Juvenilia or, A collection of poems. Written between the ages of twelve and seventeen, by J. H. L. Hunt ... Fourth Edition |
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RETIREMENT,
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 | Juvenilia |  |
RETIREMENT,
OR THE GOLDEN MEAN.
Est modus in rebus, sunt certi deniq. fines;
Quos ultra, citraq. nequit consistere rectum.
Hor Sat. I.
Quos ultra, citraq. nequit consistere rectum.
Hor Sat. I.
Auream quisquis mediocritatem
Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti
Sordibus tecti; caret invidenda
Sobrius aula.
Hor. Od. X. Lib. I.
Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti
Sordibus tecti; caret invidenda
Sobrius aula.
Hor. Od. X. Lib. I.
Retirement, soother of the wo-worn breast,
By all the good and all the great caress'd;
Thy shady groves, thy fields of lively green,
Where Contemplation bends her brow serene;
Thy rippling streams that silver o'er the plain,
The mild, the peaceful pleasures of thy reign,
Invite the song, be present at my lay,
And let me chant along thy velvet way.
By all the good and all the great caress'd;
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Where Contemplation bends her brow serene;
Thy rippling streams that silver o'er the plain,
The mild, the peaceful pleasures of thy reign,
Invite the song, be present at my lay,
And let me chant along thy velvet way.
How blest the mortal far from gorgeous care,
The tort'ring badge that Vice and Envy wear;
Far from the rank that elevates mankind,
To shew their eyes the good they left behind:
As from the Alps the trav'ler tott'ring slow,
Bends o'er his native fields that smile below;
And, while the storm oft pauses o'er the plain,
Asks back his cottage and his crook in vain!
He cares not where Ambition's maniacs rave,
No royal flatt'rer, and no titled slave;
But spurns behind him, as to light he springs,
The pomp of Courtiers, and the pride of Kings.
The tort'ring badge that Vice and Envy wear;
Far from the rank that elevates mankind,
To shew their eyes the good they left behind:
As from the Alps the trav'ler tott'ring slow,
Bends o'er his native fields that smile below;
And, while the storm oft pauses o'er the plain,
Asks back his cottage and his crook in vain!
He cares not where Ambition's maniacs rave,
No royal flatt'rer, and no titled slave;
But spurns behind him, as to light he springs,
The pomp of Courtiers, and the pride of Kings.
Nor sinks his manly soul to ruder joys,
That love the vulgar, vanity and noise.
Pleasures like these, that bubble and are dead,
Fly from his peaceful walks and placid head;
That noble breast where sense and honour reign,
Disgrace and Folly toil to blot in vain.
Thus the soft breeze, like some forgotten dream,
Sighs o'er the oil that smooths the ruffled stream;
Yet flits unheeded o'er the wat'ry glass,
Nor breathes impression on its crystal face.
That love the vulgar, vanity and noise.
Pleasures like these, that bubble and are dead,
Fly from his peaceful walks and placid head;
That noble breast where sense and honour reign,
Disgrace and Folly toil to blot in vain.
Thus the soft breeze, like some forgotten dream,
Sighs o'er the oil that smooths the ruffled stream;
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Nor breathes impression on its crystal face.
This is the man, this, this Creation's Lord,
Whom all must envy, yet whom all applaud!
This is the Man, “who,” crouds admiring cry,
“Has learnt to live, and trembles not to die!
“Who wisely steer'd where no loud tempests roar,
“No rocks tremendous threaten from the shore;
“But kept life's middle stream, whose waters past,
“Death frowns no more, and heav'n is man's at last!”
Whom all must envy, yet whom all applaud!
This is the Man, “who,” crouds admiring cry,
“Has learnt to live, and trembles not to die!
“Who wisely steer'd where no loud tempests roar,
“No rocks tremendous threaten from the shore;
“But kept life's middle stream, whose waters past,
“Death frowns no more, and heav'n is man's at last!”
Ye purpled wretches, crown'd with vice and shame,
Wretches, whose all is vanity and name;
Ye scept'red Neros, pageants of an hour,
Whose god is Mammon, and whose idol Pow'r;
Say, can your bosoms smooth Contentment know,
With peace be gentle, or with Virtue glow?
Can hot Intemp'rance cool your boiling veins,
And yield to Virtue Reason's trampled reins?
Can shrivell'd Av'rice smooth the brow of Care,
Or pois'nous Envy antidote Despair?
Can mad Ambition, pow'rs unfetter'd lust,
Bid you be still, and tell you, ye are dust?
Go! search your treasures, mark the envious glance,
The hectic glow of Riot's revell'd dance;
Exalt your heads, where high Ambition shrouds
His arm in thunders, and his eye in clouds;
And is it there Peace hides her hermit head,
Woes are no more, and human wishes dead?
Say, Wilmot, first at Pleasure's painted goal;
Say, royal Richmond, with thy shrivell'd soul;
Tell, stern Eliza thou, whose vengeance dread
Fell envy pour'd on sad Maria's head;
Tell, high-brow'd Wolsey, son of splendid Care,
Thou castle, built of vanity and air;
Say, sleeps Repose where Conscience finds no rest?
Does bliss enrapture in the guilty breast?
Wretches, whose all is vanity and name;
Ye scept'red Neros, pageants of an hour,
Whose god is Mammon, and whose idol Pow'r;
Say, can your bosoms smooth Contentment know,
With peace be gentle, or with Virtue glow?
Can hot Intemp'rance cool your boiling veins,
And yield to Virtue Reason's trampled reins?
Can shrivell'd Av'rice smooth the brow of Care,
Or pois'nous Envy antidote Despair?
Can mad Ambition, pow'rs unfetter'd lust,
Bid you be still, and tell you, ye are dust?
Go! search your treasures, mark the envious glance,
The hectic glow of Riot's revell'd dance;
Exalt your heads, where high Ambition shrouds
His arm in thunders, and his eye in clouds;
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Woes are no more, and human wishes dead?
Say, Wilmot, first at Pleasure's painted goal;
Say, royal Richmond, with thy shrivell'd soul;
Tell, stern Eliza thou, whose vengeance dread
Fell envy pour'd on sad Maria's head;
Tell, high-brow'd Wolsey, son of splendid Care,
Thou castle, built of vanity and air;
Say, sleeps Repose where Conscience finds no rest?
Does bliss enrapture in the guilty breast?
While kings and nobles share the thorns of Woe,
Some still are scatter'd on the crouds below.
See thro' the mob, where Vice triumphant rules,
And vacant Ign'rance stares among her fools;
See Discontent her mutt'ring lips conceal!
And loud Contention threat the public weal!
See Filth, disgusting, wallow in her mire,
And Noise and Riot light eternal fire!
And, ah! let Pity turn her dewy eyes,
Where gasping Penury unfriended lies;
Where wild-eyed Hunger bows her fainting head,
And sickness swoons upon her tatter'd bed!
There no mild hand uprears the drooping form,
No meek Benevolence averts the storm!
Soft pillow'd Ease, that slumbers off the day,
And haughty Grandeur turn in scorn away;
Till he, whom Fortune never call'd her own,
Sinks in the silent grave, unpitied and unknown!
Some still are scatter'd on the crouds below.
See thro' the mob, where Vice triumphant rules,
And vacant Ign'rance stares among her fools;
See Discontent her mutt'ring lips conceal!
And loud Contention threat the public weal!
See Filth, disgusting, wallow in her mire,
And Noise and Riot light eternal fire!
And, ah! let Pity turn her dewy eyes,
Where gasping Penury unfriended lies;
Where wild-eyed Hunger bows her fainting head,
And sickness swoons upon her tatter'd bed!
There no mild hand uprears the drooping form,
No meek Benevolence averts the storm!
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And haughty Grandeur turn in scorn away;
Till he, whom Fortune never call'd her own,
Sinks in the silent grave, unpitied and unknown!
O let me drop from scenes so full of care,
Rank's gilded wrinkles, and the Pauper's tear;
O let me drop, Retirement, to thy shades,
Thy bubbling runnels, and thy silent glades;
Thy fields, where Cheerfulness disports the day;
Thy groves, where pensive silence loves to stray;
Thy level lawns, each pasture and each plain,
And all the beauties of thy woodland reign!
Rank's gilded wrinkles, and the Pauper's tear;
O let me drop, Retirement, to thy shades,
Thy bubbling runnels, and thy silent glades;
Thy fields, where Cheerfulness disports the day;
Thy groves, where pensive silence loves to stray;
Thy level lawns, each pasture and each plain,
And all the beauties of thy woodland reign!
With these, sufficiency, content, and health,
I scorn alike nobility and wealth;
Pomp and parade, like vengeful furies, fly,
And up no heights ambitious lift mine eye.
Religion only, as it only shou'd,
Will make me noble, when it makes me good;
Rich in her smiles, I glory to be man,
And life's no more a shadow and a span.
I scorn alike nobility and wealth;
Pomp and parade, like vengeful furies, fly,
And up no heights ambitious lift mine eye.
Religion only, as it only shou'd,
Will make me noble, when it makes me good;
Rich in her smiles, I glory to be man,
And life's no more a shadow and a span.
How sweet to rise, when Morn's refulgent hand
Waves o'er the bright'ning sky her magic wand;
How sweet to rise, with manly Temp'rance strong,
And hear the Lark begin his quaver'd song;
To view Creation smiling as she glows,
And see fresh Nature waken from repose!
Boast ye, ye sons of Opulence and Pow'r,
Boast ye, 'midst all your treasures, such an hour?
Can pallid Sloth desert her downy rest,
Or panting Asthma lift th' unweildy breast?
Does nightly Revel spring to hail the sky,
Or Riot wake with Animation's eye?
Waves o'er the bright'ning sky her magic wand;
How sweet to rise, with manly Temp'rance strong,
And hear the Lark begin his quaver'd song;
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And see fresh Nature waken from repose!
Boast ye, ye sons of Opulence and Pow'r,
Boast ye, 'midst all your treasures, such an hour?
Can pallid Sloth desert her downy rest,
Or panting Asthma lift th' unweildy breast?
Does nightly Revel spring to hail the sky,
Or Riot wake with Animation's eye?
And ah! when Ev'nings “gradual dusky veil”
Bouys its dark texture on the soften'd gale,
How lov'd yon arbour, where the honied flow'rs
Bloom on the air, and scent the floating hours!
There, when bright Titan sinks behind the hill,
And his last colours paint the village rill;
How joys the eye, attentive to the skies,
To step down slowly, as he slowly dies;
While streams of splendour roll along the west,
And mark the limits of his purple rest!
So sinks the man, whose conscience Heav'n approves,
Whom Angels venerate, and Virtue loves.
Lamenting Honour weeps upon his hearse,
And carves in gold the monumental verse;
While Glory beams o'er Death's retiring gloom,
And, with unfading splendour, crowns his tomb!
Bouys its dark texture on the soften'd gale,
How lov'd yon arbour, where the honied flow'rs
Bloom on the air, and scent the floating hours!
There, when bright Titan sinks behind the hill,
And his last colours paint the village rill;
How joys the eye, attentive to the skies,
To step down slowly, as he slowly dies;
While streams of splendour roll along the west,
And mark the limits of his purple rest!
So sinks the man, whose conscience Heav'n approves,
Whom Angels venerate, and Virtue loves.
Lamenting Honour weeps upon his hearse,
And carves in gold the monumental verse;
While Glory beams o'er Death's retiring gloom,
And, with unfading splendour, crowns his tomb!
Thus pass his days, delightful and serene;
Thus lives the man, who gains the Golden Mean.
He shuns alike ambitious storms of strife,
And flies the noisy walks of vulgar life;
And, as Creation boasts her greenest birth,
Where the mild zone enclasps the smiling earth:
Far from the North and all its winters drear,
And where no southern summers scorch the year;
Thus joys his soul, thus smiles upon the day,
Where life's soft medium gilds his flow'ry way;
Where Pleasure, pure as Heav'n itself that sent,
And Solitude sit dimpled with content;
Where Peace is pomp, Humility a king,
And Nature boasts one unrevolving spring.
Thus lives the man, who gains the Golden Mean.
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And flies the noisy walks of vulgar life;
And, as Creation boasts her greenest birth,
Where the mild zone enclasps the smiling earth:
Far from the North and all its winters drear,
And where no southern summers scorch the year;
Thus joys his soul, thus smiles upon the day,
Where life's soft medium gilds his flow'ry way;
Where Pleasure, pure as Heav'n itself that sent,
And Solitude sit dimpled with content;
Where Peace is pomp, Humility a king,
And Nature boasts one unrevolving spring.
| Juvenilia | |