 | The Harp of Erin |  |
218
ODE TO DESCRIPTION.
NYMPH of the vari-colour'd bow,
That arch'd with a majestic show,
Girts the cloudy tinctur'd sky,
And charms the frenzy-rolling eye
Of raptur'd bard, who sees thee ride
The flaunting steed with graceful pride,
And down the heav'n's cerulean steep
Descending fall, with liquid sweep,
'Till Phœbus' orient car appears,
And all thy glory melts in tears.
Gay nymph, my verdant cottage view,
Where snow-drops dwell, and vi'lets blue,
And woodbine creeps with scented flow'r,
And sweet-bri'r decks the humble door,
And op'ning on the well-pleas'd eye,
The black-wreath'd mountains prop the sky;
And fairies haunt the twilight green,
And spirits run in shrowded sheen,
To prompt the raven's dirge of woe,
Or walk their destin'd round below;
And thou shalt hear at dappled morn
The crested cock with clarion-horn,
But chief the blackbird's shall relieve
Thy grief, when dewy-sandal'd eve
Meekly sheds a sober ray,
And spreads her robe of motley-gray
Along the sky, with matron-grace,
Till Hesper comes with glowing face;
But soon his glitt'ring race is run,
Faint rival of the mighty sun!
Then let me hear thy whisper'd tale,
Embower'd among the shady vale,
Of heroes old, and days of yore;
Which Eld, with locks of silv'ry hoar,
Told thee, when yet an infant young
Faint lispings falter'd on thy tongue,
Of learned lore, which sons of Fame
Produc'd, to raise the Grecian name
On lofty song of ancient time,
Or annals quaint of deed sublime,
Which Jason, by the wizzard aid
Of Colchic spells, and potent maid,
Achiev'd; how stubborn Ilion fell,
And Trojan warriors sunk to hell.
Thy light heel on my sod imprint,
And pencil out, in heav'nly tint,
The joys that rose-crown'd Pleasure shows,
Or oh! pourtray the wretch's woes,
When comfort cheers with no relief
The sombre scenery of his grief,
And fell Despair o'ercast the eye,
Reverted humbly to the sky.
That arch'd with a majestic show,
Girts the cloudy tinctur'd sky,
And charms the frenzy-rolling eye
Of raptur'd bard, who sees thee ride
The flaunting steed with graceful pride,
And down the heav'n's cerulean steep
Descending fall, with liquid sweep,
'Till Phœbus' orient car appears,
And all thy glory melts in tears.
Gay nymph, my verdant cottage view,
Where snow-drops dwell, and vi'lets blue,
And woodbine creeps with scented flow'r,
And sweet-bri'r decks the humble door,
And op'ning on the well-pleas'd eye,
The black-wreath'd mountains prop the sky;
And fairies haunt the twilight green,
And spirits run in shrowded sheen,
To prompt the raven's dirge of woe,
Or walk their destin'd round below;
219
The crested cock with clarion-horn,
But chief the blackbird's shall relieve
Thy grief, when dewy-sandal'd eve
Meekly sheds a sober ray,
And spreads her robe of motley-gray
Along the sky, with matron-grace,
Till Hesper comes with glowing face;
But soon his glitt'ring race is run,
Faint rival of the mighty sun!
Then let me hear thy whisper'd tale,
Embower'd among the shady vale,
Of heroes old, and days of yore;
Which Eld, with locks of silv'ry hoar,
Told thee, when yet an infant young
Faint lispings falter'd on thy tongue,
Of learned lore, which sons of Fame
Produc'd, to raise the Grecian name
On lofty song of ancient time,
Or annals quaint of deed sublime,
Which Jason, by the wizzard aid
Of Colchic spells, and potent maid,
Achiev'd; how stubborn Ilion fell,
And Trojan warriors sunk to hell.
Thy light heel on my sod imprint,
And pencil out, in heav'nly tint,
220
Or oh! pourtray the wretch's woes,
When comfort cheers with no relief
The sombre scenery of his grief,
And fell Despair o'ercast the eye,
Reverted humbly to the sky.
Now wrap me in the whirlwind's gloom,
And snatch me to the moss-grown tomb,
Where many a widow'd tear was shed,
Where many an orphan laid his head,
To dream of all his formor joy,
When the fond father bless'd his boy,
And squeez'd the infant to his breast
To soothe his little soul to rest;
Or, when he came from daily care,
With them his well-earn'd hire to share,
Their breast with virtue to inform,
And shield them from the wint'ry storm.
O! whirl me from the garish day,
And let me scenes like those survey;
Or, mounted in thy rapid car,
Hurry me to the ranks of war,
Where Death prolongs the warrior-groan,
And Discord, in the cannon's tone,
Proclaims her own horrific will,
And thunders loudly “Heroes, kill!”
But now the chief, in tortures grim,
Writhes every agonizing limb;
Faint shadows swim before his sight,
And murder ends the bloody fight.
And snatch me to the moss-grown tomb,
Where many a widow'd tear was shed,
Where many an orphan laid his head,
To dream of all his formor joy,
When the fond father bless'd his boy,
And squeez'd the infant to his breast
To soothe his little soul to rest;
Or, when he came from daily care,
With them his well-earn'd hire to share,
Their breast with virtue to inform,
And shield them from the wint'ry storm.
O! whirl me from the garish day,
And let me scenes like those survey;
Or, mounted in thy rapid car,
Hurry me to the ranks of war,
Where Death prolongs the warrior-groan,
And Discord, in the cannon's tone,
Proclaims her own horrific will,
And thunders loudly “Heroes, kill!”
221
Writhes every agonizing limb;
Faint shadows swim before his sight,
And murder ends the bloody fight.
Now Melancholy, silent, slow,
Each pulse quick-beating to my woe,
Ah! waft me to the sickly bed,
Where lies the prudent father dead,
And all his sons! a mournful train,
Of doom untimely fix'd complain,
And weeping, seem with plaintive cry
To catch new sorrows from her eye
Who nurs'd their infant years, and now
Perceive no pause of ling'ring woe!
Or to the cloister's ivy'd wall,
Where sighing to the fountain's fall,
The maniac weeps, unhappy maid,
And calls her dear Alcander's shade;
And wrings her hand with frantic woe,
And sighs, that he should leave her so;
Then sweetly sings her love-lorn song,
While Nature wild attunes her tongue
To sweetest themes of proffer'd love,
And wishes in the conscious grove;
But soon her blessings fade away,
Again she tunes the dol'rous lay,
And bursts her breast, with many a sigh,
Beneath the moon's lack-lustre eye.
Each pulse quick-beating to my woe,
Ah! waft me to the sickly bed,
Where lies the prudent father dead,
And all his sons! a mournful train,
Of doom untimely fix'd complain,
And weeping, seem with plaintive cry
To catch new sorrows from her eye
Who nurs'd their infant years, and now
Perceive no pause of ling'ring woe!
Or to the cloister's ivy'd wall,
Where sighing to the fountain's fall,
The maniac weeps, unhappy maid,
And calls her dear Alcander's shade;
And wrings her hand with frantic woe,
And sighs, that he should leave her so;
Then sweetly sings her love-lorn song,
While Nature wild attunes her tongue
To sweetest themes of proffer'd love,
And wishes in the conscious grove;
But soon her blessings fade away,
Again she tunes the dol'rous lay,
222
Beneath the moon's lack-lustre eye.
Now lap me in the wild of pleasure,
While I taste each lurking treasure
Of syren Cyrce's cup divine,
And smile as rosy as the wine,
That purply dances in the glass
Proffer'd by Hebe, blooming lass,
Whose tresses, interwove with show'rs
Of lilies, and all roseate flow'rs,
Steal the raptur'd soul of Jove,
And string the bow of sportive Love,
To pierce his awful bosom through,
And make him court, in public view;
While sliding down the cloudy vault,
Entic'd by some delicious thought,
He clothes himself in down of dove,
And leaves the golden throne above,
Forgetting quite the thund'ring Jove,
And revels in the fair-one's breast;
And raptur'd in ecstatic rest,
Devours the tempting feast of joy,
While Cytherea's winged boy
Mimics the gold, and in his heart
Fixes swift another dart,
Then sets him on some alien scheme,
To satisfy her am'rous flame;
While scepter'd Juno raves above,
To find out her gallanting Jove.
But oh! let not the jocund Muse,
Ever recite the talk of shrews;
But panting, trembling, sighing, wooing,
Never mind what they are doing.
While I taste each lurking treasure
Of syren Cyrce's cup divine,
And smile as rosy as the wine,
That purply dances in the glass
Proffer'd by Hebe, blooming lass,
Whose tresses, interwove with show'rs
Of lilies, and all roseate flow'rs,
Steal the raptur'd soul of Jove,
And string the bow of sportive Love,
To pierce his awful bosom through,
And make him court, in public view;
While sliding down the cloudy vault,
Entic'd by some delicious thought,
He clothes himself in down of dove,
And leaves the golden throne above,
Forgetting quite the thund'ring Jove,
And revels in the fair-one's breast;
And raptur'd in ecstatic rest,
Devours the tempting feast of joy,
While Cytherea's winged boy
Mimics the gold, and in his heart
Fixes swift another dart,
223
To satisfy her am'rous flame;
While scepter'd Juno raves above,
To find out her gallanting Jove.
But oh! let not the jocund Muse,
Ever recite the talk of shrews;
But panting, trembling, sighing, wooing,
Never mind what they are doing.
Goddess, on thy way sublime
Waft me to the Indian clime,
Where the slaves, with labour faint,
O'er the fervid furrows pant,
And fearful of the master's eye,
Smother soft the rising sigh,
That weeps, the toil of day undone,
And fury of the scorching sun;
That lifts aloft his burning crest,
And the hot buckler on his breast,
That fires the kindling world around,
And scathes the sky, a fiery mound!
O! let me join their bitter woe,
My tears with pangs congenial flow,
And while I raise the angry strain,
Curse their fell tyrant's galling chain,
That lording o'er his helpless train,
Sinks the slave below the man!
Now, now, quick frenzy fires my eye,
I see the gory murd'rer die;
He wallows in the crimson flood
Of wife and children's steaming blood;
And now by furies stern possest,
He stabs the dagger in his breast;
His grim frown seems to threat the sky,
And madness flashes from his eye—
But now how calm the angry frown
That call'd avenging lightnings down;
He sees bright cherubs rang'd around
Start upward at the grizzly wound,
And leave his soul, depress'd with care,
To feel the pangs of wild despair;
To fathom deep th' abyss of night,
And plunge the realms devoid of light,
Save the blue sulphur's glimm'ring gleam,
Tortur'd by many a demon's scream,
He wails the knell, in slaughter dy'd,
And the stern frown of suicide.
Waft me to the Indian clime,
Where the slaves, with labour faint,
O'er the fervid furrows pant,
And fearful of the master's eye,
Smother soft the rising sigh,
That weeps, the toil of day undone,
And fury of the scorching sun;
That lifts aloft his burning crest,
And the hot buckler on his breast,
That fires the kindling world around,
And scathes the sky, a fiery mound!
O! let me join their bitter woe,
My tears with pangs congenial flow,
And while I raise the angry strain,
Curse their fell tyrant's galling chain,
That lording o'er his helpless train,
Sinks the slave below the man!
224
I see the gory murd'rer die;
He wallows in the crimson flood
Of wife and children's steaming blood;
And now by furies stern possest,
He stabs the dagger in his breast;
His grim frown seems to threat the sky,
And madness flashes from his eye—
But now how calm the angry frown
That call'd avenging lightnings down;
He sees bright cherubs rang'd around
Start upward at the grizzly wound,
And leave his soul, depress'd with care,
To feel the pangs of wild despair;
To fathom deep th' abyss of night,
And plunge the realms devoid of light,
Save the blue sulphur's glimm'ring gleam,
Tortur'd by many a demon's scream,
He wails the knell, in slaughter dy'd,
And the stern frown of suicide.
To castled cliffs and antres vast,
Cavern'd in the rocky waste,
My footsteps lead; where Spenser trod,
Or Milton woo'd th' inspiring god;
There let me tune exalted lays
To bards divine of former days,
And, dress'd in all thy varying hues,
Invoke thee, goddess, for my muse,
To wing my soaring soul above,
And rival with the bird of Jove
In lofty flight, and frame my song
The lucid-beaming stars among;
While minding sweet my mortal cars,
I catch the music of the spheres;
And, like Prometheus bold, reveal
To wond'ring earth the fire I feel,
Inspiring in my tuneful soul
Contempt of ev'ry mean controul,
That blames sweet Fiction's fairy song,
Or calls Description's heighten'd beauties wrong.
Cavern'd in the rocky waste,
My footsteps lead; where Spenser trod,
Or Milton woo'd th' inspiring god;
There let me tune exalted lays
To bards divine of former days,
225
Invoke thee, goddess, for my muse,
To wing my soaring soul above,
And rival with the bird of Jove
In lofty flight, and frame my song
The lucid-beaming stars among;
While minding sweet my mortal cars,
I catch the music of the spheres;
And, like Prometheus bold, reveal
To wond'ring earth the fire I feel,
Inspiring in my tuneful soul
Contempt of ev'ry mean controul,
That blames sweet Fiction's fairy song,
Or calls Description's heighten'd beauties wrong.
| The Harp of Erin | |