see his thigh in weltering horror bare,
The wound all open to the mountain-air.
He breathes! Yet, yet his eyes a pale mist dims,
As the black crimson stains his snowy limbs:
Lo! from his lips the rosy colour flies,
And ev'n thy soothing kiss, O Venus, dies!
That kiss (I view thy anguisht image near)
That last fond kiss, to thee so doubly-dear!
But the vain ardours of thy love give o'er—
Cold—cold he lies, and feels thy breath no more.
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
I see his thigh in weltering horror bare,
The wound all open to the mountain-air.
He breathes! Yet, yet his eyes a pale mist dims,
As the black crimson stains his snowy limbs:
Lo! from his lips the rosy colour flies,
And ev'n thy soothing kiss, O Venus, dies!
187
That last fond kiss, to thee so doubly-dear!
But the vain ardours of thy love give o'er—
Cold—cold he lies, and feels thy breath no more.
‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
[illeg.] in the chace his dogs stand howling round,
And the pale Oreads mourn the fatal wound.
The Cyprian Queen abandon'd to despair
(A deeper wound her heart was doom'd to bear)
Wanders amidst the thickets of the wood,
Her torn unsandal'd feet distain'd with blood;
And her wild tresses floating in the gale,
Wails her Assyrian lord, thro' many a long, long vale!
But on the mountain-brow Adonis lies,
Nor hears one echo of her ceaseless cries;
While, spouting from his thigh, the streams of gore
His bosom erst so white empurple o'er.
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
[illeg.] in the chace his dogs stand howling round,
And the pale Oreads mourn the fatal wound.
188
(A deeper wound her heart was doom'd to bear)
Wanders amidst the thickets of the wood,
Her torn unsandal'd feet distain'd with blood;
And her wild tresses floating in the gale,
Wails her Assyrian lord, thro' many a long, long vale!
But on the mountain-brow Adonis lies,
Nor hears one echo of her ceaseless cries;
While, spouting from his thigh, the streams of gore
His bosom erst so white empurple o'er.
‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
Lo! Venus blooms no more in beauty's pride;
With him her graces liv'd! with him they died!
Those vivid blushes—those entrancing charms—
That form glow'd only for Adonis' arms!
The mountain-springs—the rivers, as they flow—
And the hill-oaks re-murmur to her woe!
The florets blush, in sorrow, at her feet;
While sad in every grove, thro' every street
Cythera chaunts: ‘Thy favourite youth is fled!’
Ah, Venus, mourn the fair Adonis dead!
Responsive echo sighs!—Who, who can hear
The lovelorn goddess moan, without a tear?
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
Lo! Venus blooms no more in beauty's pride;
With him her graces liv'd! with him they died!
Those vivid blushes—those entrancing charms—
That form glow'd only for Adonis' arms!
The mountain-springs—the rivers, as they flow—
And the hill-oaks re-murmur to her woe!
The florets blush, in sorrow, at her feet;
While sad in every grove, thro' every street
189
Ah, Venus, mourn the fair Adonis dead!
Responsive echo sighs!—Who, who can hear
The lovelorn goddess moan, without a tear?
Soon as she saw her lover press the ground,
Wither'd his crimson thigh, and wide the wound,
She stretch'd her trembling arms, and deeply sigh'd;
[illeg.], ‘Stay, dear youth, a moment stay,’ (she cried)
That I may clasp thee, on thy breast recline,
Suck thy faint breath, and glue my lips to thine!
One tender token, dear Adonis, give—
Yet a short moment, while thy kisses live!
Then, as in death thy sinking eyes shall roll,
I'll catch the quivering spirit of thy soul,
‘Draw its quick flame, rekindled as we part;
‘Drink thy fond love, and store it in the heart!
‘Thus the last relic of affection take,
‘And here inclose it, for thy charming sake!
‘Far—far from me, to Pluto's spectred coast,
‘Belov'd Adonis! flies thy gentle ghost!
‘Wretch that I am, to breathe immortal breath,
‘That cannot join thee in the realms of death!
‘Queen of the shades, whom Fate hath giv'n to share
‘Whatever blooms on earth, or good or fair;
‘Far happier thou, take all my soul adores!
‘He comes, blest Queen, he hastens to thy shores!
‘Alas! while here my fruitless sorrows stream,
‘Love, golden love, is vanisht as a dream:
‘Their wanton charms no more my Cupids own;
‘They droop, and perisht is my virgin zone.
‘Why, form'd so fair, with every softer grace,
‘Why, sweet Adonis, urge the savage chace?’
‘Thus Venus griev'd: and—‘Ah! thy joys are o'er’—
‘Her Cupids sobb'd—‘Adonis is no more.’
Wither'd his crimson thigh, and wide the wound,
She stretch'd her trembling arms, and deeply sigh'd;
[illeg.], ‘Stay, dear youth, a moment stay,’ (she cried)
That I may clasp thee, on thy breast recline,
Suck thy faint breath, and glue my lips to thine!
One tender token, dear Adonis, give—
Yet a short moment, while thy kisses live!
Then, as in death thy sinking eyes shall roll,
I'll catch the quivering spirit of thy soul,
190
‘Drink thy fond love, and store it in the heart!
‘Thus the last relic of affection take,
‘And here inclose it, for thy charming sake!
‘Far—far from me, to Pluto's spectred coast,
‘Belov'd Adonis! flies thy gentle ghost!
‘Wretch that I am, to breathe immortal breath,
‘That cannot join thee in the realms of death!
‘Queen of the shades, whom Fate hath giv'n to share
‘Whatever blooms on earth, or good or fair;
‘Far happier thou, take all my soul adores!
‘He comes, blest Queen, he hastens to thy shores!
‘Alas! while here my fruitless sorrows stream,
‘Love, golden love, is vanisht as a dream:
‘Their wanton charms no more my Cupids own;
‘They droop, and perisht is my virgin zone.
191
‘Why, sweet Adonis, urge the savage chace?’
‘Thus Venus griev'd: and—‘Ah! thy joys are o'er’—
‘Her Cupids sobb'd—‘Adonis is no more.’
Wide as her lover's torrent-blood appears,
As copious flow'd the fountain of her tears!
The rose starts blushing from the sanguine dyes,
And from her tears anemonies arise.
As copious flow'd the fountain of her tears!
The rose starts blushing from the sanguine dyes,
And from her tears anemonies arise.
192
‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
But cease to sigh unpitied to the groves
The hapless story of thy vanisht loves!
His velvet couch survey—nor longer weep—
See his fair limbs, and mark his beauteous sleep!
Come, let the bridal vest those limbs infold,
And pillow his reposing head in gold!
Tho' fix'd in death its pallid features frown,
That visage with the flowery chaplet crown!
Alas! no florets boast their glowing pride:
With him their fragrance, and their colour, died!
Shade him with myrtles—pour the rich perfumes—
No—perish ev'ry sweet—No more Adonis blooms!
His pale corse cover'd with a purple vest,
Behold he lies! And lo! the Loves distrest
Shear their bright locks, in agony of woe,
And spurn the useless dart, and break the bow!
Some quick unbind his buskin'd leg, and bring
In golden urns pure water from the spring;
While others gently bathe the bleeding wound,
Or with light pinions fan him, fluttering round.
See Hymen quench his torch, in wild despair,
And scatter the connubial wreath in air!
For nuptial songs, the dirge funereal sighs,
While Hymen sorrows, and Adonis dies!
The Graces mourn their sweet Adonis slain;
And louder ev'n than thou, Dione, plain!
Hark, from the Nine elegiac accents fall,
(Each plaintive cadence murmuring to recall
Their favourite bard) solicitous to save—
Ah! can he hear? or cross the irremeable wave?
Yet, Venus, cease: thy tears awhile forego—
Reserve thy sorrows for the year of woe!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
But cease to sigh unpitied to the groves
The hapless story of thy vanisht loves!
His velvet couch survey—nor longer weep—
See his fair limbs, and mark his beauteous sleep!
Come, let the bridal vest those limbs infold,
And pillow his reposing head in gold!
Tho' fix'd in death its pallid features frown,
That visage with the flowery chaplet crown!
Alas! no florets boast their glowing pride:
With him their fragrance, and their colour, died!
Shade him with myrtles—pour the rich perfumes—
No—perish ev'ry sweet—No more Adonis blooms!
193
Behold he lies! And lo! the Loves distrest
Shear their bright locks, in agony of woe,
And spurn the useless dart, and break the bow!
194
In golden urns pure water from the spring;
While others gently bathe the bleeding wound,
Or with light pinions fan him, fluttering round.
See Hymen quench his torch, in wild despair,
And scatter the connubial wreath in air!
For nuptial songs, the dirge funereal sighs,
While Hymen sorrows, and Adonis dies!
The Graces mourn their sweet Adonis slain;
And louder ev'n than thou, Dione, plain!
195
(Each plaintive cadence murmuring to recall
Their favourite bard) solicitous to save—
Ah! can he hear? or cross the irremeable wave?
Yet, Venus, cease: thy tears awhile forego—
Reserve thy sorrows for the year of woe!
196
THE EPITAPH ON BION
FROM MOSCHUS.
Mourn, Dorian stream, departed Bion mourn!
Pour the hoarse murmur from thy pallid urn!
Sigh, groves and lawns! Ye plants, in sorrow wave;
Ye flowers, breathe sickly sweets o'er Bion's grave!
Anemonies and roses, blush your grief;
Expand, pale hyacinth, thy letter'd leaf!
Thy marks of anguish more distinctly show—
Ah! well the tuneful herdsman claims your woe!
Pour the hoarse murmur from thy pallid urn!
197
Ye flowers, breathe sickly sweets o'er Bion's grave!
198
Expand, pale hyacinth, thy letter'd leaf!
Thy marks of anguish more distinctly show—
Ah! well the tuneful herdsman claims your woe!
Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Ye nightingales that soothe the shadowy vale,
Warble to Arethusa's streams the tale
Of Bion dead: lamenting nature's pride,
He sunk! Ah then the Dorian music died!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Ye nightingales that soothe the shadowy vale,
Warble to Arethusa's streams the tale
199
He sunk! Ah then the Dorian music died!
Begin, &c.
Ye swans of Strymon, bid so sweet a note
As Bion breath'd along your green banks, float
O'er the still wave! and tell Bistonia's maids,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the glades.
Ye swans of Strymon, bid so sweet a note
As Bion breath'd along your green banks, float
O'er the still wave! and tell Bistonia's maids,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the glades.
Begin, &c.
Dear to the Muse, alas! no more he sings,
By yon' lone oak that shades the plashy springs.
He roams a spectre thro' the glooms of fear,
And chaunts the oblivious verse to Pluto's ear.
O'er the hush'd hills his pensive heifers rove,
Refuse their pasture, and forget their love!
Dear to the Muse, alas! no more he sings,
By yon' lone oak that shades the plashy springs.
He roams a spectre thro' the glooms of fear,
And chaunts the oblivious verse to Pluto's ear.
O'er the hush'd hills his pensive heifers rove,
Refuse their pasture, and forget their love!
Begin, &c.
Thee—thee, O Bion, snatch'd from earth away,
The satyrs wail'd, and ev'n the God of day!
Pan for thy numbers heav'd his sighing breast,
And sad Priapus mourn'd in sable vest.
The Naïds in despairing anguish stood,
And swell'd with briny tears their fountain-flood.
Mute Echo, as her mimic music dies,
Amidst her dreary rocks lamenting lies.
The trees resign'd their fruitage, at thy death,
And all the faded flowers, their scented breath.
The ewes no milk—the hives no honey gave:
But what avail'd it, the rich stores to save?
What, that the bee no balmy floret sips,
Extinct the sweeter honey of thy lips?
Thee—thee, O Bion, snatch'd from earth away,
The satyrs wail'd, and ev'n the God of day!
Pan for thy numbers heav'd his sighing breast,
And sad Priapus mourn'd in sable vest.
200
And swell'd with briny tears their fountain-flood.
Mute Echo, as her mimic music dies,
Amidst her dreary rocks lamenting lies.
The trees resign'd their fruitage, at thy death,
And all the faded flowers, their scented breath.
The ewes no milk—the hives no honey gave:
But what avail'd it, the rich stores to save?
What, that the bee no balmy floret sips,
Extinct the sweeter honey of thy lips?
Begin, &c.
Not with such grief the dolphin fill'd the seas,
Or Philomela's plaint, the woodland breeze,
Or Progne's bitter woe, the mountains hoar,
Or wild Alcyone, the fatal shore;
Or faithful Cerylus, the cave where lies
His mate still breathing fondness as she dies;
Or Memnon's screaming birds, his orient tomb,
As now they utter at their Bion's doom!
Not with such grief the dolphin fill'd the seas,
Or Philomela's plaint, the woodland breeze,
201
Or wild Alcyone, the fatal shore;
Or faithful Cerylus, the cave where lies
His mate still breathing fondness as she dies;
Or Memnon's screaming birds, his orient tomb,
As now they utter at their Bion's doom!
202
Begin, &c.
The love-lorn nightingales that learnt his song,
The swallows twittering shrill, the boughs among,
Join their sad notes; the vocal groves reply—
Sigh too, ye turtles, for your Bion sigh!
The love-lorn nightingales that learnt his song,
The swallows twittering shrill, the boughs among,
Join their sad notes; the vocal groves reply—
Sigh too, ye turtles, for your Bion sigh!
Begin, &c.
Who now, regretted swain, thy pipe shall play;
Touch the fair stops, or trill the melting lay?
Faint from thy lips still breathe the mellow reeds;
Still on their dying sweetness Echo feeds:
To bear those melodies to Pan be mine;
Tho' he may fear to risk his fame with thine!
Who now, regretted swain, thy pipe shall play;
Touch the fair stops, or trill the melting lay?
Faint from thy lips still breathe the mellow reeds;
Still on their dying sweetness Echo feeds:
To bear those melodies to Pan be mine;
Tho' he may fear to risk his fame with thine!
Begin, &c.
And Galatea too bewails thy fate—
Fair nymph, who oft upon the sea-shore sat
Sooth'd by thy songs, and fled the Cyclops' arms—
Far other strains were thine! far other charms!
Now on the sand she sits—forgets the sea—
Yet feeds thy herds, and still remembers thee!
And Galatea too bewails thy fate—
Fair nymph, who oft upon the sea-shore sat
Sooth'd by thy songs, and fled the Cyclops' arms—
Far other strains were thine! far other charms!
Now on the sand she sits—forgets the sea—
Yet feeds thy herds, and still remembers thee!
203
Begin, &c.
With thee, O swain, expir'd the Muse's bliss—
The roseate bloom of youth, the roseate kiss!
The fluttering Cupids round thy ashes cry,
And fond—fond Venus mixes many a sigh!
She loves thee, as Adonis' parting breath—
As his last kisses so endear'd by death!
With thee, O swain, expir'd the Muse's bliss—
The roseate bloom of youth, the roseate kiss!
The fluttering Cupids round thy ashes cry,
And fond—fond Venus mixes many a sigh!
She loves thee, as Adonis' parting breath—
As his last kisses so endear'd by death!
Here—here, O Meles, musical in woe,
And for another son thy tide shall flow!
For thy first poet mourn'd thy plaintive wave;
Each murmur deepen'd at thy Homer's grave:
Another grief (melodious stream) appears!
Alas! another poet claims thy tears!
Dear to the fountains which inspire the Muse,
That drank of Helicon—this, Arethuse!
That bard his harp to beauteous Helen strung;
And the dire anger of Pelides sung:
[illeg.]—in his softer lay no wars display'd,
But chanted Pan all peaceful in the shade!
And fram'd his reeds, or milk'd his kine, or led
His herds to pasture, singing as they fed!
And oft, so dear to Venus, he carest
The little Cupid in his panting breast.
And for another son thy tide shall flow!
For thy first poet mourn'd thy plaintive wave;
Each murmur deepen'd at thy Homer's grave:
Another grief (melodious stream) appears!
Alas! another poet claims thy tears!
Dear to the fountains which inspire the Muse,
That drank of Helicon—this, Arethuse!
That bard his harp to beauteous Helen strung;
And the dire anger of Pelides sung:
[illeg.]—in his softer lay no wars display'd,
But chanted Pan all peaceful in the shade!
And fram'd his reeds, or milk'd his kine, or led
His herds to pasture, singing as they fed!
204
The little Cupid in his panting breast.
Begin, &c.
The cities and the towns thy death deplore—
Than her own Hesiod Ascra mourns thee more!
Not thus her Pindar Hylæ's grief bemoans—
Not Lesbos thus Alcæus' manly tones!
Not Ceos, Paros, thus regret their bards—
And Mitylene yet thy reed regards
Beyond her Sappho's lyre; and every swain
Pipes thee, O Bion, on his native plain.
The Samian's gentle notes thy memory greet—
Philetas too—and Lycidas of Crete!
Now, breathing heavy sighs, each heart despairs,
Tho' erst full many a jocund revel theirs.
Thee too, dear Bard, Theocritus bewails,
The sweetest warbler of Sicilia's dales!
And I, who suit to sorrow's melting tone
The Ausonian verse, but mimic music own.
If e'er the charms of melody I knew,
'Tis to thy forming skill the praise is due.
Others may claim thy gold—the gold be theirs!
Our be the Doric Muse, thy wealthier heirs.
The cities and the towns thy death deplore—
Than her own Hesiod Ascra mourns thee more!
Not thus her Pindar Hylæ's grief bemoans—
Not Lesbos thus Alcæus' manly tones!
Not Ceos, Paros, thus regret their bards—
And Mitylene yet thy reed regards
Beyond her Sappho's lyre; and every swain
Pipes thee, O Bion, on his native plain.
The Samian's gentle notes thy memory greet—
Philetas too—and Lycidas of Crete!
Now, breathing heavy sighs, each heart despairs,
Tho' erst full many a jocund revel theirs.
Thee too, dear Bard, Theocritus bewails,
The sweetest warbler of Sicilia's dales!
And I, who suit to sorrow's melting tone
The Ausonian verse, but mimic music own.
If e'er the charms of melody I knew,
'Tis to thy forming skill the praise is due.
205
Our be the Doric Muse, thy wealthier heirs.
Begin, &c.
Tho' fade crisp anise, and the parsley's green,
And vivid mallows from the garden-scene,
The balmy breath of spring their life renews,
And bids them flourish in their former hues!
But we, the great, the valiant, and the wise,
When once the seal of death hath clos'd our eyes,
Lost in the hollow tomb obscure and deep,
Slumber, to wake no more, one long unbroken sleep!
Thou too, while many a scrannel reed I hear
Grating eternal harshness on my ear—
Thou too, thy charm of melting music o'er,
But in the silent earth, shalt rise no more!
Tho' fade crisp anise, and the parsley's green,
And vivid mallows from the garden-scene,
The balmy breath of spring their life renews,
And bids them flourish in their former hues!
But we, the great, the valiant, and the wise,
When once the seal of death hath clos'd our eyes,
Lost in the hollow tomb obscure and deep,
Slumber, to wake no more, one long unbroken sleep!
Thou too, while many a scrannel reed I hear
Grating eternal harshness on my ear—
Thou too, thy charm of melting music o'er,
But in the silent earth, shalt rise no more!
206
Begin, &c.
'Twas poison gave thee to the grasp of death—
Ah! could not poison sweeten at thy breath?
Who for those lips of melody could dare
The venom'd chalice (murderous wretch) prepare?
Such wretches rove with vengeance at their heels;
While now at this drear hour my bosom feels
The bursting sigh! Like Orpheus could I go,
Or wise Ulysses, to the shades below;
To Pluto's dome my steps should strait repair,
To hear what numbers thou art chaunting there.
But sing, as in the genial realms of light,
Some sweet bucolic to the Queen of Night.
She once amid those golden meadows play'd,
And sung the Dorian song in Ætna's shade.
Thy music shall ascend with all the fire—
With all the strong effect of Orpheus' lyre!
Fair Proserpine shall listen to thy strain,
And, pitying, send thee to thy hills again.
O that, as Orpheus' lyre reclaim'd his wife,
My pipe had power to bring thy shade to life!
'Twas poison gave thee to the grasp of death—
Ah! could not poison sweeten at thy breath?
207
The venom'd chalice (murderous wretch) prepare?
Such wretches rove with vengeance at their heels;
While now at this drear hour my bosom feels
The bursting sigh! Like Orpheus could I go,
Or wise Ulysses, to the shades below;
To Pluto's dome my steps should strait repair,
To hear what numbers thou art chaunting there.
But sing, as in the genial realms of light,
Some sweet bucolic to the Queen of Night.
She once amid those golden meadows play'd,
And sung the Dorian song in Ætna's shade.
Thy music shall ascend with all the fire—
With all the strong effect of Orpheus' lyre!
208
And, pitying, send thee to thy hills again.
O that, as Orpheus' lyre reclaim'd his wife,
My pipe had power to bring thy shade to life!
209
THE LOCK TRANSFORMED.
TO LAURA.
Dear was the moment, when the gentle Fair
Gave to my wishes with consenting eyes,
A Lock that sever'd from her lovely hair
Could soften all my bosom into sighs!
Gave to my wishes with consenting eyes,
A Lock that sever'd from her lovely hair
Could soften all my bosom into sighs!
And dear those moments that so sweetly stole
A pang from absence, and impell'd my lyre
To wake the fond emotions of the soul,
In melting ardours and a poet's fire!
A pang from absence, and impell'd my lyre
To wake the fond emotions of the soul,
In melting ardours and a poet's fire!
Then Fancy stream'd her visions on the Muse,
And many a transitory form portray'd,
[illeg.] aërial sylphs in vivid hues,
And bade their little wings the Lock o'ershade.
And many a transitory form portray'd,
[illeg.] aërial sylphs in vivid hues,
And bade their little wings the Lock o'ershade.
210
But quick their fluid shapes dissolve in air,
And other beings rise, as Fancy wills—
Lo drawn by turtles in her ivory car,
Appears the goddess of the Paphian hills!
And other beings rise, as Fancy wills—
Lo drawn by turtles in her ivory car,
Appears the goddess of the Paphian hills!
And thus: “That ringlet to my power resign—
“For, from its kindred tresses tho' in part,
“To give it brighter beauties shall be mine,
“With all the skill of imitative art.
“For, from its kindred tresses tho' in part,
“To give it brighter beauties shall be mine,
“With all the skill of imitative art.
“What tho' the fam'd Belinda's ravisht hair
“May add new glory to the distant skies;
“Yet shall thy Laura's Lock eclipse the star
“That vainly shoots, and kindles as it flies!”
“May add new glory to the distant skies;
“Yet shall thy Laura's Lock eclipse the star
“That vainly shoots, and kindles as it flies!”
She said—and from my hand the ringlet caught,
And sudden to my wondering sight display'd
Thy gift, my Laura, to a portrait wrought,
With all the varied charms of light and shade!
And sudden to my wondering sight display'd
Thy gift, my Laura, to a portrait wrought,
With all the varied charms of light and shade!
211
And “Here,” she cried, (while round the fluttering Loves
“Breath'd on the roseate cheeks their softest blooms)
Behold a nymph, more gentle than my doves,
“Or zephyr, sighing 'midst my Cyprian glooms!
“Breath'd on the roseate cheeks their softest blooms)
Behold a nymph, more gentle than my doves,
“Or zephyr, sighing 'midst my Cyprian glooms!
See the pure spirit of a native grace
“To all her mien a lovelier air impart!
And see that meek expression of a face
“Where in each genuine look we read the heart!
“To all her mien a lovelier air impart!
And see that meek expression of a face
“Where in each genuine look we read the heart!
These speaking eyes a charm from nature steal
“Which vainly would the rhetor's powers supply;
For ah, more sweetly-eloquent we feel
“The language of the never-silent eye!
“Which vainly would the rhetor's powers supply;
For ah, more sweetly-eloquent we feel
“The language of the never-silent eye!
Nor let her Attic robe escape thy view
“That no vain-tinsell'd pageantry betrays—
Such as the pencil of Apelles drew,
“And Grecian virgins wore, in ancient days!
“That no vain-tinsell'd pageantry betrays—
Such as the pencil of Apelles drew,
“And Grecian virgins wore, in ancient days!
212
“'Twas then the spirit of this nymph divine
“Shone, to Electra's Bard, in golden dreams;
“As oft he woo'd the favours of the Nine
“Amidst the murmur of Ilyssus' streams.
“Shone, to Electra's Bard, in golden dreams;
“As oft he woo'd the favours of the Nine
“Amidst the murmur of Ilyssus' streams.
“But ah—how long—how heavily opprest
“While Athens moulder'd into dust, she lay—
“With Gothic darkness brooding o'er her breast,
“That gloom'd the sweetness of her soul away!
“While Athens moulder'd into dust, she lay—
“With Gothic darkness brooding o'er her breast,
“That gloom'd the sweetness of her soul away!
“If e'er the Bards of Arno's oliv'd vale
“A wild note warbled to the pensive maid,
“Full soon, unheeding the degenerate tale,
“She fled, with many a sigh, from Pisa's shade.
“A wild note warbled to the pensive maid,
“Full soon, unheeding the degenerate tale,
“She fled, with many a sigh, from Pisa's shade.
“Next, in her favourite isle, the harp she strung—
“The British minstrels triumph'd, as she came—
“Hail'd her—divine Simplicity; and sung
“With all Aonia's harmony, her name.
“The British minstrels triumph'd, as she came—
“Hail'd her—divine Simplicity; and sung
“With all Aonia's harmony, her name.
213
“Mark then her lovely form as pictur'd here
“She gives to zephyr her Æolian shell;
“And see that root-inwoven shrine, that near
“Yon sycamore's broad shadow, crowns the dell.
“She gives to zephyr her Æolian shell;
“And see that root-inwoven shrine, that near
“Yon sycamore's broad shadow, crowns the dell.
“Glares round its pedestal no quaint design;
“Nor aught that meretricious art can boast:
“To Nature rear'd, the unaspiring shrine
“Appears, ‘while unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.’
“Nor aught that meretricious art can boast:
“To Nature rear'd, the unaspiring shrine
“Appears, ‘while unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.’
“Lo there she bids, arrang'd with happiest taste,
“The primrose and the violet sweet diffuse
“Their mingled breath, and blend in union chaste
“Their colours sprinkled by the twilight dews:
“The primrose and the violet sweet diffuse
“Their mingled breath, and blend in union chaste
“Their colours sprinkled by the twilight dews:
“While my soft star, that loves, each evening hour,
“To hover o'er the stillness of the dale,
“Thro' the green sycamore, itself a bower,
“On the rude altar, sheds a lustre pale.
“To hover o'er the stillness of the dale,
“Thro' the green sycamore, itself a bower,
“On the rude altar, sheds a lustre pale.
214
“No spicy clouds thence mingle with the skies;
“Her humbler offering are yon' vernal wreaths:
“And all the incense of her sacrifice,
“Is but the incense that a field-flower breathes!”
“Her humbler offering are yon' vernal wreaths:
“And all the incense of her sacrifice,
“Is but the incense that a field-flower breathes!”
She spoke, and gave the picture to my care;
And in the rich possession call'd me blest!
And place it next thy heart (she cried) for there—
“That heaving sigh already tells the rest!
And in the rich possession call'd me blest!
And place it next thy heart (she cried) for there—
“That heaving sigh already tells the rest!
215
“Go then—where imitation's utmost art
“Has faintly copied (tho' employ'd by me)
“The bright original that fires thy heart,
“Go—and the living form in Laura see!”
“Has faintly copied (tho' employ'd by me)
“The bright original that fires thy heart,
“Go—and the living form in Laura see!”
216
OSSIAN DEPARTING TO HIS FATHERS.
IMITATED FROM MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN, 1780.
Where the dark torrent rolls o'er Lutha's vale,
And from the rock the thistle's beard is driv'n,
The floret trembles to the northern gale,
Weary and cover'd with the drops of heaven.
And from the rock the thistle's beard is driv'n,
The floret trembles to the northern gale,
Weary and cover'd with the drops of heaven.
And “why, O gale, awake me?” (as it heaves
Its sleepy head) it says, or seems to say;
“The blast shall scatter all my fading leaves,
“Ere Lutha's woody skirts are ting'd with day.
Its sleepy head) it says, or seems to say;
“The blast shall scatter all my fading leaves,
“Ere Lutha's woody skirts are ting'd with day.
“To-morrow shall the pensive traveller come,
“Who in my bright attire remembers me;
“O'er all the field his wishful eyes may roam,
“But never more those eyes my place shall see.”
“Who in my bright attire remembers me;
“O'er all the field his wishful eyes may roam,
“But never more those eyes my place shall see.”
217
So for the harp of Ossian shall, in vain,
The hunter, at the dawn of morning, seek:
“Where is the son of high Fingal? the strain
“Sweet to my soul!” a tear shall wet his cheek.
The hunter, at the dawn of morning, seek:
“Where is the son of high Fingal? the strain
“Sweet to my soul!” a tear shall wet his cheek.
Here, as I cast my vagrant eyes around,
On melancholy Lutha left alone,
My voice is like the wind's last dying sound,
When it forsakes the woods with feeble moan.
On melancholy Lutha left alone,
My voice is like the wind's last dying sound,
When it forsakes the woods with feeble moan.
The venerable oak its branches bends
Over the gloomy stream; and, as it sighs
Thro' all its hoary moss, the murmur blends
With the rude whistling fern where Ossian lies.
Over the gloomy stream; and, as it sighs
Thro' all its hoary moss, the murmur blends
With the rude whistling fern where Ossian lies.
Yet not at distance I behold the day
When I exclaim'd, “The joy of youth returns:
“Son of the Rock, come listen to my lay,
“With thoughts of other times my bosom burns.
When I exclaim'd, “The joy of youth returns:
“Son of the Rock, come listen to my lay,
“With thoughts of other times my bosom burns.
218
“So when the howling spirit of the north
“Hath ceas'd the dark-red mountain to deform,
“Amid the western sky the sun looks forth
“In brightness from behind the broken storm.
“Hath ceas'd the dark-red mountain to deform,
“Amid the western sky the sun looks forth
“In brightness from behind the broken storm.
“Its dewy head each upland forest rears;
“Fresh in the vale rejoices the blue stream;
“The aged warriour on his staff appears,
“And lo, his grey locks glitter in the beam.”
“Fresh in the vale rejoices the blue stream;
“The aged warriour on his staff appears,
“And lo, his grey locks glitter in the beam.”
Thus, with the glow of former years, I said;
And, as the many-colour'd days of old
Were mark'd with deeds of heroes, I survey'd
The traces of the tales I once had told.
And, as the many-colour'd days of old
Were mark'd with deeds of heroes, I survey'd
The traces of the tales I once had told.
I saw Cuthullin's car, the flame of death,
As Swaran darken'd, like a roaring flood:
I saw his high-maned coursers spurn the heath,
Snort o'er the slain, and bathe their hoofs in blood.
As Swaran darken'd, like a roaring flood:
I saw his high-maned coursers spurn the heath,
Snort o'er the slain, and bathe their hoofs in blood.
219
I saw, as midnight the wild wood o'ercast,
Sudden the ghost of Crugal:—Hah! he stands
Dim and in tears! “My spirit in the blast,
(He faintly cries) “my corse on Erin's sands.”
Sudden the ghost of Crugal:—Hah! he stands
Dim and in tears! “My spirit in the blast,
(He faintly cries) “my corse on Erin's sands.”
As reedy Lego's gale, his voice was shrill;
Dark was his wound: his eyes, decaying flame:
He stood, as the dun mist that robes the hill,
And the stars twinkled thro' his shadowy frame.
Dark was his wound: his eyes, decaying flame:
He stood, as the dun mist that robes the hill,
And the stars twinkled thro' his shadowy frame.
And Agandecca shone upon my sight,
Fair as the moon slow-rising o'er the grove;
Around her—beauty beaming as the light,
Her steps were music, and her sigh was love.
Fair as the moon slow-rising o'er the grove;
Around her—beauty beaming as the light,
Her steps were music, and her sigh was love.
Alas! ev'n now I mourn the crimson tide,
Her blue eyes fill'd with tears, her hair's soft flow;
I see the red-brow'd Starno pierce her side;
I see her falling like a wreath of snow.
Her blue eyes fill'd with tears, her hair's soft flow;
I see the red-brow'd Starno pierce her side;
I see her falling like a wreath of snow.
220
And I beheld the raven-tressed maid
Who scorn'd, for Ossian's love, full many a chief;
And, as I gaz'd upon her beauteous shade,
Cherish'd, yet once again, the joy of grief.
Who scorn'd, for Ossian's love, full many a chief;
And, as I gaz'd upon her beauteous shade,
Cherish'd, yet once again, the joy of grief.
I saw the blooming youth of Fillan fall
Amidst the strife of Erin's carnag'd field;
While, in the stillness of his distant hall,
The cold blood wander'd o'er his rifted shield.
Amidst the strife of Erin's carnag'd field;
While, in the stillness of his distant hall,
The cold blood wander'd o'er his rifted shield.
Then too I saw the warriour's helmet-plume
Scatter'd and torn:—I heard him, as he spoke,
“Ossian! with pity mark thy Fillan's doom,
“I faint—O lay me in that hollow rock!”
Scatter'd and torn:—I heard him, as he spoke,
“Ossian! with pity mark thy Fillan's doom,
“I faint—O lay me in that hollow rock!”
I saw Sulmalla trembling as the roe,
When for her native lands she heav'd a sigh;
And Cathmar musing on the virgin's woe,
Her vagrant footsteps and her fearful eye.
When for her native lands she heav'd a sigh;
And Cathmar musing on the virgin's woe,
Her vagrant footsteps and her fearful eye.
221
Where infant Carthon leapt with thoughtless joy,
As the bright flame involv'd his father's halls,
I saw in desolated silence lie
The dreary ruin of Balclutha's walls.
As the bright flame involv'd his father's halls,
I saw in desolated silence lie
The dreary ruin of Balclutha's walls.
Once sweetly-soothing to my pensive soul,
Such airy visions could my sighs awake:
The soft-reflected forms on memory stole,
Like moon-beams fading from a distant lake.
Such airy visions could my sighs awake:
The soft-reflected forms on memory stole,
Like moon-beams fading from a distant lake.
And they were pleasant as the morning dew,
That hangs, bright-clustering, on the hill of roes;
Where the sun faintly spreads its orient hue,
And the grey waters in the vale repose.
That hangs, bright-clustering, on the hill of roes;
Where the sun faintly spreads its orient hue,
And the grey waters in the vale repose.
Ev'n now the ghosts of passing Bards I hear,
And catch their harpings as they glide along
But cold, alas! is Ossian's closing ear;
No more I listen to the sons of Song.
And catch their harpings as they glide along
But cold, alas! is Ossian's closing ear;
No more I listen to the sons of Song.
222
Then, O Fingal, who dauntless in the fight
Didst whirl thy falchion, like the lightning's sheet;
And, as the tempest, raging in thy might,
Bid the rocks burst in fragments at thy feet;
Didst whirl thy falchion, like the lightning's sheet;
And, as the tempest, raging in thy might,
Bid the rocks burst in fragments at thy feet;
Thou, who, at Loda, couldst proclaim aloud,
(Eager the dismal spirit to withstand)
His sword a meteor, and his shield a cloud,
Tho' blasts were in the hollow of his hand;
(Eager the dismal spirit to withstand)
His sword a meteor, and his shield a cloud,
Tho' blasts were in the hollow of his hand;
Tho' thunder was his voice, and flame his breath,
His dreadful form bent forward from on high;
His nostrils pouring pestilential death,
As the pale nations vanish'd from his eye;
His dreadful form bent forward from on high;
His nostrils pouring pestilential death,
As the pale nations vanish'd from his eye;
Thou, who couldst bid thy Luno's massy blade
Thro' the dark ghost its gleaming path disclose;
While, as he shriek'd, the deep's still'd wave was stay'd,
And, roll'd into himself, upon the winds he rose:
Thro' the dark ghost its gleaming path disclose;
While, as he shriek'd, the deep's still'd wave was stay'd,
And, roll'd into himself, upon the winds he rose:
223
Hear, glorious Chief, and ope thy vaulted hall;
I come—yet harping shall I mix with air:
Bear, O ye winds, my accents to Fingal,
The voice of him, who prais'd the mighty, bear.
I come—yet harping shall I mix with air:
Bear, O ye winds, my accents to Fingal,
The voice of him, who prais'd the mighty, bear.
The northern blasts, O king, thy gates unfold:
Dimly in all thy arms I see thee gleam;
Yet not as erst, the terror of the bold,
Tho' by thy power the stormy meteors stream.
Dimly in all thy arms I see thee gleam;
Yet not as erst, the terror of the bold,
Tho' by thy power the stormy meteors stream.
There is a murmur on the heath—I hear
The voice of high Fingal—that seems to say,
(Long, long hath it been absent from mine ear)
“Come to my halls, come Ossian, come away!”
The voice of high Fingal—that seems to say,
(Long, long hath it been absent from mine ear)
“Come to my halls, come Ossian, come away!”
Tho' silent are the plains where battle rung,
Yet in the four grey stones we rest our fame:
In woody Selma hath our harp been strung,
Tho' its tones vanish'd as the vapoury flame.
Yet in the four grey stones we rest our fame:
In woody Selma hath our harp been strung,
Tho' its tones vanish'd as the vapoury flame.
224
“Come, Ossian, from thy Cona's desart vales!
“Sail with thy sires, in clouds embosom'd deep,
“O'er heaven!” I come; the life of Ossian fails:
By Mora's dim stone I shall sink to sleep.
“Sail with thy sires, in clouds embosom'd deep,
“O'er heaven!” I come; the life of Ossian fails:
By Mora's dim stone I shall sink to sleep.
The winds shall whistle to my earthy bed;
And they may lift my wither'd tresses hoar:
But Ossian cannot wake—his clay-cold head
Is doom'd to feel the rustling blast no more.
And they may lift my wither'd tresses hoar:
But Ossian cannot wake—his clay-cold head
Is doom'd to feel the rustling blast no more.
Yet shall my fame survive this feeble form,
And, like the towering oak of Morven grow,
Which proudly lifts its head to meet the storm,
And waves in triumph o'er the wreck below!
And, like the towering oak of Morven grow,
Which proudly lifts its head to meet the storm,
And waves in triumph o'er the wreck below!
225
TO MRS. POLWHELE
WRITTEN AT MANACCAN, 1794.
The music of light-wafted sighs,
The charm of accents ever kind,
And, beaming from thy placid eyes,
The radiance of a heaven-fraught mind;
The charm of accents ever kind,
And, beaming from thy placid eyes,
The radiance of a heaven-fraught mind;
To glad this cot, from tumult far,
Such are the harmonies of love—
How sweet beneath yon gentle star
Whose evening-lustre gilds the grove!
Such are the harmonies of love—
How sweet beneath yon gentle star
Whose evening-lustre gilds the grove!
Then, once again, I hail repose—
Once more my happy home caress;
If love, that unaffected flows,
Can promise aught of happiness.
Once more my happy home caress;
If love, that unaffected flows,
Can promise aught of happiness.
226
Here, Mary! as the waving shade
Shall whisper peace, each rural day;
We own no joy by guilt allay'd,
Nor care what others think or say.
Shall whisper peace, each rural day;
We own no joy by guilt allay'd,
Nor care what others think or say.
Yet, if we heed applause or blame,
'Tis but to make us doubly blest;
While, as the praise thy merits claim,
To envy we resign the rest.
'Tis but to make us doubly blest;
While, as the praise thy merits claim,
To envy we resign the rest.
227
ON AN APPLE-TREE FULL OF BLOSSOM, SEPT. 11, 1798.
TO OLIVIA MELIORA.
Where, shivering thro' the leafy shade,
September breathes a gloom;
Lo yonder apple-tree array'd
In all its vernal bloom.
September breathes a gloom;
Lo yonder apple-tree array'd
In all its vernal bloom.
'Twas gay Pomona bade it blow
At Meliora's suit:
Yet blooms that in September glow,
Are like forbidden fruit.
At Meliora's suit:
Yet blooms that in September glow,
Are like forbidden fruit.
Then, Meliora! with thine hair
These blossoms if thou weave;
Alas, unweeting girl! beware
The fate of mother Eve.
These blossoms if thou weave;
Alas, unweeting girl! beware
The fate of mother Eve.
228
TO OLIVIA MELIORA
GATHERING HOP BLOSSOMS FOR HER HAIR, SEPT. 11, 1798.
Lo, at the ball, with martial mien
The sparks of every shop—
To gaze upon the paly green
That trembles in thy Hop!
The sparks of every shop—
To gaze upon the paly green
That trembles in thy Hop!
Yet, Meliora! in one pause
Of calm reflection, stop;
And, if thou can'st, my girl, shew cause
Why life is not a Hop!
Of calm reflection, stop;
And, if thou can'st, my girl, shew cause
Why life is not a Hop!
The gay, at length, grow sick of soul,
Or jilt, or flirt, or fop:
So, oft, around the aspiring pole,
We see the exhausted Hop.
Or jilt, or flirt, or fop:
So, oft, around the aspiring pole,
We see the exhausted Hop.
229
Amid the feast of life, we rue
Full many a bitter sop:
So those who love and those who brew
Draw bitter from a Hop.
Full many a bitter sop:
So those who love and those who brew
Draw bitter from a Hop.
And, whilst we flutter to and fro,
'Till fainting down we drop;
Alas! we live and die, to shew
That life is but a Hop!
'Till fainting down we drop;
Alas! we live and die, to shew
That life is but a Hop!
230
THE POOR SPARROW OF THE INFIRMARY, 1800.
His fluttering prey, amid this dome
Impetuous to pursue,
Thro' the long airy-window'd room
The bird of rapine flew.
Impetuous to pursue,
Thro' the long airy-window'd room
The bird of rapine flew.
While scarce descried, on pinions fleet
The tyrant glanc'd away;
Affrighted, crouching at my feet,
A feeble sparrow lay.
The tyrant glanc'd away;
Affrighted, crouching at my feet,
A feeble sparrow lay.
Far off, the aërial murderer sail'd
To scatter deadly fear
But lo, the little trembler hail'd
A sure asylum here.
To scatter deadly fear
But lo, the little trembler hail'd
A sure asylum here.
231
Thus, the dread minister of fate
Intent his rage to wreak
On human kind, to each retreat
Pursues the faint and weak.
Intent his rage to wreak
On human kind, to each retreat
Pursues the faint and weak.
Yet, if amidst these walls, perchance,
He catch the patient's eyes;
Scarce is he seen, with sudden glance,
When off disarm'd he flies.
He catch the patient's eyes;
Scarce is he seen, with sudden glance,
When off disarm'd he flies.
What tho' he stretch the bloody fang?
Here, here his threats are vain;
The sick forgetting every pang—
The wounded, every pain!
Here, here his threats are vain;
The sick forgetting every pang—
The wounded, every pain!
232
THE SCARLET FEVER.
SEPT. 1801.
Whilst fever from the sultry east
Effus'd her venom pale;
Her raven “snuff'd the promis'd feast,”
And croak'd in every gale.
Effus'd her venom pale;
Her raven “snuff'd the promis'd feast,”
And croak'd in every gale.
In yon low dell, where nigh the thatch
The hops in clusters spread,
I saw the unconscious victim stretch
His little hands for aid;
The hops in clusters spread,
I saw the unconscious victim stretch
His little hands for aid;
Or, vainly pant for zephyrs cool
Within that steamy creek;
Or there, beside the rush-green pool,
Betray the burning cheek.
Within that steamy creek;
Or there, beside the rush-green pool,
Betray the burning cheek.
233
I saw the maid, who sweetly bloom'd,
Draw quick her poison'd breath;
And those fine eyes, that love illum'd,
For ever clos'd in death.
Draw quick her poison'd breath;
And those fine eyes, that love illum'd,
For ever clos'd in death.
Yet, “Here (I cried) this sloping hill
“Hygeia! be thy care!
“As freshness from the shade and rill
“Shall fan the tainted air.
“Hygeia! be thy care!
“As freshness from the shade and rill
“Shall fan the tainted air.
“Here, as their tales my children lisp,
“Or frolic down the green,
“Shall fruits in acid ripeness crisp,
“Inspirit every vein.
“Or frolic down the green,
“Shall fruits in acid ripeness crisp,
“Inspirit every vein.
“Here, Mary! never shall a sigh
“Thy placid bosom move;
“Nor e'er a languish dim thine eye,
“Unless it be from—love!”
“Thy placid bosom move;
“Nor e'er a languish dim thine eye,
“Unless it be from—love!”
234
Such was my strain. In soften'd shade
The evening sunk away;
As health with roses seem'd to braid
The glimmering car of day.
The evening sunk away;
As health with roses seem'd to braid
The glimmering car of day.
Alas! in fairy hopes like these,
How impious to repose!
Soon, dropping from his wing disease,
The lurid morning rose.
How impious to repose!
Soon, dropping from his wing disease,
The lurid morning rose.
Blushing no longer as they blush'd
A few short hours ago,
I view my offspring fever-flusht,
And shivering as they glow.
A few short hours ago,
I view my offspring fever-flusht,
And shivering as they glow.
Say, Mary! can I tell the rest?
Alas! thy sickening charms!
And clinging to thy scarlet breast
Thy poor babe's feeble arms.
Alas! thy sickening charms!
And clinging to thy scarlet breast
Thy poor babe's feeble arms.
235
Parent of all! Thou good Supreme!
O mark my bended knee;
The liveliest hope is all a dream,
If uninspir'd by Thee.
O mark my bended knee;
The liveliest hope is all a dream,
If uninspir'd by Thee.
Father of Light! 'tis thine alone
To pour the healing balm!
Oh, as we fall before thy throne
Our throbbing pulses calm.
To pour the healing balm!
Oh, as we fall before thy throne
Our throbbing pulses calm.
These innocents, great Sire of Life!
Their mother—Oh, sustain!
Yes! to my sighs restore my wife,
Or all my prayers are vain!
Their mother—Oh, sustain!
Yes! to my sighs restore my wife,
Or all my prayers are vain!
236
JANUARY 1, 1805.
The years that are past, and can never return,
In idea I fain would call back;
But how faithless is Memory! In anger I spurn
At her false, her dim-shadowy track.
In idea I fain would call back;
But how faithless is Memory! In anger I spurn
At her false, her dim-shadowy track.
At length less obscure, my life's morning again
Seems to open, with rays of relief—
Yet oppos'd to the present, it gives me new pain;
And my anger is chang'd into grief!
Seems to open, with rays of relief—
Yet oppos'd to the present, it gives me new pain;
And my anger is chang'd into grief!
237
ON LAWRENCE POLWHELE,
WHO DIED AN INFANT, AUG. 10, 1805.
Thro' the long night, my cradled child
Drew quick his feeble breath;
And vainly stretch'd his quivering arms
Amidst the shade of death.
Drew quick his feeble breath;
And vainly stretch'd his quivering arms
Amidst the shade of death.
The daystar rose: the redbreast pour'd
A note to dawning day;
His spirit, ere the note expir'd,
Had pass'd, serene, away.
A note to dawning day;
His spirit, ere the note expir'd,
Had pass'd, serene, away.
And oh! it left in pale repose
A smile upon his cheek:
Thus, thro' the still cold gloom, I view'd
The placid morning break.
A smile upon his cheek:
Thus, thro' the still cold gloom, I view'd
The placid morning break.
238
Dear Babe! that warbled strain I hear,
Thy pensive requiem sweet;
As, lifting up the coffin-lid,
Those features mild I meet,
Thy pensive requiem sweet;
As, lifting up the coffin-lid,
Those features mild I meet,
And, plac'd in either lifeless palm,
And, on thy breast, the flowers
That fade so fast, and seem to say
How short thine infant hours.
And, on thy breast, the flowers
That fade so fast, and seem to say
How short thine infant hours.
But thou art spar'd full many a pang,
Escap'd from sin and care:
And ever shall a Saviour's love
Such sainted children share.
Escap'd from sin and care:
And ever shall a Saviour's love
Such sainted children share.
“Hail, with affection hail,” (he cries)
“These spotless babes of Grace:
“For lo! their angels e'er behold
“In Heaven, my Father's face.”
“These spotless babes of Grace:
“For lo! their angels e'er behold
“In Heaven, my Father's face.”
239
Thither I see the seraphs wings
Earth's little strangers bear—
Thee, Lawrence! child of innocence!
Thine angel greets thee, there.
Earth's little strangers bear—
Thee, Lawrence! child of innocence!
Thine angel greets thee, there.
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