 | The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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TO LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SIR ROWLAND HILL, K.B.
Hill! whose high daring with renew'd successHath cheer'd our tardy war, what time the cloud
Of expectation, dark and comfortless,
Hung on the mountains; and yon factious crowd
Blasphem'd their country's valour, babbling loud!
Then was thine arm reveal'd, to whose young might,
By Toulon's leaguer'd wall, the fiercest bow'd;
Whom Egypt honour'd, and the dubious fight
Of sad Corunna's winter, and more bright
Douro, and Talavera's gory bays;
Wise, modest, brave, in danger foremost found.—
So still, young warrior, may thy toil-earn'd praise,
With England's love and England's honour crown'd,
Gild with delight thy father's latter days!
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LINES SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, ON LORD GRENVILLE'S INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR.
Ye viewless guardians of these sacred shades,These lines were spoken (as is the custom of the University on the installation of a new chancellor) by a young nobleman, whose diffidence induced him to content himself with the composition of another. Of this diffidence his friends have reason to complain, as it suppressed some elegant lines of his own on the same occasion.
Dear dreams of early song, Aonian maids!—
And you, illustrious dead! whose spirits speak
In each warm flush that tints the student's cheek,
As, wearied with the world, he seeks again
The page of better times and greater men;
If with pure worship we your steps pursue,
And youth, and health, and rest forget for you,
(Whom most we serve, to whom our lamp burns bright
Through the long toils of not ingrateful night,)
Yet, yet be present!—Let the worldly train
Mock our cheap joys, and hate our useless strain,
Intent on freighted wealth, or proud to rear
The fleece Iberian or the pamper'd steer ;—
Let sterner science with unwearied eye
Explore the circling spheres and map the sky;
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And of his iron arch the rainbow span:
Yet, while, in burning characters imprest,
The poet's lesson stamps the youthful breast;
Bids the rapt boy o'er suffering virtue bleed,
Adore a brave or bless a gentle deed,
And in warm feeling from the storied page
Arise the saint, the hero, or the sage;
Such be our toil !—Nor doubt we to explore
The thorny maze of dialectic lore,
To climb the chariot of the gods, or scan
The secret workings of the soul of man;
Upborne aloft on Plato's eagle flight,
Or the slow pinion of the Stagyrite.—
And, those grey spoils of Herculanean pride,
If aught of yet untasted sweets they hide ;—
If Padua's sage be there, or art have power
To wake Menander from his secret bower.
Such be our toil !—Nor vain the labour proves,
Which Oxford honours, and which Grenville loves!
—On, eloquent and firm !—whose warning high
Rebuked the rising surge of anarchy,
When, like those brethren stars to seamen known,
In kindred splendour Pitt and Grenville shone ;—
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Has ceased to lash the shore, nor storm forgot to rave.
Go on! and oh, while adverse factions raise
To thy pure worth involuntary praise;
While Gambia's swarthy tribes thy mercies bless,
And from thy counsels date their happiness;
Say, (for thine Isis yet recals with pride
Thy youthful triumphs by her leafy side,)
Say, hast thou scorn'd, mid pomp, and wealth, and power,
The sober transports of a studious hour?—
No, statesman, no !—thy patriot fire was fed
From the warm embers of the mighty dead;
And thy strong spirit's patient grasp combined
The souls of ages in a single mind.—
—By arts like these, amidst a world of foes,
Eye of the earth, th' Athenian glory rose ;—
Thus last and best of Romans, Brutus shone ;—
Our Somers thus, and thus our Clarendon;
Such Cobham was ;—such, Grenville, long be thou,
Our boast before,—our chief and champion now !—
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EPITAPH ON A YOUNG NAVAL OFFICER,
DESIGNED FOR A TOMB IN A SEAPORT TOWN IN NORTH WALES.
Sailor! if vigour nerve thy frame,
If to high deeds thy soul is strung,
Revere this stone that gives to fame
The brave, the virtuous, and the young!—
If to high deeds thy soul is strung,
Revere this stone that gives to fame
The brave, the virtuous, and the young!—
Captain Conway Shipley, third son to the dean of St. Asaph, perished in an attempt to cut out an enemy's vessel from the Tagus with the boats of his Majesty's frigate La Nymphe, April 22,1808, in the twenty-sixth year of his age, and after nearly sixteen years of active service; distinguished by every quality both of heart and head which could adorn a man or an officer. Admiral Sir Charles Cotton, and the captains of his fleet, have since erected a monument to his memory in the neighbourhood of Fort St. Julian.
For manly beauty deck'd his form,
His bright eye beam'd with mental power;
Resistless as the winter storm,
Yet mild as summer's mildest shower.—
His bright eye beam'd with mental power;
Resistless as the winter storm,
Yet mild as summer's mildest shower.—
In war's hoarse rage, in ocean's strife,
For skill, for force, for mercy known;
Still prompt to shield a comrade's life,
And greatly careless of his own.—
For skill, for force, for mercy known;
Still prompt to shield a comrade's life,
And greatly careless of his own.—
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Yet, youthful seaman, mourn not thou
The fate these artless lines recall:
No, Cambrian! no, be thine the vow,
Like him to live, like him to fall !—
The fate these artless lines recall:
No, Cambrian! no, be thine the vow,
Like him to live, like him to fall !—
But hast thou known a father's care,
Who sorrowing sent thee forth to sea;
Pour'd for thy weal th' unceasing prayer,
And thought the sleepless night on thee ?—
Who sorrowing sent thee forth to sea;
Pour'd for thy weal th' unceasing prayer,
And thought the sleepless night on thee ?—
Has e'er thy tender fancy flown,
When winds were strong and waves were high,
Where listening to the tempest's moan,
Thy sisters heav'd the anxious sigh?
When winds were strong and waves were high,
Where listening to the tempest's moan,
Thy sisters heav'd the anxious sigh?
Or in the darkest hour of dread,
'Mid war's wild din, and ocean's swell,
Hast mourn'd a hero brother dead,
And did that brother love thee well ?—
'Mid war's wild din, and ocean's swell,
Hast mourn'd a hero brother dead,
And did that brother love thee well ?—
Then pity those whose sorrows flow
In vain o'er Shipley's empty grave !—
—Sailor, thou weep'st :—indulge thy woe;
Such tears will not disgrace the brave !—
In vain o'er Shipley's empty grave !—
—Sailor, thou weep'st :—indulge thy woe;
Such tears will not disgrace the brave !—
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FRAGMENT ON ALCHEMY.
So fares the sage, whose mystic labours tryThe thorny paths of fabled alchemy.
Time, toil, and prayer, to aid the work conspire,
And the keen jaws of dross-devouring fire.
In one dim pile discordant embers blaze,
And stars of adverse influence join their rays;
Till every rite perform'd, and labour sped,
When the clear furnace dawns with sacred red,
From forth the genial warmth and teeming mould,
The bright-wing'd radiance bursts of infant gold.
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IMITATION OF A SONG,
SAID TO HAVE BEEN COMPOSED BY ROBERT DUKE OF NORMANDY, DURING HIS CONFINEMENT IN CARDIFF CASTLE, ADDRESSED TO AN OAK WHICH GREW IN AN ANCIENT ENCAMPMENT WITHIN SIGHT OF HIS WINDOWS.
Oak, that stately and alone
On the war-worn mound hast grown,
The blood of man thy sapling fed,
And dyed thy tender root in red;
Woe to the feast where foes combine,
Woe to the strife of words and wine!
On the war-worn mound hast grown,
The blood of man thy sapling fed,
And dyed thy tender root in red;
Woe to the feast where foes combine,
Woe to the strife of words and wine!
Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year,
'Mid whisp'ring rye-grass tall and sear,
The coarse rank herb, which seems to show
That bones unbless'd are laid below;
Woe to the sword that hates its sheath,
Woe to th' unholy trade of death!
'Mid whisp'ring rye-grass tall and sear,
The coarse rank herb, which seems to show
That bones unbless'd are laid below;
Woe to the sword that hates its sheath,
Woe to th' unholy trade of death!
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Oak, from the mountain's airy brow
Thou view'st the subject woods below,
And merchants hail the well-known tree,
Returning o'er the Severn sea.
Woe, woe to him whose birth is high,
For peril waits on royalty!
Thou view'st the subject woods below,
And merchants hail the well-known tree,
Returning o'er the Severn sea.
Woe, woe to him whose birth is high,
For peril waits on royalty!
Now storms have bent thee to the ground,
And envious ivy clips thee round;
And shepherd hinds in wanton play
Have stripp'd thy needful bark away;
Woe to the man whose foes are strong,
Thrice woe to him who lives too long!
And envious ivy clips thee round;
And shepherd hinds in wanton play
Have stripp'd thy needful bark away;
Woe to the man whose foes are strong,
Thrice woe to him who lives too long!
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HONOUR ITS OWN REWARD.
Swell, swell the shrill trumpet clear sounding afar,
Our sabres flash splendour around,
For freedom has summon'd her sons to the war,
Nor Britain has shrunk from the sound.
Our sabres flash splendour around,
For freedom has summon'd her sons to the war,
Nor Britain has shrunk from the sound.
Let plunder's vile thirst the invaders inflame,
Let slaves for their wages be bold,
Shall valour the harvest of avarice claim?
Shall Britons be barter'd for gold?
Let slaves for their wages be bold,
Shall valour the harvest of avarice claim?
Shall Britons be barter'd for gold?
No! free be our aid, independent our might,
Proud honour our guerdon alone;
Unhir'd be the hand that we raise in the fight,
The sword that we brandish our own.
Proud honour our guerdon alone;
Unhir'd be the hand that we raise in the fight,
The sword that we brandish our own.
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Still all that we love to our thoughts shall succeed,
Their image each labour shall cheer,
For them we will conquer—for them we will bleed,
And our pay be a smile or a tear!
Their image each labour shall cheer,
For them we will conquer—for them we will bleed,
And our pay be a smile or a tear!
And oh! if returning triumphant we move,
Or sink on the land that we save,
Oh! blest by his country, his kindred, his love,
How vast the reward of the brave!
Or sink on the land that we save,
Oh! blest by his country, his kindred, his love,
How vast the reward of the brave!
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TRANSLATION OF A FRAGMENT OF A DANISH SONG.
King Christian stood beside the mast,
In smoky night;
His falchion fell like hammer fast,
And brains and helms asunder brast;
Then sunk each hostile hull and mast
In smoky night;
Fly, fly! they shrieked—what mortal man
Can strive with Denmark's Christian
In fight?
In smoky night;
His falchion fell like hammer fast,
And brains and helms asunder brast;
Then sunk each hostile hull and mast
In smoky night;
Fly, fly! they shrieked—what mortal man
Can strive with Denmark's Christian
In fight?
Niels Juel raised a warrior cry,
“Now, now's the day!”
He hoisted up the red flag high,
And dashed amidst the enemy
With blow on blow, and cry on cry,
“Now, now's the day!”
And still they shrieked—“Fly, Sweden, fly!
When Juel comes, what strength shall try
The fray?”
“Now, now's the day!”
He hoisted up the red flag high,
And dashed amidst the enemy
With blow on blow, and cry on cry,
“Now, now's the day!”
And still they shrieked—“Fly, Sweden, fly!
When Juel comes, what strength shall try
The fray?”
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TRANSLATION OF AN INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT,
INTENDED TO PERPETUATE THE MEMORY OF THE FRIENDSHIP OF TWO PERSONS WHO WERE LIVING WHEN IT WAS WRITTEN.
“May every light-winged moment bearA blessing to this noble pair.
Long may they love the rural ease
Of these fair scenes, and scenes like these;
The pine's dark shade, the mountain tall,
And the deep dashing water-fall.
And when each hallowed spirit flies
To seek a better paradise,
Beneath this turf their ashes dear
Shall drink their country's grateful tear;
In death alike and life possessing,
The rich man's love, the poor man's blessing.”
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VERSIFICATION OF THE SPEECH OF GEOORGIN TO BEYUN, (FROM THE SHAH NAMEH.)
Seest thou yon shelter'd vale of various dye,Refreshing prospect to the warrior's eye?
Yon dusky grove, yon garden blooming fair,
The turf of velvet, and of musk the air?
Surcharged with sweets the languid river glides,
The lilies bending o'er its silver tides;
While through the copse in bashful beauty glows
The dark luxuriance of the lurking rose.
Now seen, now lost, amid the flowery maze,
With slender foot the nimble pheasant strays;
The ringdove's murmur lulls the cypress dell,
And richest notes of tranced Philomel.
Still, still the same, through every circling year,
Unwearied spring renews an Eden here.
And mark, my friend, where many a sylph-like maid
Weaves the lithe dance beneath the citron shade!
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Beams like a sun-ray through this scented wild;
Sitara next, her sister, beauteous queen,
Than rose or fairest jasmine fairer seen;
And last, their Turkish maids, whose sleepy eyes
Laugh from beneath each envious veil's disguise;
Whose length of locks the coal-black musk disclose,
Their forms the cypress, and their cheeks the rose;
While on their sugar'd lips the grape's rich water glows.
How blest the traveller not forbid to stay
In such sweet bowers the scorching summer's day!
How fam'd the knight whose dauntless arm should bear
To great Khi-Kusroo's court a Turkish fair!
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FROM THE MOALLAKAH OF HARETH.
And Asma! lovely sojourner! wilt thou forsake our land,
Forgetful of thy plighted vows on Shamma's glittering sand?
No more in Shoreb's rugged dell I see thee by my side,
No more in Katha's mead of green where vocal waters glide!
In Ayla and in Shobathan all lonely must I go,
And, therefore, sleep has fled my soul, and fast my sorrows flow!
Forgetful of thy plighted vows on Shamma's glittering sand?
No more in Shoreb's rugged dell I see thee by my side,
No more in Katha's mead of green where vocal waters glide!
In Ayla and in Shobathan all lonely must I go,
And, therefore, sleep has fled my soul, and fast my sorrows flow!
Yet am I loved, and yet my eyes behold the beacon light,
Which Hinda kindles on her hill, to lure me through the night,
Broad as the dawn, from Akik's brow its ruddy embers shine,
But Hinda's heart may never meet an answering glow in mine!
And I must seek a nobler aid against consuming care,
Where all the brethren of my tribe the battle bow prepare.
Which Hinda kindles on her hill, to lure me through the night,
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But Hinda's heart may never meet an answering glow in mine!
And I must seek a nobler aid against consuming care,
Where all the brethren of my tribe the battle bow prepare.
My camel with the mother-bird in swiftness well may vie,
Tall as a tent, 'mid desert sands that rears her progeny,
That lists the murmur of the breeze, the hunter's lightest sound
With stealthy foot at twilight fall soft gliding o'er the ground;
Tall as a tent, 'mid desert sands that rears her progeny,
That lists the murmur of the breeze, the hunter's lightest sound
With stealthy foot at twilight fall soft gliding o'er the ground;
But not the ostrich speed of fire my camel can excel,
Whose footstep leaves so light a mark we guess not where it fell;
Now up, now down, like wither'd leaves that flit before the wind,
On her I stem the burning noon that strikes the valiant blind.
Whose footstep leaves so light a mark we guess not where it fell;
Now up, now down, like wither'd leaves that flit before the wind,
On her I stem the burning noon that strikes the valiant blind.
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Yes, we have heard an angry sound of danger from afar,
Our brother's bands of Tayleb's seed have braved us to the war;
The good and evil they confound, their words are fierce and fell,
“Their league,” say they, “is with the tribe that in the desert dwell.”
Their men of might have met by night, and as the day began,
A proud and a disdainful shout throughout their army ran,
And horses neighed, and camels screamed, and man cried out on man!
Our brother's bands of Tayleb's seed have braved us to the war;
The good and evil they confound, their words are fierce and fell,
“Their league,” say they, “is with the tribe that in the desert dwell.”
Their men of might have met by night, and as the day began,
A proud and a disdainful shout throughout their army ran,
And horses neighed, and camels screamed, and man cried out on man!
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THE BOKE OF THE PURPLE FAUCON.
Icy commence le Romaunt du Grand Roye Pantagruelle.
Yt is a kynge both fyne and felle,
That hyght Sir Claudyus Pantagruelle,—
The fynest and fellest, more or lesse,
Of alle the kynges in Heathenesse.
That Syre was Soudan of Surrye,
Of Œstrick and of Cappadocie,
His Eme was Lorde I understonde
Of all Cathaye and of Bœhman Londe.
LXX Dukes, that were soe wighte,
Served him by daie and by nighte.
Thereto he made him a lothely messe,
Everie morninge more or lesse,
A manne chylde of VII yere age,
Thereof he seethed hys pottage.
Everie knyghte who went that waye
His nose and ears was fayne to paye;
Sothely, as the Romaunts telle,
For the Dyner of Pantagruelle.
Yn all the londes of Ethiopeè
Was ne so worthy a kynge as hee.
That hyght Sir Claudyus Pantagruelle,—
The fynest and fellest, more or lesse,
Of alle the kynges in Heathenesse.
That Syre was Soudan of Surrye,
Of Œstrick and of Cappadocie,
His Eme was Lorde I understonde
Of all Cathaye and of Bœhman Londe.
LXX Dukes, that were soe wighte,
Served him by daie and by nighte.
Thereto he made him a lothely messe,
Everie morninge more or lesse,
A manne chylde of VII yere age,
Thereof he seethed hys pottage.
Everie knyghte who went that waye
His nose and ears was fayne to paye;
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For the Dyner of Pantagruelle.
Yn all the londes of Ethiopeè
Was ne so worthy a kynge as hee.
Ande it befelle upon a daye
Thys Pantagruelle he went to playe
With his Ladye thatte was soe brighte,
Yn her bowre yn alle mennes syghte.
Thatte Ladye was hyghte Cycelee;
And thereto sange shee
Alle into Grekysh as she colde best,—
“Lambeth, Sadeck, Apocatest;”
Namely, “My love yf thou wouldest wynne
Bringe wyth thee a purple falcon ynne.”
Thys Pantagruelle he went to playe
With his Ladye thatte was soe brighte,
Yn her bowre yn alle mennes syghte.
Thatte Ladye was hyghte Cycelee;
And thereto sange shee
Alle into Grekysh as she colde best,—
“Lambeth, Sadeck, Apocatest;”
Namely, “My love yf thou wouldest wynne
Bringe wyth thee a purple falcon ynne.”
Thatte laye made hym sadde and sowre,
And careful came hee adowne the towre.
He layde his hedde upon a stone;
For sorrow hys lyfe was well nigh gone;
He sobbed amayne and sighed sore
“Alacke Cycile, for evermore.”
Hys page he broughte him hys helmette,
Thatte was cleped Alphabet;
He donned hys bootes made of the skyn
Of Loup-garou and of Gobbelyn,
And hys hauberke that was soe harde
Y woven welle of spykenarde.
Virgile hadde made that cote-armure
With Maumetry fenced and guarded sure;
And Hypocras and Arystote
Had woven the rynges of thatte cote.
He tooke hys spere that was so strong,
Hys axe was sharpe, his sworde was long,
And thys the devyse upon his sheilde—
A red rose yn a greene fielde,
And under, yn language of Syrie,
“Belle rose que tu es jolye.”
And careful came hee adowne the towre.
He layde his hedde upon a stone;
For sorrow hys lyfe was well nigh gone;
He sobbed amayne and sighed sore
“Alacke Cycile, for evermore.”
Hys page he broughte him hys helmette,
Thatte was cleped Alphabet;
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Of Loup-garou and of Gobbelyn,
And hys hauberke that was soe harde
Y woven welle of spykenarde.
Virgile hadde made that cote-armure
With Maumetry fenced and guarded sure;
And Hypocras and Arystote
Had woven the rynges of thatte cote.
He tooke hys spere that was so strong,
Hys axe was sharpe, his sworde was long,
And thys the devyse upon his sheilde—
A red rose yn a greene fielde,
And under, yn language of Syrie,
“Belle rose que tu es jolye.”
Ycy commence le II Chant du Bon Roy Pantagruelle.
Lysten Lordynges to the tale
Of Pantagruelle and hys travayle.
He through many a lande has gone,
Pantagruelle hymself alone;
Many a hyll most hyghe has clome,
Many a broade rivere has swome.
He paste through Cathaye and Picardie,
Babylon, Scotland, and Italie;
And asked of alle as yt befelle,
But of no adventure herde he telle,
Tyl after manie a wearie daye,
Lyghtly he came to a foreste graye:
Manie an auncient oke dyd growe,
Doddered and frynged with mysletoe;
Manie an ashe of paly hue
Whyspered yn every breeze that blewe.
Pantagruelle hath sworne by Mahoune,
Bye Termagaunt and by Abadoune,
Bye Venus, thatte was soe sterne and stronge,
And Apollin with hornes longe,
And other fiendes of Maumetrye,
That the ende of that foreste he would see.
Of Pantagruelle and hys travayle.
He through many a lande has gone,
Pantagruelle hymself alone;
Many a hyll most hyghe has clome,
Many a broade rivere has swome.
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Babylon, Scotland, and Italie;
And asked of alle as yt befelle,
But of no adventure herde he telle,
Tyl after manie a wearie daye,
Lyghtly he came to a foreste graye:
Manie an auncient oke dyd growe,
Doddered and frynged with mysletoe;
Manie an ashe of paly hue
Whyspered yn every breeze that blewe.
Pantagruelle hath sworne by Mahoune,
Bye Termagaunt and by Abadoune,
Bye Venus, thatte was soe sterne and stronge,
And Apollin with hornes longe,
And other fiendes of Maumetrye,
That the ende of that foreste he would see.
Lysten Lordinges the soothe I tell:
Nothyng was true that here befelle,
But all the okes that flourished soe free,
Flourished only in grammarie;
In that same foreste nothing grewe
But broad and darke the boughes of yew.
Sothely I tell you and indede
There was many a wicked weede;
There was the wolf-bane greene and highe,
Whoso smelleth the same shall die,
And the long grasse wyth poyson mixed,
Adders coyled and hyssed betwixt.
Nothyng was true that here befelle,
But all the okes that flourished soe free,
Flourished only in grammarie;
In that same foreste nothing grewe
But broad and darke the boughes of yew.
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There was many a wicked weede;
There was the wolf-bane greene and highe,
Whoso smelleth the same shall die,
And the long grasse wyth poyson mixed,
Adders coyled and hyssed betwixt.
Yn thatte same chace myghte noe man hear
Hunter or horn or hounde or deer;
Neyther dared yn thatte wood to goe
Coney or martin, or hare or doe.
Nor on the shawe the byrdes gay,
Starling, Cuckoo, or Popynjay;
But Gryphon fanged, and bristly boare,
Gnarred and fomed hys way before,
And the beeste who can falsely weepe,
Crocodilus, was here goode chepe;
Satyr, and Leopard, and Tygris,
Bloody Camelopardalys,
And every make of beastes bolde,
Nestled and roared in that their holde.
Dayes and nyghtes but only IV,
And Pantagruelle could ryde no more.
Hys shoulders were by hys helmet worne,
He was a wearye wyghte forlorne,
And hys cheeke thatte was soe redde,
Colde and darke as the beaten ledde.
Hys destriere might no further passe,
It lothed to taste that evyl grasse.
Heavy he clombe from offe hys steede,
Of hys lyfe he stoode in drede:
“Alacke, alacke, Cycelie,
Here I dye for love of thee!”
Forth through the thorny brake hee paste,
Tylle he came to a poole at laste;
And bye that poole of water clere
Satte a manne chylde of seven yere;
Clothed he was in scarlet and graine,
Cloth of silver and cordovaine;
As a field flower he was faire,
Seemed he was some Erle's heir,
And perchynge on hys wriste so free,
A purple Faucon there was to see.
Courteous hee turned hym to that Peere,
But Pantagruelle made sory cheare.
Highe and stately that boye hym bare,
And bade hym abyde hys Father there.
When the Father was there yn place,
Never had knyght so foul a face;
He was tusked as anie boare,
Brystly behind and eke before;
Lyons staring as they were wood,
Salvage bull that liveth on blood,
He was fylthy as any sowe,
Blacke and hairy as a black cowe;
All yn a holy priest's attyre,
Never was seene so fowle a syre.
Hunter or horn or hounde or deer;
Neyther dared yn thatte wood to goe
Coney or martin, or hare or doe.
Nor on the shawe the byrdes gay,
Starling, Cuckoo, or Popynjay;
But Gryphon fanged, and bristly boare,
Gnarred and fomed hys way before,
And the beeste who can falsely weepe,
Crocodilus, was here goode chepe;
Satyr, and Leopard, and Tygris,
Bloody Camelopardalys,
And every make of beastes bolde,
Nestled and roared in that their holde.
Dayes and nyghtes but only IV,
And Pantagruelle could ryde no more.
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He was a wearye wyghte forlorne,
And hys cheeke thatte was soe redde,
Colde and darke as the beaten ledde.
Hys destriere might no further passe,
It lothed to taste that evyl grasse.
Heavy he clombe from offe hys steede,
Of hys lyfe he stoode in drede:
“Alacke, alacke, Cycelie,
Here I dye for love of thee!”
Forth through the thorny brake hee paste,
Tylle he came to a poole at laste;
And bye that poole of water clere
Satte a manne chylde of seven yere;
Clothed he was in scarlet and graine,
Cloth of silver and cordovaine;
As a field flower he was faire,
Seemed he was some Erle's heir,
And perchynge on hys wriste so free,
A purple Faucon there was to see.
Courteous hee turned hym to that Peere,
But Pantagruelle made sory cheare.
Highe and stately that boye hym bare,
And bade hym abyde hys Father there.
351
Never had knyght so foul a face;
He was tusked as anie boare,
Brystly behind and eke before;
Lyons staring as they were wood,
Salvage bull that liveth on blood,
He was fylthy as any sowe,
Blacke and hairy as a black cowe;
All yn a holy priest's attyre,
Never was seene so fowle a syre.
357
A FRAGMENT.
AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
And by that mansion's western side there stoode
An ancient bowre enwrapte in darkest shade
Of sacred elde, and wide-encircling woode;
Seemed it was for saintlye abbesse made.
Strong were the doors with yron barrs arraide
For fear of foe that them enharmen myghte,
Ne any durst that fort for to invade,
For by the wicket grate, bothe daye and nyghte,
A snowy gaurdian sate; of old that Bunny highte.
An ancient bowre enwrapte in darkest shade
Of sacred elde, and wide-encircling woode;
Seemed it was for saintlye abbesse made.
Strong were the doors with yron barrs arraide
For fear of foe that them enharmen myghte,
Ne any durst that fort for to invade,
For by the wicket grate, bothe daye and nyghte,
A snowy gaurdian sate; of old that Bunny highte.
And all withinne were books of various lore,
St. Leon's toils, and Bible nothinge newe,
And needle-work, and artists' busie store
Of crumbling chalke, and tyntes of everie hue;
And on the ground, most terrible to view,
Dame Venus' mangled limbs were strewed around;
For soothe to tell, the goddess envyous grewe
When here she saw myght fairer forms be found,
And dash'd in pieces small her statue on the ground.
St. Leon's toils, and Bible nothinge newe,
And needle-work, and artists' busie store
Of crumbling chalke, and tyntes of everie hue;
358
Dame Venus' mangled limbs were strewed around;
For soothe to tell, the goddess envyous grewe
When here she saw myght fairer forms be found,
And dash'd in pieces small her statue on the ground.
Such is that bowre, but who shall dare pourtraye
What sister fairies there their spells combine;
She, whose younge charms the rugged harte cold swaye
Of prelate olde, and never tamed divine.
She, limneresse of Spenser, (master mine,)
Angelic limneresse, in whose darke eye
Dothe wit's wilde glance and playful beauty shine
And she of shapeliest form and stature highe,
And meeke unconscious state and winning majestie.
What sister fairies there their spells combine;
She, whose younge charms the rugged harte cold swaye
Of prelate olde, and never tamed divine.
She, limneresse of Spenser, (master mine,)
Angelic limneresse, in whose darke eye
Dothe wit's wilde glance and playful beauty shine
And she of shapeliest form and stature highe,
And meeke unconscious state and winning majestie.
359
TRANSLATION OF AN ODE OF KLOPSTOCK'S.
HE.Ah Selma! if our love the fates should sever,
And bear thy spirit from the world below,
Then shall mine eyes be wet with tears for ever,
Each gloomy morn, each night of darker woe;
Each hour, that past so soon in thy embracing,
Each minute keenly felt shall force a tear;
The long, long months! the years so slowly pacing!
Which all were swift alike, and all were dear.
SHE.
My Selmar! ah, if from thy Selma parted,
Thy soul should first the paths of darkness tread,
Sad were my course, and short, and broken-hearted,
To weep those lonely days, that dismal bed!
Each hour that erst in converse sweet returning,
Shone with thy smile, or sparkled with thy tear;
Each lingering day should lengthen out my mourning,
The days that past so swiftly and so dear!
360
And did I promise, Selma, years of sorrow?
And canst thou linger only days behind?
Few minutes, few, be mine from fate to borrow,
Near thy pale cheek and breathless form reclin'd,
Press thy dead hand, and, wildly bending o'er thee,
Print one last kiss upon thy glazed eye.
SHE.
Nay, Selmar, nay—I will not fall before thee;
That pang be mine; thou shalt not see me die;
Some few sad moments on thy death-bed lying,
By thy pale corpse my trembling frame shall be;
Gaze on thy altered form, then, inly sighing,
Sink on that breast, and wax as pale as thee.”
361
SONG TO A SCOTCH AIR.
I love the harp with silver sound,
That rings the festal hall around;
But sweetest of all
The strains which fall,
When twilight mirth with song is crown'd.
That rings the festal hall around;
But sweetest of all
The strains which fall,
When twilight mirth with song is crown'd.
I love the bugle's warbling swell,
When echo answers from her cell;
But sweeter to me,
When I list to thee,
Who wak'st the northern lay so well.
When echo answers from her cell;
But sweeter to me,
When I list to thee,
Who wak'st the northern lay so well.
362
THE RISING OF THE SUN.
Wake! wake! wake to the hunting!
Wake ye, wake! the morning is nigh!
Chilly the breezes blow
Up from the sea below,
Chilly the twilight creeps over the sky!
Mark how fast the stars are fading!
Mark how wide the dawn is spreading!
Many a fallow deer
Feeds in the forest near;
Now is no time on the heather to lie!
Wake ye, wake! the morning is nigh!
Chilly the breezes blow
Up from the sea below,
Chilly the twilight creeps over the sky!
Mark how fast the stars are fading!
Mark how wide the dawn is spreading!
Many a fallow deer
Feeds in the forest near;
Now is no time on the heather to lie!
Rise, rise! look on the ocean!
Rise ye, rise, and look on the sky!
Softly the vapours sweep
Over the level deep,
Softly the mists on the water-fall lie!
In the cloud red tints are glowing,
On the hill the black cock's crowing;
And through the welkin red,
See where he lifts his head,
(Forth to the hunting!) The sun's riding high!
Rise ye, rise, and look on the sky!
Softly the vapours sweep
Over the level deep,
Softly the mists on the water-fall lie!
In the cloud red tints are glowing,
On the hill the black cock's crowing;
And through the welkin red,
See where he lifts his head,
(Forth to the hunting!) The sun's riding high!
363
SONG TO A WELCH AIR.
The moon in silent brightness
Rides o'er the mountain brow,
The mist in fleecy whiteness
Has clad the vale below;
Above the woodbine bow'r
Dark waves our trysting-tree;
It is, it is the hour,
Oh come, my love, to me!
Rides o'er the mountain brow,
The mist in fleecy whiteness
Has clad the vale below;
Above the woodbine bow'r
Dark waves our trysting-tree;
It is, it is the hour,
Oh come, my love, to me!
The dews of night have wet me,
While wand'ring lonelily;
Thy father's bands beset me—
I only fear'd for thee.
I crept beneath thy tower,
I climb'd the ivy tree;
And blessed be the hour
That brings my love to me.
While wand'ring lonelily;
Thy father's bands beset me—
I only fear'd for thee.
I crept beneath thy tower,
I climb'd the ivy tree;
And blessed be the hour
That brings my love to me.
364
I left my chosen numbers
In yonder copse below;
Each warrior lightly slumbers,
His hand upon his bow:
From forth a tyrant's power
They wait to set thee free;
It is, it is the hour,—
Oh come, my love, to me!
In yonder copse below;
Each warrior lightly slumbers,
His hand upon his bow:
From forth a tyrant's power
They wait to set thee free;
It is, it is the hour,—
Oh come, my love, to me!
INSCRIPTION
PROPOSED FOR THE VASE PRESENTED TO SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS WYNN, BY THE NOBILITY AND GENTRY OF DENBIGHSHIRE, AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE WAR IN 1815.
“Ask ye why around me twineTendrils of the Gascon vine?
Ask ye why, in martial pride,
Sculptured laurels deck my side,
Blended with that noble tree,
Badge of Albion's liberty?
Cambria me, for glory won
By the waves of broad Garonne,
Sends to greet her bravest son;
365
By rebel clans on Ulster's steep;
Prov'd, where first on Gallia's plain,
The banish'd lily bloom'd again;
And prov'd where ancient bounty calls
The traveller to his father's halls!
Nor marvel, then, that round me twine
The oak, the laurel, and the vine;
For thus was Cambria wont to see
Her Hirlas-horn of victory:
Nor Cambria e'er, in days of yore,
To worthier chief the Hirlas bore!”
366
TIMOUR'S COUNCILS.
Emirs and Khâns in long array,To Timour's council bent their way;
The lordly Tartar, vaunting high,
The Persian with dejected eye,
The vassal Russ, and, lured from far,
Circassia's mercenary war.
But one there came, uncall'd and last,
The spirit of the wintry blast!
He mark'd, while wrapt in mist he stood,
The purpos'd track of spoil and blood;
He marked, unmov'd by mortal woe,
That old man's eye of swarthy glow;
That restless soul, whose single pride
Was cause enough that millions died;
He, heard, he saw, till envy woke,
And thus the voice of thunder spoke:—
“And hop'st thou thus, in pride unfurl'd,
To bear those banners through the world?
367
Oh king, thy fellow-demon I!
Servants of Death, alike we sweep
The wasted earth, or shrinking deep.
And on the land, and o'er the wave,
We reap the harvest of the grave.
But thickest then that harvest lies,
And wildest sorrows rend the skies,
In darker cloud the vultures sail,
And richer carnage taints the gale,
And few the mourners that remain,
When winter leagues with Tamerlane!
But on, to work our lord's decree;
Then, tyrant, turn, and cope with me!
And learn, though far thy trophies shine,
How deadlier are my blasts than thine!
Nor cities burnt, nor blood of men,
Nor thine own pride shall warm thee then!
Forth to thy task! We meet again
On wild Chabanga's frozen plain!”
368
THE SPRING JOURNEY.
Oh! green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.
The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky, to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky, to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.
The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet though it left me all dropping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
To gaze where the rainbow gleam'd broad over head.
And yet though it left me all dropping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
To gaze where the rainbow gleam'd broad over head.
Oh, such be life's journey, and such be our skill,
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of Heaven!
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of Heaven!
369
HAPPINESS.
One morning in the month of May
I wander'd o'er the hill;
Though nature all around was gay,
My heart was heavy still.
I wander'd o'er the hill;
Though nature all around was gay,
My heart was heavy still.
Can God, I thought, the good, the great,
These meaner creatures bless,
And yet deny our human state
The boon of happiness?
These meaner creatures bless,
And yet deny our human state
The boon of happiness?
Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains,
Ye blessed birds around,
Where, in creation's wide domains,
Can perfect bliss be found?
Ye blessed birds around,
Where, in creation's wide domains,
Can perfect bliss be found?
The birds wild caroll'd over head,
The breeze around me blew,
And nature's awful chorus said,
No bliss for man she knew!
The breeze around me blew,
And nature's awful chorus said,
No bliss for man she knew!
370
I question'd love, whose early ray
So heavenly bright appears;
And love, in answer, seem'd to say,
His light was dimm'd by tears.
So heavenly bright appears;
And love, in answer, seem'd to say,
His light was dimm'd by tears.
I question'd friendship,—friendship mourn'd,
And thus her answer gave:
The friends whom fortune had not turn'd
Were vanish'd in the grave!
And thus her answer gave:
The friends whom fortune had not turn'd
Were vanish'd in the grave!
I ask'd of feeling,—if her skill
Could heal the wounded breast?
And found her sorrows streaming still,
For others' griefs distrest.
Could heal the wounded breast?
And found her sorrows streaming still,
For others' griefs distrest.
I ask'd if vice could bliss bestow?
Vice boasted loud and well:
But, fading from her pallid brow
The venom'd roses fell.
Vice boasted loud and well:
But, fading from her pallid brow
The venom'd roses fell.
I question'd virtue,—virtue sigh'd,
No boon could she dispense;
Nor virtue was her name, she cried,
But humble penitence!
No boon could she dispense;
Nor virtue was her name, she cried,
But humble penitence!
371
I question'd Death,—the grisly shade
Relax'd his brow severe;
And, “I am happiness,” he said,
“If virtue guides thee here!”
Relax'd his brow severe;
And, “I am happiness,” he said,
“If virtue guides thee here!”
ON HEAVENLY AND EARTHLY HOPE.
Reflected on the lake I love
To see the stars of evening glow,
So tranquil in the heavens above.
So restless in the wave below.
To see the stars of evening glow,
So tranquil in the heavens above.
So restless in the wave below.
Thus heavenly hope is all serene,
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er,
Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene
As false and fleeting as 'tis fair.
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er,
Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene
As false and fleeting as 'tis fair.
372
MAN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Oh for the morning gleam of youth, the half-unfolded flower,That sparkles in the diamond dew of that serener hour,
What time the broad and level sun shone gaily o'er the sea,
And in the woods the birds awoke to songs of ecstacy.
The sun, that gilds the middle arch of man's maturer day,
Smites heavy on the pilgrim's head, who plods his dusty way;
The birds are fled to deeper shades—the dewy flowers are dried,
And hope, that with the day was born, before the day has died;
For who can promise to his soul a tranquil eventide?
Yes—though the dew will gleam anew—though from its western sky,
The sun will give as mild a ray as morning could supply—
373
Yet little will the ear of age enjoy her tender tale;
And night will find us toiling on with joyless travail worn,
For day must pass, and night must come, before another morn.
SONG TO A WELCH AIR.
I mourn not the forest whose verdure is dying;
I mourn not the summer whose beauty is o'er;
I weep for the hopes that for ever are flying;
I sigh for the worth that I slighted before;
And sigh to bethink me how vain is my sighing,
For love, once extinguish'd, is kindled no more.
I mourn not the summer whose beauty is o'er;
I weep for the hopes that for ever are flying;
I sigh for the worth that I slighted before;
And sigh to bethink me how vain is my sighing,
For love, once extinguish'd, is kindled no more.
The spring may return with his garland of flowers,
And wake to new rapture the bird on the tree;
The summer smile soft through his crystalline bowers;
The blessings of autumn wave brown o'er the lea;
The rock may be shaken—the dead may awaken,
But the friend of my bosom returns not to me.
And wake to new rapture the bird on the tree;
The summer smile soft through his crystalline bowers;
The blessings of autumn wave brown o'er the lea;
The rock may be shaken—the dead may awaken,
But the friend of my bosom returns not to me.
374
CAROL FOR MAY-DAY.
Queen of fresh flowers,
Whom vernal stars obey,
Bring thy warm showers,
Bring thy genial ray.
In nature's greenest livery drest,
Descend on earth's expectant breast,
To earth and Heaven a welcome guest,
Thou merry month of May!
Whom vernal stars obey,
Bring thy warm showers,
Bring thy genial ray.
In nature's greenest livery drest,
Descend on earth's expectant breast,
To earth and Heaven a welcome guest,
Thou merry month of May!
Mark how we meet thee
At dawn of dewy day!
Hark! how we greet thee
With our roundelay!
While all the goodly things that be
In earth, and air, and ample sea,
Are waking up to welcome thee,
Thou merry month of May!
At dawn of dewy day!
Hark! how we greet thee
With our roundelay!
While all the goodly things that be
In earth, and air, and ample sea,
Are waking up to welcome thee,
Thou merry month of May!
375
Flocks on the mountains,
And birds upon their spray,
Tree, turf, and fountains,
All hold holyday;
And love, the life of living things,
Love waves his torch, love claps his wings,
And loud and wide thy praises sings,
Thou merry month of May!
And birds upon their spray,
Tree, turf, and fountains,
All hold holyday;
And love, the life of living things,
Love waves his torch, love claps his wings,
And loud and wide thy praises sings,
Thou merry month of May!
TO ---.
When I was sick, how patiently thou sat'st beside my bed,When I was faint, how lovingly thine arm upheld my head,
When I was wearied out with pain, perverse in misery,
How ready was thy watchful aid my wishes to supply!
And thou art sick, and thou art weak, and thou art rack'd with pain,
But cheerful still, untam'd of ill, does yet thy heart remain;
And have I nurs'd and tended thee since first thy griefs began?
Forgive, forgive, my ---, the selfishness of man!
376
BOW-MEETING SONG.
Merry archers, come with me!
Come with me, come with me;
Merry archers, come with me,
To our tent beside the holly!
Come with me, come with me;
Merry archers, come with me,
To our tent beside the holly!
Summer gilds the smiling day,
Summer clothes the tufted spray,
Earth is green and Heaven is gay,
Wherefore should we not be jolly!
Summer clothes the tufted spray,
Earth is green and Heaven is gay,
Wherefore should we not be jolly!
Merry archers, come &c.
Here is friendship, mirth is here,
Woodland music, woodland cheer,
And, with hope and blended fear,
Here is love's delightful folly.
Our life, alas! is fraught with care,
And mortals all must have their share,
But yet to-day we well may spare
From our load of melancholy.
Woodland music, woodland cheer,
And, with hope and blended fear,
Here is love's delightful folly.
Our life, alas! is fraught with care,
And mortals all must have their share,
But yet to-day we well may spare
From our load of melancholy.
Merry archers, come with me!
Come with me, come with me;
Merry archers, come with me,
To our tents beside the holly!
Come with me, come with me;
Merry archers, come with me,
To our tents beside the holly!
377
FAREWELL.
When eyes are beaming
What never tongue might tell;
When tears are streaming
From their crystal cell,
When hands are link'd that dread to part,
And heart is met by throbbing heart,
Oh bitter, bitter is the smart
Of them that bid farewell!
What never tongue might tell;
When tears are streaming
From their crystal cell,
When hands are link'd that dread to part,
And heart is met by throbbing heart,
Oh bitter, bitter is the smart
Of them that bid farewell!
When hope is chidden
That fain of bliss would tell,
And love forbidden
In the breast to dwell,
When, fetter'd by a viewless chain
We turn and gaze and turn again,
Oh death were mercy to the pain
Of those that bid farewell!
That fain of bliss would tell,
And love forbidden
In the breast to dwell,
When, fetter'd by a viewless chain
We turn and gaze and turn again,
Oh death were mercy to the pain
Of those that bid farewell!
378
PARODY OF LISTON'S “BEAUTIFUL MAID.”
My fishmonger told me that soles were most dear:
I trembled to hear what he said,
For salmon and shrimps 'twas the wrong time of year,
So I pitch'd on a Beautiful Maid.
I brought home my beautiful maid,
“Here cook, dress this beautiful maid!
Come boil it, don't spoil it, but see it well done,
And I'll dine on my beautiful maid!”
I trembled to hear what he said,
For salmon and shrimps 'twas the wrong time of year,
So I pitch'd on a Beautiful Maid.
I brought home my beautiful maid,
“Here cook, dress this beautiful maid!
Come boil it, don't spoil it, but see it well done,
And I'll dine on my beautiful maid!”
But an ugly black cat—I speak it with grief,
My delicate tit-bit waylaid,
The cook turn'd her back, and the long-whisker'd thief
Ran away with my beautiful maid!
She claw'd up my beautiful maid!
She elop'd with my beautiful maid!
Oh pussy—you hussy, oh what have you done,
You've eat up my beautiful maid!
My delicate tit-bit waylaid,
The cook turn'd her back, and the long-whisker'd thief
Ran away with my beautiful maid!
She claw'd up my beautiful maid!
She elop'd with my beautiful maid!
Oh pussy—you hussy, oh what have you done,
You've eat up my beautiful maid!
379
TRANSLATION OF AN INSCRIPTION RECENTLY DISCOVERED IN SAMOS.
(CLARKE'S TRAVELS.)
Turinna, fam'd for every graceOf learning and of ancient race,
Whom all the virtues did consent
With all their gifts to ornament,
When thrice nine little years are flown
Hath left her parents to bemoan
With bitter tears, the early dead
By whom their house is widowed.
For nought remains, now she is gone,
That love or hope may rest upon.
And she hath left her palace home
To sleep within the narrow tomb.
Yet may her race, or good men feign,
Revive from such distress again.
380
THE OUTWARD-BOUND SHIP.
As borne along with favouring gale
And streamers waving bright,
How gaily sweeps the glancing sail
O'er yonder sea of light!
And streamers waving bright,
How gaily sweeps the glancing sail
O'er yonder sea of light!
With painted sides the vessel glides,
In seeming revelry;
And still we hear the sailor's cheer
Around the capstan tree.
In seeming revelry;
And still we hear the sailor's cheer
Around the capstan tree.
Is sorrow there where all is fair,
Where all is outward glee?
Go, fool, to yonder mariner,
And he shall lesson thee!
Where all is outward glee?
Go, fool, to yonder mariner,
And he shall lesson thee!
Upon that deck walks tyrant sway
Wild as his conquer'd wave,
And murmuring hate that must obey;
The captain and his slave.
Wild as his conquer'd wave,
And murmuring hate that must obey;
The captain and his slave.
381
And pinching care is lurking there,
And dark ambition's swell,
And some that part with bursting heart
From objects loved too well;
And dark ambition's swell,
And some that part with bursting heart
From objects loved too well;
And many a grief with gazing fed
On yonder distant shore,
And many a tear in secret shed
For friends beheld no more;
On yonder distant shore,
And many a tear in secret shed
For friends beheld no more;
Yet sails the ship with streamers drest
And shouts of seeming glee:
Oh God! how loves the mortal breast
To hide its misery!
And shouts of seeming glee:
Oh God! how loves the mortal breast
To hide its misery!
382
BOW-MEETING SONG.
Ye spirits of our Fathers,
The hardy, bold and free,
Who chas'd o'er Cressy's-gory field
A fourfold enemy!
From us who love your sylvan game,
To you the song shall flow,
To the fame of your name
Who so bravely bent the bow.
The hardy, bold and free,
Who chas'd o'er Cressy's-gory field
A fourfold enemy!
From us who love your sylvan game,
To you the song shall flow,
To the fame of your name
Who so bravely bent the bow.
'Twas merry then in England,
(Our ancient records tell,)
With Robin Hood and Little John
Who dwelt by down and dell;
And yet we love the bold outlaw
Who brav'd a tyrant foe,
Whose cheer was the deer,
And his only friend the bow!
(Our ancient records tell,)
With Robin Hood and Little John
Who dwelt by down and dell;
And yet we love the bold outlaw
Who brav'd a tyrant foe,
Whose cheer was the deer,
And his only friend the bow!
383
'Twas merry then in England
In autumn's dewy morn,
When echo started from her hill
To hear the bugle-horn.
And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth
In garb of green did go
The shade to invade
With the arrow and the bow.
In autumn's dewy morn,
When echo started from her hill
To hear the bugle-horn.
And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth
In garb of green did go
The shade to invade
With the arrow and the bow.
Ye spirits of our Fathers!
Extend to us your care,
Among your children yet are found
The valiant and the fair!
'Tis merry yet in Old England
Full well her archers know,
And shame on their name
Who despise the British bow!
Extend to us your care,
Among your children yet are found
The valiant and the fair!
'Tis merry yet in Old England
Full well her archers know,
And shame on their name
Who despise the British bow!
384
TO CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSHEND,
ON HIS LINES PRAISING THE TRANQUILLITY OF A RIVER, WHILE THE SEA WAS HEARD ON THE NEIGHBOURING SHORE.
Oh Townshend! could'st thou linger where scarce a ripple play'd
Across the lily's glossystem, or beneath the willow's shade,
And did that mighty chorus allure thy bark in vain,
The laughter of the dancing waves and music of the main?
Across the lily's glossystem, or beneath the willow's shade,
And did that mighty chorus allure thy bark in vain,
The laughter of the dancing waves and music of the main?
The breeze may tell his story of soft and still delight,
As whisp'ring through the woodbine bower he fans the cheek of night,
But louder, blither, sings the wind, his carol wild and free,
When the harvest moon sails forth in pride above her subject sea.
As whisp'ring through the woodbine bower he fans the cheek of night,
But louder, blither, sings the wind, his carol wild and free,
When the harvest moon sails forth in pride above her subject sea.
385
I love to thread the little paths, the rushy banks between,
Where Tern, in dewy silence, creeps through the meadow green;
I love to mark the speckl'd trout beneath the sunbeam lie,
And skimming past, on filmy wing, the danger-courting fly.
Where Tern, in dewy silence, creeps through the meadow green;
I love to mark the speckl'd trout beneath the sunbeam lie,
And skimming past, on filmy wing, the danger-courting fly.
I praise the darker shadows where, o'er the runnel lone,
The regal oak or swarthy pine their giant arms have thrown,
Or, from his couch of heather, where Skiddaw bends to view
The furrows of his rifted brow in Derwent's mirror blue.
The regal oak or swarthy pine their giant arms have thrown,
Or, from his couch of heather, where Skiddaw bends to view
The furrows of his rifted brow in Derwent's mirror blue.
But not that narrow stillness has equal charms for me,
With thy ten-thousand voices thou broad exulting sea,
Thy shining sands, thy rugged shores, thy breakers rolling bright,
And all thy dim horizon speck'd with sails of moving light.
With thy ten-thousand voices thou broad exulting sea,
Thy shining sands, thy rugged shores, thy breakers rolling bright,
And all thy dim horizon speck'd with sails of moving light.
Oft on thy wonders may I gaze, oft on thy waters ride,
Oft with no timid arm essay thy dark transparent tide,
Oft may thy sound be in my dreams, far inland though I be,
For health and hope are in thy song, thou deep fullvoiced sea!
Oft with no timid arm essay thy dark transparent tide,
Oft may thy sound be in my dreams, far inland though I be,
For health and hope are in thy song, thou deep fullvoiced sea!
386
BOW-MEETING SONG.
By yon castle wall, 'mid the breezes of morning,
The genius of Cambria stray'd pensive and slow;
The oak-wreath was wither'd her tresses adorning,
And the wind through its leaves sigh'd its murmur of woe.
She gazed on her mountains with filial devotion,
She gazed on her Dee as he roll'd to the ocean,—
And, “Cambria! poor Cambria!” she cried with emotion,
“Thou yet hast thy country, thy harp, and thy bow!”
The genius of Cambria stray'd pensive and slow;
The oak-wreath was wither'd her tresses adorning,
And the wind through its leaves sigh'd its murmur of woe.
She gazed on her mountains with filial devotion,
She gazed on her Dee as he roll'd to the ocean,—
And, “Cambria! poor Cambria!” she cried with emotion,
“Thou yet hast thy country, thy harp, and thy bow!”
“Sweep on, thou proud stream, with thy billows all hoary;
As proudly my warriors have rush'd on the foe;
But feeble and faint is the sound of their glory,
For time, like thy tide, has its ebb and its flow.
Ev'n now, while I watch thee, thy beauties are fading;
The sands and the shallows thy course are invading;
Where the sail swept the surges the sea-bird is wading;
And thus hath it fared with the land of the bow!
As proudly my warriors have rush'd on the foe;
But feeble and faint is the sound of their glory,
For time, like thy tide, has its ebb and its flow.
Ev'n now, while I watch thee, thy beauties are fading;
The sands and the shallows thy course are invading;
Where the sail swept the surges the sea-bird is wading;
And thus hath it fared with the land of the bow!
387
“Smile, smile ye dear hills, 'mid your woods and your flowers,
Whose heather lies dark in the morn's dewy glow!
A time must await you of tempest and showers,
An autumn of mist, and a winter of snow!
For me, though the whirlwind has shiver'd and cleft me,
Of wealth and of empire the stranger bereft me,
Yet Saxon,—proud Saxon,—thy fury has left me
Worth, valour, and beauty, the harp and the bow!
Whose heather lies dark in the morn's dewy glow!
A time must await you of tempest and showers,
An autumn of mist, and a winter of snow!
For me, though the whirlwind has shiver'd and cleft me,
Of wealth and of empire the stranger bereft me,
Yet Saxon,—proud Saxon,—thy fury has left me
Worth, valour, and beauty, the harp and the bow!
“Ye towers, on whose rampire, all ruin'd and riven,
The wall-flower and woodbine so lavishly blow;
I have seen when your banner waved broad to the Heaven,
And kings found your faith a defence from the foe;
Oh loyal in grief, and in danger unshaken,
For ages still true, though for ages forsaken,
Yet, Cambria, thy heart may to gladness awaken,
Since thy monarch has smiled on the harp and the bow!”
The wall-flower and woodbine so lavishly blow;
I have seen when your banner waved broad to the Heaven,
And kings found your faith a defence from the foe;
Oh loyal in grief, and in danger unshaken,
For ages still true, though for ages forsaken,
Yet, Cambria, thy heart may to gladness awaken,
Since thy monarch has smiled on the harp and the bow!”
388
ON CROSSING THE RANGE OF HIGH LAND BETWEEN STONE AND MARKET DRAYTON, JAN. 4, 1820.
Dread inmate of the northern zone!
And hast thou left thine ancient throne
On Zembla's hills of snow,
Thine arrowy sleet and icy shower
On us, unbroken to thy power,
With reckless hand to throw?
And hast thou left thine ancient throne
On Zembla's hills of snow,
Thine arrowy sleet and icy shower
On us, unbroken to thy power,
With reckless hand to throw?
Enough for us thy milder sway,
The yellow mist, the shorten'd day,
The sun of fainter glow;
The frost which scarce our verdure felt,
And rarely seen, and but to melt
The wreath of transient snow.
The yellow mist, the shorten'd day,
The sun of fainter glow;
The frost which scarce our verdure felt,
And rarely seen, and but to melt
The wreath of transient snow.
I met thee once by Volga's tide,
Nor fear'd thy terrors to abide
On Valdai's sullen brow;
But little thought on English down
Thy darkest wrath and fiercest frown
So soon again to know.
Nor fear'd thy terrors to abide
On Valdai's sullen brow;
But little thought on English down
Thy darkest wrath and fiercest frown
So soon again to know.
389
Oh for my schube's accustom'd fold,
Which then, in ample bear-skin roll'd,
Defied thy dread career!
Oh for the cap of sable warm,
Which guarded then from pinching harm
My nose, and cheek, and ear!
Which then, in ample bear-skin roll'd,
Defied thy dread career!
Oh for the cap of sable warm,
Which guarded then from pinching harm
My nose, and cheek, and ear!
Mine old kibitka, where art thou?
Gloves, boots, peketch,—I need ye now,—
Sold to a Lemberg Jew!
In single vest, on Ashley Heath,
My shrinking heart is cold as death,
And fingers ghastly blue!
Gloves, boots, peketch,—I need ye now,—
Sold to a Lemberg Jew!
In single vest, on Ashley Heath,
My shrinking heart is cold as death,
And fingers ghastly blue!
390
BALLAD.
I
“Oh, captain of the Moorish hold,Unbar thy gates to me,
And I will give thee gems and gold,
To set Fernando free.
For I a sacred oath have plight
A pilgrim to remain,
Till I return with Lara's knight,
The noblest knight of Spain.”
II
“Fond Christian youth,” the captain said,“Thy suit is soon denied,
Fernando loves a Moorish maid,
And will with us abide.
Renounc'd is every Christian rite,
The turban he hath ta'en,
And Lara thus hath lost her knight,
The boldest knight of Spain.”
391
III
Pale, marble pale, the pilgrim turn'd,A cold and deadly dye;
Then in his cheeks the blushes burn'd,
And anger in his eye.
(From forth his cowl a ringlet bright
Fell down of golden grain,)
“Base Moor! to slander Lara's knight,
The boldest knight of Spain!
IV
“Go, look on Lugo's gory field!Go look on Tayo's tide!
Can ye forget the red-cross shield,
That all your host defied?
Alhama's warriors turn'd to flight,
Granada's sultan slain,
Attest the worth of Lara's knight,
The boldest knight of Spain!”
V
“By Allah, yea!” with eyes of fireThe lordly paynim said,
“Granada's sultan was my sire,
Who fell by Lara's blade;
392
The ransom were but vain
To purchase back thy Christian knight,
The boldest knight of Spain.”
VI
“Ah, Moor! the life that once is shedNo vengeance can repay;
And who can number up the dead
That fall in battle fray?
Thyself in many a manly fight
Hast many a father slain;
Then rage not thus 'gainst Lara's knight,
The boldest knight of Spain.”
VII
“And who art thou, whose pilgrim vestThy beauties ill may shroud;
The locks of gold, the heaving breast,
A moon beneath a cloud?—
Wilt thou our Moorish creed recite,
And here with me remain?
He may depart,—that captive knight,
The conquer'd knight of Spain.”
393
VIII
“Ah, speak not so!” with voice of woe,The shuddering stranger cried;
“Another creed I may not know,
Nor live another's bride!
Fernando's wife may yield her life,
But not her honour stain,
To loose the bonds of Lara's knight,
The noblest knight of Spain!”
IX
“And know'st thou, then, how hard a doomThy husband yet may bear?
The fetter'd limbs, the living tomb,
The damp and noisome air?
In lonely cave, and void of light,
To drag a helpless chain,
Thy pride condemns the Christian knight,
The prop and pride of Spain!”
X
“Oh that within that dungeon's gloomHis sorrows I might share,
And cheer him in that living tomb,
With love, and hope, and prayer!
394
Unbroken must remain,
And God will help the captive knight,
And plead the cause of Spain!”
XI
“And deem'st thou from the Moorish holdIn safety to retire,
Whose locks outshine Arabia's gold,
Whose eyes the diamond's fire!”
She drew a poniard small and bright,
And spake in calm disdain,
“He taught me how, my Christian knight,
To guard the faith of Spain!”
XII
The drawbridge falls! with loud alarmThe clashing portals fly!
She bar'd her breast, she rais'd her arms,
And knelt, in act to die!
But ah, the thrill of wild delight
That shot through every vein!
He stood before her,—Lara's knight,
The noblest knight of Spain!
395
SYMPATHY.
A knight and a lady once met in a grove,
While each was in quest of a fugitive love;
A river ran mournfully murmuring by,
And they wept in its waters for sympathy.
While each was in quest of a fugitive love;
A river ran mournfully murmuring by,
And they wept in its waters for sympathy.
“Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!”
“Oh, never was maid so deserted before!”
“From life and its woes let us instantly fly,
And jump in together for company!”
“Oh, never was maid so deserted before!”
“From life and its woes let us instantly fly,
And jump in together for company!”
They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed,
But here was a bramble, and there was a weed;
“How tiresome it is!” said the fair with a sigh;
So they sat down to rest them in company.
But here was a bramble, and there was a weed;
“How tiresome it is!” said the fair with a sigh;
So they sat down to rest them in company.
They gaz'd on each other, the maid and the knight;
How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!
“One mournful embrace!” sobb'd the youth, “ere we die!”
So kissing and crying kept company.
How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!
“One mournful embrace!” sobb'd the youth, “ere we die!”
So kissing and crying kept company.
396
“Oh, had I but lov'd such an angel as you!”
“Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!”
“To miss such perfection how blinded was I!”
Sure now they were excellent company!
“Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!”
“To miss such perfection how blinded was I!”
Sure now they were excellent company!
At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear,
“The weather is cold for a watery bier;
When summer returns we may easily die,
Till then let us sorrow in company.”
“The weather is cold for a watery bier;
When summer returns we may easily die,
Till then let us sorrow in company.”
397
LINES WRITTEN TO A MARCH COMPOSED IN IMITATION OF A MILITARY BAND.
I see them on their winding way,
Above their ranks the moon-beams play,
And nearer yet, and yet more near,
The martial chorus strikes the ear.
Above their ranks the moon-beams play,
And nearer yet, and yet more near,
The martial chorus strikes the ear.
They're lost and gone,—the moon is past,
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast,
And fainter, fainter, fainter still,
The dim march warbles up the hill.
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast,
And fainter, fainter, fainter still,
The dim march warbles up the hill.
Again, again,—the pealing drum,
The clashing horn—they come! they come!
And lofty deeds and daring high,
Blend with their notes of victory.
The clashing horn—they come! they come!
And lofty deeds and daring high,
Blend with their notes of victory.
Forth, forth, and meet them on their way,
The trampling hoof brooks no delay;
The thrilling fife, the pealing drum,
How late—but oh! how lov'd they come!
The trampling hoof brooks no delay;
The thrilling fife, the pealing drum,
How late—but oh! how lov'd they come!
398
THE WELL OF OBLIVION.
SUGGESTED BY A STANZA IN THE ORLANDO INNAMORATO OF BOIARDO.
There is, they say, a secret well,
In Ardennes' forest grey,
Whose waters boast a numbing spell,
That memory must obey.
In Ardennes' forest grey,
Whose waters boast a numbing spell,
That memory must obey.
Who tastes the rill so cool and calm
In passion's wild distress,
Their breasts imbibe the sullen balm
Of deep forgetfulness.
In passion's wild distress,
Their breasts imbibe the sullen balm
Of deep forgetfulness.
And many a maid has sought the grove,
And bow'd beside the wave;
But few have borne to lose the love
That wore them to the grave.
And bow'd beside the wave;
But few have borne to lose the love
That wore them to the grave.
No! by these tears, whose ceaseless smart
My reason chides in vain;
By all the secret of a heart
That never told its pain;
My reason chides in vain;
By all the secret of a heart
That never told its pain;
399
By all the walks that once were dear,
Beneath the green-wood bough;
By all the songs that sooth'd his ear
Who will not listen now;
Beneath the green-wood bough;
By all the songs that sooth'd his ear
Who will not listen now;
By every dream of hope gone by
That haunts my slumber yet,—
A love-sick heart may long to die,
But never to forget!
That haunts my slumber yet,—
A love-sick heart may long to die,
But never to forget!
THE ORACLE.
IMITATED FROM THE GREEK.
To Phœbus' shrine three youths of fame,A wrestler, boxer, racer came,
And begg'd the Delphic god to say,
Which from the next Olympic game
Should bear the envied wreath away?
And thus the Oracle decided:—
“Be victors all, brave youths, this day,
Each in your several arts!—provided
That none outstrip the racers' feet,
None at his trade the boxer beat,
None in the dust the wrestler lay!”
400
TO A WELCH AIR, “CODIAD YR HYDOD.”
Why that neck of marble whiteness,
Why that hair of sunny brightness,
Form of perfect mold,
Why those fringed eyelids screening
Lights of love and liquid meaning,
While the heart is cold?
Why that hair of sunny brightness,
Form of perfect mold,
Why those fringed eyelids screening
Lights of love and liquid meaning,
While the heart is cold?
Shame on her whose pride or malice
With a lover's anguish dallies,
Scorn our scatter'd reason rallies,
Thou shalt mourn thy tyrant sallies,
Ere that thou art old—young Alice,
Ere that thou art old!
With a lover's anguish dallies,
Scorn our scatter'd reason rallies,
Thou shalt mourn thy tyrant sallies,
Ere that thou art old—young Alice,
Ere that thou art old!
401
THE GROUND SWELL.
How soft the shades of evening creep
O'er yonder dewy lea,
Where balmy winds have lull'd to sleep
The tenants of the tree.
No wandering breeze is here to sweep,
In shadowy ripple o'er the deep,
Yet swells the heaving sea!
O'er yonder dewy lea,
Where balmy winds have lull'd to sleep
The tenants of the tree.
No wandering breeze is here to sweep,
In shadowy ripple o'er the deep,
Yet swells the heaving sea!
How calm the sky! rest, ocean, rest,
From storm and ruffle free,
Calm as the image on thy breast
Of her that governs thee!
And yet beneath the moon's mild reign
Thy broad breast heaves as one in pain,
Thou dark and silent sea.
From storm and ruffle free,
Calm as the image on thy breast
Of her that governs thee!
And yet beneath the moon's mild reign
Thy broad breast heaves as one in pain,
Thou dark and silent sea.
402
There are whom fortune vainly woes
With all her pageantry,
Whom every flattering bliss pursues,
Yet still they fare like thee;
The spell is laid within their mind,
Least wretched then when most resigned,
Their hearts throb silently!
With all her pageantry,
Whom every flattering bliss pursues,
Yet still they fare like thee;
The spell is laid within their mind,
Least wretched then when most resigned,
Their hearts throb silently!
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
Take here the tender harp again,
O Muse! which thou hast lent to me;
I wake no more the joyous strain
To youthful love or social glee.
O Muse! which thou hast lent to me;
I wake no more the joyous strain
To youthful love or social glee.
Forgive the weak and sickly shell
That could so ill my soul express;
What most I wished I durst not tell
And chose my themes from idleness.
That could so ill my soul express;
What most I wished I durst not tell
And chose my themes from idleness.
403
Oft when I told of peace and pleasure,
I marked the hostile sabre shine;
And water, doled in scanty measure,
I drank, who wont to sing of wine.
I marked the hostile sabre shine;
And water, doled in scanty measure,
I drank, who wont to sing of wine.
Might peace, might love's auspicious fire
But gild at last my closing day,
Then Goddess, then return the lyre
To wake perhaps a loftier lay.
But gild at last my closing day,
Then Goddess, then return the lyre
To wake perhaps a loftier lay.
BOW-MEETING SONG.
We find it well observ'd by an ancient learned Rabbin,
The man was raving mad who first to sea would go,
Who would change the tented field for the quarter-deck and cabin,
And the songs of blooming beauty for a Yo! heave oh!
Yet since your bard is bent to try
The fervours of an eastern sky,
And where, across the tepid main, Arabian breezes blow,
While yet the northern gale
Fans his cheek and swells his sail,
Accept his latest tribute to the British bow!
The man was raving mad who first to sea would go,
Who would change the tented field for the quarter-deck and cabin,
And the songs of blooming beauty for a Yo! heave oh!
Yet since your bard is bent to try
The fervours of an eastern sky,
And where, across the tepid main, Arabian breezes blow,
While yet the northern gale
Fans his cheek and swells his sail,
Accept his latest tribute to the British bow!
404
Dear scenes of unrepented joy, our nature's best physician,
Can all Golconda's glittering mines so pure a bliss bestow?
Oh deem not that for sordid gold he left you, or ambition,
Or shall e'er forget your peaceful charms 'mid India's brightest glow!
Oft, oft, will he be telling
Of the glades of Nant-y-bellin,
Of the lilies and the roses that in Gwersylt blow,
Oft, oft recall the snow-white wall of yonder ancient dwelling,
Whose lords, in Saxon Edwin's days, so nobly bent the bow!
Can all Golconda's glittering mines so pure a bliss bestow?
Oh deem not that for sordid gold he left you, or ambition,
Or shall e'er forget your peaceful charms 'mid India's brightest glow!
Oft, oft, will he be telling
Of the glades of Nant-y-bellin,
Of the lilies and the roses that in Gwersylt blow,
Oft, oft recall the snow-white wall of yonder ancient dwelling,
Whose lords, in Saxon Edwin's days, so nobly bent the bow!
Oh when the dog-star rides on high, how oft shall memory wander
Where yonder oaks their aged arms 'mid blended poplars throw;
And hollies join their glossy shade, and the brook with cool meander
Steals, like a silver snake, through the copse below!
Where many a mild and matron grace
Adorn the mother's gentle face,
And --- in beauteous garland blow,
And proved in many a martial fray
Their sire holds sylvan holiday,
And flings his well worn sword away
To bend the British bow!
Where yonder oaks their aged arms 'mid blended poplars throw;
And hollies join their glossy shade, and the brook with cool meander
Steals, like a silver snake, through the copse below!
Where many a mild and matron grace
Adorn the mother's gentle face,
405
And proved in many a martial fray
Their sire holds sylvan holiday,
And flings his well worn sword away
To bend the British bow!
The bard is gone, and other bards shall wake the call of pleasure
That prompts to beauty's lip the smile, and lends her cheek its glow,
And strike the sylvan lyre to a louder, livelier measure,
And wear the oaken wreath, which he must now forego!
But yet, though many a sweeter song
Shall float th' applauding tent along,
And many a friendly health to the Sons of Genius flow,
Forget not them, who, doomed to part,
Will keep engraven on their heart
The sons and the daughters of the British bow!
That prompts to beauty's lip the smile, and lends her cheek its glow,
And strike the sylvan lyre to a louder, livelier measure,
And wear the oaken wreath, which he must now forego!
But yet, though many a sweeter song
Shall float th' applauding tent along,
And many a friendly health to the Sons of Genius flow,
Forget not them, who, doomed to part,
Will keep engraven on their heart
The sons and the daughters of the British bow!
406
FROM THE GULISTAN.
INSCRIPTION OVER THE ARCHED ALCOVE OF FERIDOON'S HALL.
Brother! know the world deceiveth!Trust on Him who safely giveth!
Fix not on the world thy trust,
She feeds us—but she turns to dust,
And the bare earth or kingly throne
Alike may serve to die upon!
FROM THE GULISTAN.
The man who leaveth life behind,May well and boldly speak his mind:
Where flight is none from battle field,
We blithely snatch the sword and shield;
Where hope is past, and hate is strong,
The wretch's tongue is sharp and long;
Myself have seen, in wild despair,
The feeble cat the mastiff tear.
407
FROM THE GULISTAN.
Who the silent man can prize,If a fool he be or wise?k his mind:
Yet, though lonely seem the wood,
Therein may lurk the beast of blood.
Often bashful looks conceal
Tongue of fire and heart of steel.
And deem not thou, in forest grey,
Every dappled skin thy prey;
Lest thou rouse, with luckless spear,
The tiger for the fallow deer!
IMITATION OF AN ODE BY KOODRUT.
Ambition's voice was in my ear, she whisper'd yesterday,“How goodly is the land of Room, how wide the Russian sway!
How blest to conquer either realm, and dwell through life to come,
Lull'd by the harp's melodious string, cheer'd by the northern drum!”
408
O come and see a sight with me shall cure thee of thy pride!”
She led me to a lonely dell, a sad and shady ground,
Where many an ancient sepulchre gleam'd in the moonshine round.
And “Here Secunder sleeps,” she cried; “this is his rival's stone;
And here the mighty chief reclines who rear'd the Median throne.
Enquire of these, doth ought of all their ancient pomp remain
Save late regret and bitter tears for ever and in vain?
Return, return, and in thy heart engraven keep my lore;
The lesser wealth, the lighter load,—small blame betides the poor.”
409
TRANSLATION OF A SONNET, BY THE LATE NAWAB OF OUDE, ASUF UD DOWLA.
In those eyes that glisten as in pity for my pain,
Are they gems, or only dew drops? Can they, will they long remain?
Are they gems, or only dew drops? Can they, will they long remain?
Why the strength of tyrant beauty thus, with seeming ruth, restrain?
Better breathe my last before thee, than in lingering grief remain.
Better breathe my last before thee, than in lingering grief remain.
To yon planet, Fate has given every month to wax and wane;
And—thy world of blushing brightness,—can it, will it long remain?
And—thy world of blushing brightness,—can it, will it long remain?
Asuf! why in mournful numbers, of thine absence thus complain,
Chance had joined us, chance has parted!—nought on earth can long remain.
Chance had joined us, chance has parted!—nought on earth can long remain.
In the world may'st thou, beloved! live exempt from grief and pain.
On my lips the breath is fleeting—can it, will it long remain?
On my lips the breath is fleeting—can it, will it long remain?
410
LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER.
If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove
Listening the nightingale!
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove
Listening the nightingale!
If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
My babies at my knee,
How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay
And woo the cooler wind.
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay
And woo the cooler wind.
I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.
411
I spread my books, my pencil try
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.
But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
My course be onward still,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.
Nor wild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright they say,
Across the dark blue sea,
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As then shall meet in thee!
Across the dark blue sea,
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As then shall meet in thee!
412
AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.
Our task is done! on Gunga's breast
The sun is sinking down to rest;
And, moored beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbour now.
With furled sail and painted side
Behold the tiny frigate ride.
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslem's savoury supper steams;
While all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.
The sun is sinking down to rest;
And, moored beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbour now.
With furled sail and painted side
Behold the tiny frigate ride.
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslem's savoury supper steams;
While all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.
Come walk with me the jungle through.
If yonder hunter told us true,
Far off, in desert dank and rude,
The tiger holds its solitude;
Nor (taught by recent harm to shun
The thunders of the English gun)
A dreadful guest but rarely seen,
Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on! no venom'd snake
Can shelter in so cool a brake.
Child of the Sun! he loves to lie
'Midst Nature's embers, parch'd and dry,
Where o'er some tower in ruin laid,
The peepul spreads its haunted shade;
Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe
Fit warder in the gate of Death.
Come on! yet pause! Behold us now
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough,
Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom
Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom ,
And winds our path through many a bower
Of fragrant tree and giant flower;
The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed
O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly glade;
While o'er the brake, so wild and fair
The betel waves his crest in air.
With pendant train and rushing wings
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs;
And he, the bird of hundred dyes ,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize.
So rich a shade, so green a sod
Our English fairies never trod!
Yet who in Indian bowers has stood,
But thought on England's “good green wood!”
And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade,
Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,
And breath'd a prayer, (how oft in vain!)
To gaze upon her oaks again?
A truce to thought,—the jackall's cry
Resounds like sylvan revelry;
And through the trees yon failing ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.
Yet mark, as fade the upper skies,
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes.
Before, beside us, and above,
The fire-fly lights his lamp of love,
Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring
The darkness of the copse exploring,
While to this cooler air confest,
The broad Dhatura bares her breast,
Of fragrant scent and virgin white,
A pearl around the locks of night!
Still as we pass, in softened hum
Along the breezy alleys come
The village song, the horn, the drum.
Still as we pass, from bush and briar,
The shrill Cigala strikes his lyre;
And, what is she whose liquid strain
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane?
I know that soul-entrancing swell,
It is—it must be—Philomel!
Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
But oh! with thankful hearts confess
E'en here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth,—his hope of Heaven!
If yonder hunter told us true,
Far off, in desert dank and rude,
The tiger holds its solitude;
413
The thunders of the English gun)
A dreadful guest but rarely seen,
Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on! no venom'd snake
Can shelter in so cool a brake.
Child of the Sun! he loves to lie
'Midst Nature's embers, parch'd and dry,
Where o'er some tower in ruin laid,
The peepul spreads its haunted shade;
Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe
Fit warder in the gate of Death.
Come on! yet pause! Behold us now
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough,
Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom
Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom ,
And winds our path through many a bower
Of fragrant tree and giant flower;
The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed
O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly glade;
414
The betel waves his crest in air.
With pendant train and rushing wings
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs;
And he, the bird of hundred dyes ,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize.
So rich a shade, so green a sod
Our English fairies never trod!
Yet who in Indian bowers has stood,
But thought on England's “good green wood!”
And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade,
Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,
And breath'd a prayer, (how oft in vain!)
To gaze upon her oaks again?
A truce to thought,—the jackall's cry
Resounds like sylvan revelry;
And through the trees yon failing ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.
Yet mark, as fade the upper skies,
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes.
Before, beside us, and above,
The fire-fly lights his lamp of love,
415
The darkness of the copse exploring,
While to this cooler air confest,
The broad Dhatura bares her breast,
Of fragrant scent and virgin white,
A pearl around the locks of night!
Still as we pass, in softened hum
Along the breezy alleys come
The village song, the horn, the drum.
Still as we pass, from bush and briar,
The shrill Cigala strikes his lyre;
And, what is she whose liquid strain
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane?
I know that soul-entrancing swell,
It is—it must be—Philomel!
Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
416
E'en here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth,—his hope of Heaven!
| The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber | |