Original poems on several subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

The hurry of the busy world was o'er,
And in the western ocean sunk the sun;
Mild Eve, unlocking her ambrosial store,
To throw thick shadows from the hills begun.

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A solemn stillness lull'd the silent world,
The fleecy flocks within their folds retir'd;
Save where the pebble-ruffled streamlet purl'd,
Save where the grove with whisp'ring plaints inspir'd.

Save where the thrush, perch'd on a thorny spray,
Makes ev'ry echo vocal with his song,
Join'd by the loud-pip'd blackbird's kindred lay,
Down the dark lengthen'd vale protracted long.

Save where the turtle, in soft cooing strains,
While not a breath to interrupt him stirs,
To his coy unrelenting mate complains,
From the green bosom of encircling firs.

Now, on the surface of the lucid stream,
The youthful swains exert each active limb;
Around in dewy light the waters gleam,
Forming alternate circles as they swim.

This charming exercise Health calls her own,
Hence beauty, life, and pleasure be it nam'd,
Fresh as Aurora on her eastern throne,
Each gains the beach, in every nerve new-fram'd.

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Returning home, with triumph in his look,
The Angler in his basket bears his spoils,
The finny treasures of a neighb'ring brook,
Or by his hook made captive, or his toils.

On the green turf the village-rout advance,
Maids of plump buxom form, and spruce-clad swains;
Each mingles artless in the festive dance,
Enliven'd by the fiddle's well-known strains.

Each shepherd fronts the nymph he most admires,
A glance declares what Colin's fears deny;
Damon betrays his heart-consuming fires
In the spontaneous language of a sigh.

With native art, and well-affected scorn,
Fain would each maid her ignorance pretend;
But vainly would the east conceal the morn,
When tipt with liquid gold the hills ascend.

Now Contemplation mounts her eagle-wing,
To take advantage of the special hour;
Wonders, where-e'er she moves, before her spring,
Court her attention, and exhaust each pow'r.

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Lost in a breathing wilderness of sweets,
Through the wide garden's order'd walks she strays,
Where Beauty with her sister Plenty meets,
Reflecting each on each commutual praise.

Yonder she stoops to view the lily clad
In fair, unspotted mantle, white as milk;
Narcissus here, with soft declining head,
Dress'd in a figured robe of glossy silk.

Let haughty monarchs, seated on a throne,
Demand the homage of a thousand knees;
Lo! Contemplation calls a world her own,
All yonder sun in his proud circuit sees.

In chariot, rapid as the whirlwind's speed,
Astonish'd through Creation can she fly,
Where systems in amazing change succeed,
Nor stop to see an emperour pass by.

No zephyr whispers through the sighing trees,
No murmurs float down the pellucid rills;
No forest-bloom invites the sipping bees,
No lambkins bleat round from adjacent hills;

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No costly pearls lie scatter'd on the shore,
No diamonds sparkle on their native rock;
No metals glitter in their common ore,
No coral blushes on its parent stock;

No gaudy peacock spreads his rainbow plumes,
A bright circumf'rence of resplendent hues;
No bed of flowers the ambient air perfumes,
No healing plant distills its balmy dews;

No vernal songster tunes his tender lay,
No foodful herb protrudes its infant stems;
No insect flutters on the quiv'ring spray,
No hawthorn twinkles, hung with pendent gems:

Nature dispenses nought of fair, or sweet,
Of useful, curious, delicate, or grand,
But rises in luxuriance at her feet,
But waits obsequious on her mild command.

To Her, and gentle Eve, Silence, and Ease,
Who would the bustle of a court prefer,
At Virtue's cost where men are pleas'd, and please,
Depart from Nature, and from Reason err?

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With them, as life advances in its round,
Our knowledge and astonishment increase;
Till, haply, with success our labours crown'd,
Death shuts our eyes, and ends our days in peace.

But now the wearied peasant's homeward gone,
To taste the welcome sweets of healthful rest;
Such rest as honest rural toil brings on,
Not discompos'd by guilt, perplexing guest.

Free from Ambition's wildly-fancied schemes
Of boundless honours, riches, and renown;
The fopling's raptures, and the miser's dreams,
And endless terrours that beset a crown.

Him at the door his smiling offspring meet,
His wonted period they remember well;
Lisping and prattling round in accents sweet,
Each has its pretty artless tale to tell.

See, how they strive to grasp his willing hand,
Jump to his arms to share the offer'd kiss!
Let kings with empty glory states command,
Even kings might envy such a scene as this.

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With what the garden's wholesome beds afford,
The simple pantry, or the milky churn,
Within his consort spreads the humble board,
Impatient for his welfare and return.

Let not the homely peasant then repine,
Though coarse his fare, and his attendants rude;
Let princes boast their rarities and wine,
His cooling esculents are better food.

These give an active vigour to the nerve,
And paint with roseate bloom the smiling face;
From num'rous ills the hardy frame preserve,
That torture and deform the human race:

The whizling asthma, and consumption wan,
The stone, the gout, the ague, and catarrh;
Those foes conleagu'd implacable 'gainst man,
That slaughter more than fall a prey to war.

Summer for him matures her finest roots,
Suckles each wholesome plant, and balmy herb;
For him the orchard swells with choicest fruits,
And ev'ry meadow wears a flowery garb.

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Excursive bees, for his luxurious use,
With liquid sweets distend their waxen cells.
For him rich crops Autumnal suns produce,
While underneath his roof kind Plenty dwells.

What would the man, from Virtue's paths astray,
Whose thoughts perplex, whose passions domineer,
Uncheck'd by sober Reason's friendly sway,
Harass'd by conscience, and disturb'd with fear;

What would he give one moment to enjoy
The lowly ploughman's toil-inhanc'd repose,
Sweet cordial slumbers never known to cloy,
Which, big with boasts, proud Grandeur ne'er bestows?

Did mankind know what palaces contain,
What splendid mis'ry fills a coach and six;
What Hydra mischiefs round encompass Gain,
What poisons with Earth's choicest pleasures mix:

Could we conceive but half the piercing smart
That often lurks beneath a specious show;
The keen remorse, the sorrow-bleeding heart,
The sad reflection, and the poignant wo:

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Sure our ambition would no higher rise,
No larger views our restless wishes swell,
Than with the hind, now all his labour o'er,
Beneath the cot's unenvied roof to dwell.

Contented to partake the homely dish,
The herb, the root, the brook that murmurs by,
Viands, though not high-season'd to our wish,
Which health, grey hairs, and strength of limb supply.

Such topics croud upon the studious thought
At the soft period of departed day;
The soul seems now by intuition taught,
And wak'd by magic the spontaneous lay.

Quick as the eye, in many a vivid glance,
Shoots o'er the landscape's variegated scene;
Fancy sinks in enthusiastic trance,
And pleasing rapture thrills along each vein.

For what rapt muse, with philosophic eye,
Half thy productions, Nature, can run o'er?
Sooner arrang'd the stars of midnight sky,
Or aggregated sands that form the shore.

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When Morn impearls the ground with shining gems,
Beauty seems in her fairest form array'd;
While gradual she expands the tender stems,
Or sits with Meditation in the shade.

But see mild Eve approach, by zephyrs fann'd,
Breathing the garden's humid sweets around;
Still softer beauties rise at her command,
Flow'rs rob'd in fairer liv'ry strow the ground.

Nor, on the scorching heats of noon intent,
When Vegetation droop'd her sickly head,
Are Recollection's thoughts now idly spent,
To lessen ev'ry object round her spread.

When Spring succeeds inclement Winter's reign,
And turns his frown of horrour to a smile;
What new-created charms bedeck the scene,
Wrapt up in vapours, mists, and storms erewhile.

But Summer comes, to rule the laughing year,
Her cheek the glow of health, her breath perfume;
Where e'er her flow'r-enamel'd steps appear,
How rich the drap'ry! and how deep the bloom!

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Has Nature yet a larger fund in store?
She has; see Autumn bending with his load
Of yellow full-ear'd wealth, unknown before,
On Industry's peculiar sons bestow'd.

Thus fondly still the present we conclude,
More lovely, more attractive than the past;
Our wonder heightens with the object view'd,
Their origin the same, the same their last.

Such rich variety, such beauteous change,
Revolving still, as months complete their signs,
Where-e'er our fancy-guided footsteps range,
But chiefly when Day's parting sun-beam shines.

Aside when Nature lays her dazzling robes,
And mantles her fair form in sober grey;
When gentle Eve rounds the soft dew in globes,
And scatters them translucent on each spray.

Transported with the scene, the pensive Muse
Strays onward by a stream's meand'ring flow;
Where, in a length of avenue diffuse,
Majestic elms their bending shade bestow.

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Hither with fond alacrity she moves,
To woo fair Virtue in her native seats,
For Virtue solitude and silence loves,
And oft to them from drawing-rooms retreats.

Hills, at some distance, with ambitious height,
Ascending to the skies, confine the view,
From which the sun, in scatter'd rays of light,
Took, like departing friends, his late adieu.

Here, in the centre of a shady bow'r,
Rises a seat of turf, enamel'd o'er
With a rich carpet of each fragrant flow'r,
While branches arch'd an entrance form before.

Ivy around with honey-suckle twines
In wanton folds its fondly-clasping arms;
While, as the twilight through each op'ning shines,
The mantling gloom seems to display new charms.

Sparkling with crystal rocks, and orient gems,
There fretted grottoes boast each curious shell,
Embellish'd by the coral's blushing stems,
Where Art would Nature in address excel.

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In drousy tinklings, or in murmurs deep,
Yonder a cascade swells upon the breeze,
Abruptly falling down the rocky steep,
Finely beheld through intermingling trees.

Oft from the vulgar croud, the venal throng,
Loathing Life's vain parade of forms and toys,
Here Meditation steals, and brings along
No languid relish for sequester'd joys.

The World, compos'd of senseless mode and show,
A dull impertinence of care and strife;
At least one maxim teaches us to know,
That to enjoy, is to retire from life.

In such a peaceful consecrated shade,
If, recollected in itself, the mind
Mourns no gross errours, from Uprightness stray'd,
Each his lost Paradise regain'd may find.

For what was paradise? the sweet recess
Of Innocence, unconscious of a blush;
When no fell serpent taught men to transgress,
No fruitage tempted with deceitful flush.

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If guilt embitters not the cup of life,
If no distress broods o'er the troubled thought;
If Passion kindles no intestine strife,
In ev'ry grove an Eden may be sought.

How sweet from tumult often to withdraw,
From ostentation, noise, and bustling care,
Where sordid Self reigns with despotic law,
And here breathe copious draughts of healthful air.

The sun, rejoicing in his mid-day bow'r,
Has oft beheld me pensively reclin'd,
And, ere dismiss'd the thoughtful musing pow'r,
With welcome beam in distant climates shin'd.

Then, all the air felt one continued glow,
The panting swain, while strength and spirits fail,
Suspends his toil, and where cool streamlets flow,
Sits down with breast expanded to the gale.

Smitten and vanquish'd with excessive heat,
The herds stroll breathless to the gelid shade;
Silent, the birds to deepest glooms retreat,
The drooping rose's damask blushes fade.

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But now, refreshing genial coolness reigns,
Fans in the breeze, or falls in dewy show'rs;
Cattle in droves browse o'er the verdant plains,
And deep vermilion paints the lifeless flow'rs.

Thus Nature acts on wise prudential plan,
(Her plan all should industriously pursue)
How grateful such vicissitudes to man,
Ensur'd his safety, and his pleasures too!

Did constant heat or cold o'er-rule the year,
Soon Vegetation would our Earth forsake;
Did endless light prevail, or darkness drear,
What could our listless lives more wretched make.

But gracious Heav'n, still uniformly good,
These wide extremes attempers still so well,
That, if our weal or duty understood,
To be dissatisfied, is to rebel.

Thus, while around the alcove's freshness breathes,
And nightingales protract their songs of wo;
While the faint breeze sighs through the jes'mine wreathes,
The Muse's numbers not unconscious flow,

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Each scene of mirth and gaiety's now fled,
The nymphs and swains forsake the flow'ry lawn,
All save the Muse, by vagrant fancy led,
To their respective mansions are withdrawn.

Martlets now quit their airy circling range,
Decreasing still their clamours as they fly;
The lone bat, flitting with incessant change,
On leathern pinion wings the darksome sky.

The wheeling hornet no one course confines,
On heedless here, now there, dull drone, he holds;
In lucid spangles, lo, the glow-worm shines,
As o'er the blade he drags his spiral folds.

Creation now seems mantled in a shade,
But soon this momentary darkness ends;
A promis'd visit yet remains unpaid,
To welcome it the willing Muse ascends.

The moon, pale empress of the midnight hour,
Full orb'd, moves forward on her ebon wain;
With unperceiv'd, but with resistless pow'r,
To rule the ebbing and the flowing main.

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Hesper, warn'd by her quick approach, retires,
And modestly withdraws his fainter light;
First star that hangs, replete with twinkling fires,
Its silver lamp in the blue vault of night.

Peeping alternate through the twilight sky,
A thousand little sparkling orbs advance,
To pay their court, in radiance not to vie,
And grace her path-way cross the arch'd expanse.

The herb, the plant, the dew-bespangled flow'r,
Drain'd of each breathing juice, each gelid sweet,
While Day's bright lord o'er-rul'd the sultry hour,
Her softer beams, her gentler presence greet.

On yonder elm, in spreading foliage drest,
The owl sits melancholy bird of wo;
Enthusiastic rapture thrills the breast,
While from her throat the uncouth numbers flow.

The cavern'd rock returns her rueful moan,
Sad through the trees the dreary accents glide;
The tott'ring tow'r, with ivy overgrown,
Oft as she told her piteous tale, replied.

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Silent, within the leafy copse inclos'd,
Remote from harm, the warblers of the spring,
Each in its little downy nest repos'd,
Listen, and nearer press with cow'ring wing.

Methinks, amid this solitary gloom,
The soul would soar on eagle's wing sublime,
As earth's whole stretch affords but scanty room,
Beyond the utmost boundaries of time.

Methinks she seems oppress'd beneath the weight
Of her conceptions, up to transport wrought;
Sinking with her own voluntary freight,
And overwhelm'd in the profound of thought.

At such a crisis, how the bosom glows,
How the full heart swells with unknown desires,
Virtue herself, or Richmond only knows,
Whom gentlest feelings move, and taste inspires.

Nature, profusely lavish of her charms,
Ne'er form'd before a more alluring place;
Never did trees extend their leafy arms,
With more umbrageous friendship to embrace.

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Never did raptur'd music charm so well,
While Philomela told her mournful tale;
Never did odours of a sweeter smell,
Freight, evanescent, the warm southern gale.

Never did colours finer mix'd reside
In fairer flow'rs to fix the ravish'd look;
Never did murmurs more attractive glide
In crystal globules down the gurgling brook.

Ne'er did the moon, from her nocturnal steep,
Shed milder influence on the lambent eye;
Never did Silence softer vigils keep,
Or wing'd Imagination soar so high.

For Virtue now the Muse's fancy caught,
And Contemplation's ev'ry pow'r ingross'd;
Absorbing each less interesting thought,
As Cynthia's beam in noon's effulgence lost.

She gives a heighten'd verdure to the plain,
And branching shade, new brightness to the sky;
A softer cadence to the warbler's strain,
Scarce, else, distinguish'd by the ear, or eye.

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Virtue! for whom the grand Creation rose,
Emerging fair from chaos and from night;
Though various jarring elements compose,
Govern'd by wisdom, and upheld by might.

For whom shone forth yon centre-station'd sun,
The moon, and all the planetary train,
Which still in stated equal circles run,
Order of days and seasons to maintain.

For whom Almighty Power will stretch its arm.
To raze the column that sustains the world;
While her bless'd sons survey, without alarm,
Ten thousand globes prone into ruin hurl'd.

Virtue! the theme that tunes the martyr's lyre,
Oft as her smiling radiant form he eyes;
Sets the angelic bosom all on fire,
And brightens ev'n the mansions of the skies.

Virtue! by whom inspir'd, great names of old
Dar'd nobly to contemn the tyrant's frown;
Sublimely firm, heroically bold,
No parasites, no cringers to a crown,

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Though chain'd in dungeons, burning in the flames,
Or nail'd fast to the ignominious tree;
Yet torment the most hardy natures tames,
And conquers, Virtue! ev'ry thing but—Thee.

Virtue! ador'd and practis'd by the wife,
The noble, gen'rous spirit, and the brave;
Ambition's adequate, consistent prize,
All our vast hopes affect, or wishes crave.

Virtue! pure source of rapture, to supply
Large draughts to chaste and elegant desire;
Not transient, like the dews of evening-sky,
Not flashy like yon shoot of meteor fire.

Sweetly with whom retir'd, the hermit's cell,
Howe'er fastidious Grandeur keeps aloof,
Though herbs his meat, his drink the crystal well;
Invites beyond the lordly festoon'd roof.

But what mere mortal pencil can depaint
That portrait angels call devoutly thine?
The boldest strokes, the richest tints are faint,
Alas! how infinitely languid mine!

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But O! forgive the well-intention'd lays,
Nor, though the tribute's small, reject the will;
Beyond the strains that only sound thy praise,
The heart that loves thee is accepted still.

From thy fair presence, struck with conscious awe,
Cursing their abject littleness of form,
Abandon'd Guilt's ignoble throng withdraw,
As from bright Spring the wint'ry gloom and storm.

Stung to the heart, there, Insolence and Pride,
Sour Jealousy with agitated mien;
Envy, and sister Obloquy squint-ey'd,
Dark Discontent, and self-tormenting Spleen.

Here, Avarice, his soul absorb'd in pelf,
His Heav'n, his all, some scraps of gilded ore;
Nought more contemn'd by wise men—save himself,
Oppress'd with wealth, yet grasping after more.

Deceit, Malevolence, and swoln Disdain,
Hypocrisy, wrapt up in false disguise;
Remorse, dire source of bosom-rending pain,
Despair, with ghastly looks, and staring eyes.

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These hell-born monsters, this detested crew,
Abash'd from thy vindictive throne retire;
Unable to sustain thy piercing view,
Or bear the frown of thy celestial ire.

But gentle is thy train! surpassing fair!
Sincerity, with open honest face;
Meekness with downcast eye, and placid air,
And Beauty full of dignity and grace.

Sweet Modesty, dress'd in a robe more white
Than snow new-dropt from Winter's fleecy store;
And Charity, with exquisite delight,
Still doing good, still wishing to do more.

Bright Liberty, first blessing of the skies,
Without which angels were far less than man;
Friendship, with fervent heart, and eager eyes,
Still acting on the candid gen'rous plan.

Science, unlimited by time or place,
Her compass ever pointing towards truth;
Content, with smiles eternal on her face,
And Health, to age itself ensuring youth.

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Peace, with the olive blooming in her hand,
Around her all the splendid Arts arrang'd;
Plenty, diffusing gladness through the land,
From clime to clime her liberal gifts exchang'd.

Illustrious Patriotism, nobly warm'd,
And vehement, in Freedom's sacred cause;
With seven-fold terrours resolutely arm'd,
To save his country, and assert its laws.

Valour, with shining folds of laurel wreath'd,
Trophies of glory sculptur'd on his shield;
Who ne'er beholds his dreadful dagger sheath'd,
Against her foes when Virtue takes the field.

Justice, still weighing with impartial scale,
Mercy and Pity, gentle sisters twain,
While Misery relates her melting tale,
Still shedding tears, nor shedding them in vain.

These are the Glories that surround thy throne,
That Thee their parent, friend, and guardian call;
The Graces that thy soft dominion own,
Catch thy pleas'd glance, and wait upon thy smile.

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Though ridicul'd, or slighted, for thy sake,
Who would not court thy favour and acclaim;
Live in thy temple, of thy joys partake,
Howe'er unknown to Fortune, or to Fame?

O! make me sympathetic but with thee,
Thy feelings conscious feel, thy knowledge know;
Hear with thine ear, with thy own soft eye see,
I ask no more, Heav'n can no more bestow!

But now the chilly vapours of the night
Fall thick and fast, loud from a village-spire,
While death-like sleep seals up the human sight,
With solemn toll the clock warns to retire.

Rous'd by the sound, no more the copse confines,
Homeward the Muse accelerates her way;
While through the trees a yellow radiance shines,
A faint resemblance of departed day.

The active pulse of Nature beats no more,
Care's breathless voice sunk to spontaneous rest;
Save where the miser counts his rusted store,
Yet Want, fell harpy, gnawing at his breast.

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Save where the house-dog, faithful to his trust,
Keeps through the sullen gloom incessant watch;
Or where the sons of gluttony and lust
Prolong the noisy revel and debauch.

But hold—be censure here discreetly hush,
Virtue's chaste song let no suggestion taint;
Prevent yon conscious moon's indignant blush,
Nor interrupt Night's silence with complaint.