Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
 |
|
|
HARVEY. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
 | Poems |  |
HARVEY.
An APOSTROPHE.
Blest was the hour—if bliss, indeed, belong
To the high fervours of Poetic song—
Blest was the hour—if 'tis the bliss of youth
To thirst for knowledge, and to pant for truth—
From Academic shades when Harvey came,
Wak'd the first spark, and fann'd the etherial flame:
When, midst Bæotian fogs, his purer ray
Pour'd on mine eye the intellectual day;
And, sole instructor of my youthful mind,
Rous'd the fine thrill extatic and refin'd—
Touch'd the keen nerve, and taught the tear to flow
O'er Shenstone's moral page, and Jessey's artless woe.
But, ah! more blest had been that fairer day
(Why, why are proffer'd blessings spurn'd away?)
When, gay of heart (the Tutor's talk no more)
He proffer'd Friendship at my natal door:—
More blest had been—but their ill-judging fears
Who claim'd obedience from my tender years
(With prudent saws from Traffic's school imbu'd)
To check the cordial fires of youth intrude:
Whence oft my Muse bewails, in pensive strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
To the high fervours of Poetic song—
Blest was the hour—if 'tis the bliss of youth
To thirst for knowledge, and to pant for truth—
From Academic shades when Harvey came,
Wak'd the first spark, and fann'd the etherial flame:
When, midst Bæotian fogs, his purer ray
Pour'd on mine eye the intellectual day;
And, sole instructor of my youthful mind,
Rous'd the fine thrill extatic and refin'd—
Touch'd the keen nerve, and taught the tear to flow
O'er Shenstone's moral page, and Jessey's artless woe.
But, ah! more blest had been that fairer day
(Why, why are proffer'd blessings spurn'd away?)
117
He proffer'd Friendship at my natal door:—
More blest had been—but their ill-judging fears
Who claim'd obedience from my tender years
(With prudent saws from Traffic's school imbu'd)
To check the cordial fires of youth intrude:
Whence oft my Muse bewails, in pensive strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
But, oh! that, Harvey! to thy classic ear
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares;
And with this burthen saddens of the strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares;
And with this burthen saddens of the strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
For ah! what pity—since too truly known
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
Along Life's road, how many a bramble grows,
How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's boon refin'd
(Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should thus be cast with heedless scorn away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Harvey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
Along Life's road, how many a bramble grows,
How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's boon refin'd
(Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should thus be cast with heedless scorn away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Harvey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
118
[_]
The above form a sort of series of the juvenile productions of the author; and as such merely they are presented. The volumes in which they appeared have fallen into meritted oblivion; from which few of the articles, it is hoped, will ever be revived. In the wide chasm that separates these from the ensuing poems, the following is introduced, from another pen.
| Poems | |