The Poetical Works of John Scott

THE Horatian, or lesser Ode, is characterised principally by ease and correctness. The following little Pieces, attempted on that plan, were the production of very different periods, and, on revisal, were thought not undeserving a place in this Collection.

165

ODE I. TO LEISURE.

Gentle Leisure, whom of yore
To Wealth the fair Contentment bore,
When Peace with them her dwelling made,
And Health her kind attendance paid;
As wandering o'er the sunny plains
They fed their herds and fleecy trains:—
O Thou! who country scenes and air
Preferr'st to courts and crowds and care;
With Thee I've often pass'd the day,
To Thee I wake the grateful lay.

With Thee on Chadwell's thymy brow ,
Beneath the hazel's bending bough,

166

I've sat to breathe the fragrance cool
Exhaling from the glassy pool;
Where, thro' th' unsullied chrystal seen,
The bottom show'd its shining green:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

With Thee, on Mussla's corn-clad height
The landscape oft has charm'd my sight;
Delightful hills, and vales and woods,
And dusty roads, and winding floods;
And towns, that thro' thin groups of shade
Their roofs of varied form display'd:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

167

With Thee, where Easna's hornbeam-grove
Its foliage o'er me interwove,
Along the lonely path I've stray'd,
By banks in hoary moss array'd;
Where tufts of azure orpine grew,
And branchy fern of brighter hue:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

With Thee, by Stansted's farms inclos'd,
With aged elms in rows dispos'd;
Or where her chapel's walls appear,
The silver winding river near,
Beneath the broad-leav'd sycamore,
I've linger'd on the shady shore:

168

As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

With Thee, where Thames his waters leads
Round Poplar's Isle of verdant meads,
Along the undulating tide,
I've seen the white-sail'd vessels glide;
Or gaz'd on London's lofty towers,
Or Dulwich hills, or Greenwich bowers:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

O gentle Leisure!—absent long—
I woo thee with this tuneful song:

169

If e'er, allur'd by grateful change,
O'er scenes yet unbeheld I range,
And Albion's east or western shore
For rural solitudes explore:
As, all-attentive, these I view,
And many a pleasing thought pursue,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow,
To Thee that pleasure I must owe!

Chadwell: The New River Head, near Ware.

Mussla: a hill on the north side of Ware.

Easna: a pleasant wood, east of Ware.

Stansted: a village in the same neighbourhood.

Poplar's Isle; commonly called The Isle of Dogs, opposite Greenwich.

170

ODE II. THE EVENING WALK.

What time fair Spring, with dewy hand,
Awakes her cowslip bloom;
And hawthorn boughs, by breezes fann'd,
Diffuse a rich perfume:

Young Theron down the valley stray'd
At evening's silent hour;
When bright the setting sunbeams play'd
On Hertford's distant tower.

He sigh'd, and cast around his eye
O'er all the pleasing scene;
Now tow'rds the golden-clouded sky,
Now on the fields of green.

171

‘Thrice has fair Spring her cowslip bloom
‘Awak'd with dewy hand;
‘And hawthorn boughs diffus'd perfume,
‘By western breezes fann'd;

‘Since here, at evening's silent hour,
‘Delighted oft I stray'd;
‘While bright on Hertford's distant tower
‘The setting sunbeams play'd:

‘'Twas then the flatterer Hope was near,
‘And sung this soothing strain:
“Where thro' the trees yon tow'rs appear
“Far o'er the level plain;

“There oft thy pleasant evening walk
“Thy favourite Maid shall join,
“And all the charms of tender talk
“And tuneful song be thine:

172

“With thee she'll hear the bleat of flocks,
“The throstle's mellow lay;
“The rills that murmur o'er the rocks,
“The whispers of the spray.”—

‘So sung false Hope—Deceiv'd I heard,
‘And set my heart at ease;
‘The future then so fair appear'd,
‘It made the present please.

‘So sung false Hope—The approaching years,
‘That distant look'd so gay,
‘With clouds of cares and storms of fears
‘All fraught, have pass'd away.

‘As glides yon sun adown the sky,
‘As rolls yon rapid stream;
‘So fast our joys and sorrows fly,
‘And flown appear a dream.

173

‘Be then the events that Time has brought,
‘To me not brought in vain;
‘By painful disappointment taught,
‘Let wisdom be my gain!’

Thus Theron spoke, and earnest eyed
The sun's departing ray;
Again he look'd, again he sigh'd,
And homeward bent his way.

174

ODE III. TO CHILDHOOD.

Childhood! happiest stage of life,
Free from care and free from strife,
Free from Memory's ruthless reign,
Fraught with scenes of former pain;
Free from Fancy's cruel skill,
Fabricating future ill;
Time, when all that meets the view,
All can charm, for all is new;
How thy long-lost hours I mourn,
Never, never, to return!

Then to toss the circling ball,
Caught rebounding from the wall;

175

Then the mimic ship to guide
Down the kennel's dirty tide;
Then the hoop's revolving pace
Thro' the dusty street to chace;
O what joy!—it once was mine,
Childhood, matchless boon of thine!—
How thy long-lost hours I mourn,
Never, never, to return!

176

ODE IV. HEARING MUSIC.

Yon organ! hark!—how soft, how sweet,
The warbling notes in concert meet!
The sound my fancy leads
To climes where Phœbus' brightest beams
Gild jasmine groves and chrystal streams
And lily-mantled meads;

Where myrtle bowers their bloom unfold
Where citrons bend with fruit of gold,
Where grapes depress the vines;
Where, on the bank with roses gay,
Love, Innocence, and Pleasure play,
And Beauty's form reclines.

177

Now different tones and measures flow,
And, gravely deep, and sadly slow,
Involve the mind in gloom;
I seem to join the mournful train,
Attendant round the couch of Pain,
Or leaning o'er the tomb:

To where the orphan'd infant sleeps,
To where the love-lorn damsel weeps,
I pitying seem to stray;
Methinks I watch his cradle near;
Methinks her drooping thoughts I chear,
And wipe her tears away.

Now loud the tuneful thunders roll,
And rouse and elevate the soul
O'er earth and all its care;
I seem to hear from heavenly plains
Angelic choirs responsive strains,
And in their raptures share.

178

ODE V. A LANDSCAPE.

On the eastern hill's steep side
Spreads the rural hamlet wide;
'Cross the vale, where willows rise,
Further still another lies;
And, beneath a steeper hill,
Lies another further still:
Near them many a field and grove—
Scenes where Health and Labour rove!

Northward swelling slopes are seen,
Clad with corn-fields neat and green;
There, thro' grassy plains below,
Broad and smooth the waters flow;
While the town, their banks along,
Bids its clustering houses throng,

179

In the sunshine glittering fair;
Haunts of Business, haunts of Care!

Westward o'er the yellow meads
Wind the rills thro' waving reeds;
From dark elms a shadow falls
On the abbey's whiten'd walls:
Wide the park's green lawns expand;
Thick its tufted lindens stand:
Fair retreat! that well might please
Wealth, and Elegance, and Ease.

Hark! amidst the distant shades
Murmuring drop the deep cascades;
Hark! amidst the rustling trees
Softly sighs the gentle breeze:
And the Eolian harp, reclin'd
Obvious to the stream of wind,
Pours its wildly-warbled strain,
Rising now, now sunk again.

180

How the view detains the sight!
How the sounds the ear delight!—
Sweet the scene! but think not there
Happiness sincere to share:
Reason still regrets the day
Passing rapidly away;
Lessening Life's too little store;
Passing, to return no more!

181

ODE VI. TO A FRIEND,

ON HIS MARRIAGE, AND REMOVAL INTO THE COUNTRY.

[Written at Stanway-Hall, in Essex.]

Whate'er of lighter strain the Muse
Essay'd, in vacant hours of ease,
At thy expence to raise a smile,
I deem thy candour will excuse;
For sure I meant not to displease,
For sure I wish'd thee well the while .

182

And now the nuptial knot is tied,
That Muse no idle flattery brings,
Nor talks of joy unmixt with care—
I trust that none who e'er has tried
The sober state of human things,
Will give thee hope such joy to share.

Domestic Life must soon be thine—
'Tis various as an April day;
'Tis pleasure now, and now 'tis pain:
Thro' storms of foul and gleams of fine
Contented hold thy steady way,
And these enjoy, and those sustain.

From London's streets to solitude,
From brilliant shops to dirty fields,
From beaux and belles to rugged hinds—
The change I own is strange and rude:
Yet scarce a place so little yields,
But he who seeks amusement finds.

183

Perchance thou'lt not disdain to hear
The ploughman's history of the plain;
Thy sight the prospect's scenes may charm:
And sure fastidious is the ear,
That slights the milkmaid's simple strain,
At evening echoing from the farm.

The market lore of artful swains;
The price of cattle and of corn,
The sportsman's feats of dogs and guns;—
To practise that will cost thee pains;
And these with patience must be born,
For he will be dislik'd who shuns.

Courage, my friend! whate'er our fate;
So versatile the human mind,
That oft, when novelty is o'er,
To objects of our former hate
Assimilated and resign'd,
We wonder they displeas'd before.

184

'Twas on the festive, social day,
Where Beauty cast her smiles around,
And Mirth the mind from care reliev'd;
What time our hands in harmless play
Thy brow with wreaths of myrtle bound,
My thoughts this grateful lay conceiv'd.

From Stanway's groves, from fields of Layer ,
To other scenes and other friends
To-morrow calls my steps away;
Yet Memory them in view shall bear;
Yet them the wish of health attends,
And many a moment calm and gay.

The Author alludes to some trifling pieces of humour, written on his Friend, for the amusement of a few intimate acquaintance.

Layer Breton: a village in Essex.

185

ODE VII. WRITTEN IN WINTER.

While in the sky black clouds impend,
And fogs arise, and rains descend,
And one brown prospect opens round
Of leafless trees and furrow'd ground;
Save where unmelted spots of snow
Upon the shaded hill-side show;
While chill winds blow, and torrents roll,
The scene disgusts the sight, depresses all the soul.

Yet worse what polar climates share—
Vast regions, dreary, bleak, and bare!—
There, on an icy mountain's height,
Seen only by the moon's pale light,

186

Stern Winter rears his giant form,
His robe a mist, his voice a storm:
His frown the shivering nations fly,
And hid for half the year in smoky caverns lie.

Yet there the lamp's perpetual blaze
Can pierce the gloom with chearing rays;
Yet there the heroic tale or song
Can urge the lingering hours along;
Yet there their hands with timely care
The kajak and the dart prepare,
On summer seas to work their way,
And wage the watry war, and make the seals their prey.

Too Delicate! reproach no more
The seasons of thy native shore—
There soon shall Spring descend the sky,
With smiling brow and placid eye;

187

A primrose wreath surrounds her hair,
Her green robe floats upon the air;
And, scatter'd from her liberal hand,
Fair blossoms deck the trees, fair flow'rs adorn the land.

Kajak: a Greenland fishing-boat.

188

ODE VIII. TO A FRIEND.

Where Grove-hill shows thy villa fair,
But late, my Lettsom, there with thee
'Twas mine the tranquil hour to share—
The social hour of converse free;
To mark the arrangement of thy ground,
And all the pleasing prospect round,
Where, while we gaz'd, new beauties still were found.

There, as the impending cloud of smoke
Fled various from the varying gale,
Full on the view fresh objects broke
Along the extensive peopled vale,

189

Beside Thamesis' bending stream,
From ancient Lambeth's west extreme,
To Limehouse glittering in the evening beam.

And now and then the glancing eye
Caught glimpse of spots remoter still,
On Hampstead's street-clad slope so high,
Or Harrow's far conspicuous hill;
Or eastward wander'd to explore
All Peckham's pleasant level o'er,
To busy Deptford's vessel-crowded shore:

Or sought that southern landscape's bound,
Those swelling mounts—one smooth and green,
And one with oaken coverts crown'd,
And one where scattering trees are seen .

190

'Twas these, with Summer's radiance bright,
That gave my earliest youth delight,
Of rural scenes the first that met my sight .

That Business, with fatiguing cares,
For this delightful seat of thine
Such scanty store of moments spares,
Say, Friend, shall I for thee repine?—
Were it the commerce of the main,
Or culture of the teeming plain,
From blame or pity I should scarce refrain.

But O! to alleviate human woes,
To banish sickness, banish pain,
To give the sleepless eye repose,
The nerveless arm its strength again;
From parent eyes to dry the tear,
The wife's distressful thought to chear,
And end the husband's and the lover's fear;

191

Where Want sits pining, faint, and ill,
To lend thy kind, unpurchas'd aid,
And hear the exertions of thy skill
With many a grateful blessing paid—
'Tis luxury to the feeling heart,
Beyond what social hours impart,
Or Nature's beauteous scenes, or curious works of Art!

At Camberwell, in Surry.

The Dulwich hills.

The Author was born in the environs of London, on the Surry side.

192

ODE IX. LEAVING BATH,

MDCCLXXVI.

Bath! ere I quit thy pleasing scene,
Thy Beachen cliff I'll climb again,
To view thy mountains vivid green,
To view thy hill-surrounded plain:
To see distinct beneath the eye,
As in a pictur'd prospect nigh,
Those Attic structures shining white,
That form thy sunny crescent's bend,
Or by thy dusty streets extend,
Or near thy winding river's site.

Did Commerce these proud piles upraise?
For thee she ne'er unfurl'd her sails—
Hygeia gave thy fountains praise,
And Pain and Languor sought thy vales:

193

But these suffic'd an humble cell,
If they with Strength and Ease might dwell.
Then Fashion call'd; his potent voice
Proud Wealth with ready step obey'd,
And Pleasure all her arts essay'd,
To fix with thee the fickle choice.

Precarious gift!—Thy mansions gay,
Where Peers and Beauties lead the ball,
Neglected, soon may feel decay;
Forsaken, moulder to their fall.—
Palmyra, once like thee renown'd,
Now lies a ruin on the ground.—
But still thy environs so fair,
Thy waters salutary aid,
Will surely always some persuade
To render thee their care.

194

ODE X. TO J. PAYNE, ESQ.

ACCOUNTANT-GENERAL OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.

O friend! to Thee, whose liberal mind
Was form'd with taste for joys refin'd,
For all the extended country yields,
Of azure skies and verdant fields;
For all that Genius' hand displays,—
The Painter's forms, the Poet's lays:—
To Thee, restraint to that dull room,
Where sunshine never breaks the gloom;
To Thee, restraint to that dull lore
Of books, with numbers cypher'd o'er—
How hard the lot! I see with pain,
And wish it oft exchang'd in vain.

Yet not for Thee I ask the stores
Which Rapine rends from foreign shores,

195

Nor those Oppression's power procures
From ills that Poverty endures.
Far happier Thou! thy honest gain
Can life with decency sustain;
For Thee, Content, with thought serene,
Surveys the present changeful scene;
And Piety her view sublime
Extends beyond the realm of Time.

196

ODE XI. TO A FRIEND APPREHENSIVE OF DECLINING FRIENDSHIP.

Too much in Man's imperfect state
Mistake produces useless pain.—
Methinks, of Friendship's frequent fate
I hear my Frogley's voice complain.

This heart, I hope, forgives its foes;
I know it ne'er forgets its friends;
Where'er may Chance my steps dispose,
The absent oft my thought attends.

Deem not that Time's oblivious hand
From Memory's page has ras'd the days,
By Lee's green verge we wont to stand,
And on his chrystal current gaze.

197

From Chadwell's cliffs, o'erhung with shade,
From Widbury's prospect-yielding hill,
Sweet look'd the scenes we then survey'd,
While Fancy sought for sweeter still:

Then how did Learning's stores delight!
From books what pleasures then we drew!
For then their charms first met our sight,
And then their faults we little knew.

Alas! Life's Summer swiftly flies,
And few its hours of bright and fair!
Why bid Distrust's chill east-wind rise,
To blast the scanty blooms they bear?

198

ODE XII. TO A FRIEND.

No, Cockfield, no! I'll not disdain
Thy Upton's elm-divided plain;
Nor scorn the varied views it yields,
O'er Bromley's creeks and isles of reeds,
Or Ham's or Plaistow's level meads,
To Woolwich streets, or Charlton fields:
Thy hedge-row paths I'll pleasant call,
And praise the lonely lane that leads
To that old tower upon the wall.

'Twas when Misfortune's stroke severe,
And Melancholy's presence drear,

199

Had made my Amwell's groves displease,
That thine my weary steps receiv'd,
And much the change my mind reliev'd,
And much thy kindness gave me ease;
For o'er the past as thought would stray,
That thought thy voice as oft retriev'd,
To scenes which fair before us lay.

And there, in happier hours, the walk
Has frequent pleas'd with friendly talk;
From theme to theme that wander'd still—
The long detail of where we had been,
And what we had heard, and what we had seen;
And what the Poet's tuneful skill,
And what the Painter's graphic art,
Or Antiquarian's searches keen,
Of calm amusement could impart.

Then oft did Nature's works engage,
And oft we search'd Linnæus' page;

200

The Scanian Sage, whose wond'rous toil
Had class'd the vegetable race:
And curious, oft from place to place,
We rang'd, and sought each different soil,
Each different plant intent to view,
And all the marks minute to trace,
Whence he his nice distinctions drew.

O moments these, not ill employ'd!
O moments, better far enjoy'd
Than those in crowded cities pass'd;
Where oft to Luxury's gaudy reign
Trade lends her feeble aid in vain,
Till Pride, a bankrupt wretch at last,
Bids Fraud his specious wiles essay,
Youth's easy confidence to gain,
Or Industry's poor pittance rend away!

201

ODE XIII.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows tears, and orphans moans;
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

202

ODE XIV. WRITTEN AFTER READING SOME MODERN LOVE-VERSES.

Take hence this tuneful Trifler's lays!
I'll hear no more the unmeaning strain
Of Venus' doves, and Cupid's darts,
And killing eyes, and wounded hearts;
All Flattery's round of fulsome praise,
All Falsehood's cant of fabled pain.

Bring me the Muse whose tongue has told
Love's genuine plaintive tender tale;
Bring me the Muse whose sounds of woe
'Midst Death's dread scenes so sweetly flow,
When Friendship's faithful breast lies cold,
When Beauty's blooming cheek is pale:

203

Bring thefe—I like their grief sincere;
It sooths my sympathetic gloom:
For, oh! Love's genuine pains I've borne,
And Death's dread rage has made me mourn;
I've wept o'er Friendship's early bier,
And dropt the tear on Beauty's tomb.

204

ODE XV. THE MUSE;

OR, POETICAL ENTHUSIASM.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
The Poet's birth, I ask not where,
His place, his name, they're not my care;
Nor Greece nor Rome delights me more
Than Tagus' bank , or Thames's shore :
From silver Avon's flowery side
Tho' Shakespeare's numbers sweetly glide,
As sweet, from Morven's desart hills,
My ear the voice of Ossian fills.

205

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
Nor bigot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me blame the page;
I scorn not all that Dryden sings
Because he flatters courts and kings;
And from the master lyre of Gray
When pomp of music breaks away,
Not less the sound my notice draws,
For that 'tis heard in Freedom's cause.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
Where Wealth's bright sun propitious shines,
No added lustre marks the lines;
Where Want extends her chilling shades,
No pleasing flower of Fancy fades;
A scribbling peer's applauded lays
Might claim, but claim in vain, my praise

206

From that poor Youth, whose tales relate
Sad Juga's fears and Bawdin's fate .

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
When Fame her wreath well-earn'd bestows,
My breast no latent envy knows;
My Langhorne's verse I lov'd to hear,
And Beattie's song delights my ear;
And his, whom Athens' Tragic Maid
Now leads through Scarning's lonely glade,
While he for British nymphs bids flow
Her notes of terror and of woe .

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:

207

Or be the verse of blank or rhyme,
The theme or humble or sublime;
If Pastoral's hand my journey leads
Thro' harvest fields or new-mown meads;
If Epic's voice sonorous calls
To Œta's cliffs or Salem's walls ;
Enough—the Muse, the Muse inspires!
My soul the tuneful strain admires.

alluding to Camoens, the epic poet of Portugal; of whose Lusiad we have a well known masterly translation by Mr. Mickle.

alluding to Milton, Pope, &c.

See Rowley's Poems, supposed to have been written by Chatterton, an unhappy youth born at Bristol.

See Mr. Potter's excellent Translation of Æschylus and Euripides.

See Mr. Glover's Leonidas, alluded to as an example of Classical dignity and simplicity.

See Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, alluded to as an example of Gothic fancy and magnificence.

208

ODE XVI. VIEWING THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY

TO A FRIEND.

How steep yon mountains rise around,
How bold yon gloomy woods ascend!
How loud the rushing torrents sound
That 'midst these heaps of ruin bend,
Where one arch'd gateway yet remains,
And one lone aisle its roof retains,
And one tall turret's walls impend!

Here once a self-sequester'd train
Renounc'd life's tempting pomp and glare;
Rejected power, relinquish'd gain,
And shunn'd the great, and shunn'd the fair:

209

The voluntary slaves of toil,
By day they till'd their little soil,
By night they awoke, and rose to prayer.

Tho' Superstition much we blame,
That bade them thus consume their years;
Their motive still our praise must claim,
Their constancy our thought reveres:
And sure their solitary scheme
Must check each passion's wild extreme,
And save them cares, and save them fears.

Their convent's round contain'd their all;
Their minds no sad presage opprest,
What fate might absent wealth befal,
How absent friends might be distrest:
Domestic ills ne'er hurt their ease;
They nought of pain could feel from these,
Who no domestic joys possest.

210

But Imperfection haunts each place:
Would this kind calm atone to thee
For Fame's or Fortune's sprightly chace,
Whose prize in prospect still we see;
Or Hymen's happy moments blest,
With Beauty leaning on thy breast,
Or Childhood prattling at thy knee?

211

ODE XVII. PRIVATEERING.

How Custom steels the human breast
To deeds that Nature's thoughts detest!
How Custom consecrates to fame
What Reason else would give to shame!
Fair Spring supplies the favouring gale,
The Naval Plunderer spreads his sail,
And ploughing wide the watry way,
Explores with anxious eyes his prey.

The man he never saw before,
The man who him no quarrel bore,
He meets, and Avarice prompts the fight;
And Rage enjoys the dreadful sight

212

Of decks with streaming crimson dy'd,
And wretches struggling in the tide,
Or, 'midst th' explosion's horrid glare,
Dispers'd with quivering limbs in air.

The merchant now on foreign shores
His captur'd wealth in vain deplores;
Quits his fair home, O mournful change!
For the dark prison's scanty range;
By Plenty's hand so lately fed,
Depends on casual alms for bread;
And, with a father's anguish torn,
Sees his poor offspring left forlorn.

And yet, such Man's misjudging mind,
For all this injury to his kind,
The prosperous Robber's native plain
Shall bid him welcome home again;
His name the song of every street,
His acts the theme of all we meet,

213

And oft the artist's skill shall place
To public view his pictur'd face!

If glory thus be earn'd, for me
My object glory ne'er shall be;
No, first in Cambria's loneliest dale
Be mine to hear the shepherd's tale!
No, first on Scotia's bleakest hill
Be mine the stubborn soil to till!
Remote from wealth, to dwell alone,
And die, to guilty praise unknown!

214

ODE XVIII. TO HOSPITALITY.

Domestic Power! erewhile rever'd
Where Syria spread her palmy plain,
Where Greece her tuneful Muses heard,
Where Rome beheld her Patriot Train;
Thou to Albion too wert known,
'Midst the moat and moss-grown wall
That girt her Gothic-structur'd hall
With rural trophies strown.

The traveller, doubtful of his way,
Upon the pathless forest wild;
The huntsman, in the heat of day,
And with the tedious chace o'ertoil'd;

215

Wide their view around them cast,
Mark'd the distant rustic tower,
And sought and found the festive bower,
And shar'd the free repast.

E'en now, on Caledonia's shore,
When Eve's dun robe the sky arrays,
Thy punctual hand unfolds the door,
Thy eye the mountain road surveys;
Pleas'd to spy the casual guest,
Pleas'd with food his heart to cheer,
With pipe or song to sooth his ear,
And spread his couch for rest.

Nor yet ev'n here disdain'd thy sway,
Where Grandeur's splendid modern seat
Far o'er the landscape glitters gay;
Or where fair Quiet's lone retreat

216

Hides beneath the hoary hill,
Near the dusky upland shade,
Between the willow's glossy glade,
And by the tinkling rill.

There thine the pleasing interviews
That friends and relatives endear,
When scenes not often seen amuse,
When tales not often told we hear;
There the scholar's liberal mind
Oft instruction gives and gains,
And oft the lover's lore obtains
His fair-one's audience kind.

O gentle Power! where'er thy reign,
May Health and Peace attend thee still;
Nor Folly's presence cause thee pain,
Nor Vice reward thy good with ill:

217

Gratitude thy altar raise,
Wealth to thee her offerings pay,
And Genius wake his tuneful lay
To celebrate thy praise.

218

ODE XIX. THE APOLOGY.

‘Pastoral, and Elegy, and Ode!
‘Who hopes, by these, applause to gain,
‘Believe me, Friend, may hope in vain—
‘These classic things are not the mode;
‘Our taste polite, so much refin'd,
‘Demands a strain of different kind.

‘Go, court the Muse of Chevy Chace,
‘To tell in Sternhold's simple rhymes
‘Some tale of ancient English times;
‘Or try to win rude Satire's grace,
‘That Scold, who dirt around her throws,
‘And many a random stain bestows.

219

‘Or dull trite thoughts in songs combine,
‘And bid the tuneful accents fall,
‘To wake the echoes of Vauxhall;
‘Or tow'rds the Stage thy thoughts incline,
‘And furnish some half-pilfer'd play,
‘To shine the meteor of the day.’

O! no—tho' such the crowd amuse,
And peals of noisy praise procure;
Will they the critic eye endure,
And pass the ordeal of Reviews?
And who is he for whom they'll gain
A nich in Fame's immortal fane?

The plan that Virgil's choice could claim,
The plan that Horace deign'd to chuse,
Trust me, I wish not to refuse:—
To Akenside's or Shenstone's name
The praise that future days shall pay,
Methinks may well content my lay.

220

ODE XX.

This scene how rich from Thames's side,
While evening suns their amber beam
Spread o'er the glassy-surfac'd tide,
And 'midst the masts and cordage gleam;
Blaze on the roofs with turrets crown'd,
And gild green pastures stretch'd around,
And gild the slope of that high ground,
Whose cornfields bright the prospect bound !

The white sails glide along the shore,
Red streamers on the breezes play,
The boatmen ply the dashing oar,
And wide their various freight convey;

221

Some Neptune's hardy thoughtless train,
And some the careful sons of gain,
And some the enamour'd nymph and swain
Listening to music's soothing strain.

But there, while these the sight allure,
Still Fancy wings her flight away,
To woods recluse, and vales obscure,
And streams that solitary stray;
To view the pine-grove on the hill,
The rocks that trickling springs distill,
The meads that quivering aspins fill,
Or alders crowding o'er the rill.

And where the trees unfold their bloom,
And where the banks their floriage bear,
And all effuse a rich perfume
That hovers in the soft calm air;
The hedge-row path to wind along,
To hear the bleating fleecy throng,

222

To hear the skylark's airy song,
And throstle's note so clear and strong.

But say, if there our steps were brought,
Would these their pow'r to please retain?
Say, would not restless, roving thought
Turn back to busy scenes again?
O strange formation of the mind!
Still, tho' the present fair we find,
Still tow'rds the absent thus inclin'd,
Thus fix'd on objects left behind!

Shooter's Hill. This view was taken on the North side of the Thames, at Ratcliff.

223

ODE XXI. WRITTEN AFTER A JOURNEY TO BRISTOL.

Thee, Bristol, oft my thoughts recal,
Thy Kingsdown brow and Brandon hill;
The space, once circled by thy wall,
Which tow'rs and spires of churches fill;
And masts and sails of vessels tall,
With trees and houses intermingled still!

From Clifton's rocks how grand the sight,
When Avon's dark tide rush'd between!
How grand, from Henbury's woody height,
The Severn's wide-spread watry scene,
Her waves with trembling sunshine bright,
And Cambrian hills beyond them rising green!

224

To Mendip's ridge how stretch'd away
My view, while Fancy sought the plain
Where Blagdon's groves secluded lay,
And heard my much-lov'd Poet's strain !
Ah! why so near, nor thither stray
To meet the friend I ne'er shall meet again?

Occasion's call averse to prize,
Irresolute we oft remain—
She soon irrevocably flies,
And then we mourn her flown in vain;
While Pleasure's imag'd forms arise,
Whose fancied loss Regret beholds with pain.

And Bristol! why thy scenes explore,
And why those scenes so soon resign,
And fail to seek the spot that bore
That wonderous tuneful Youth of thine,

225

The Bard , whose boasted ancient store
Rose recent from his own exhaustless mine !

Though Fortune all her gifts denied,
Though Learning made him not her choice,
The Muse still placed him at her side,
And bade him in her smile rejoice—
Description still his pen supplied,
Pathos his thought, and Melody his voice!

Conscious and proud of merit high,
Fame's wreath he boldly claim'd to wear;
But Fame, regardless, pass'd him by,
Unknown, or deem'd unworth her care:
The Sun of Hope forsook his sky;
And all his land look'd dreary, bleak, and bare!

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Then Poverty, grim spectre, rose,
And horror o'er the prospect threw—
His deep distress too nice to expose;
Too nice for common aid to sue,
A dire alternative he chose,
And rashly from the painful scene withdrew.

Ah! why for Genius' headstrong rage
Did Virtue's hand no curb prepare?
What boots, poor youth! that now thy page
Can boast the publick praise to share,
The learn'd in deep research engage,
And lightly entertain the gentle fair?

Ye, who superfluous wealth command,
O why your kind relief delay'd?
O why not snatch'd his desperate hand?
His foot on Fate's dread brink not stay'd?
What thanks had you your native land
For a new Shakespeare or new Milton paid?

227

For me—Imagination's power
Leads oft insensibly my way,
To where, at midnight's silent hour,
The crescent moon's slow-westering ray
Pours full on Redcliff's lofty tower,
And gilds with yellow light its walls of grey.

'Midst Toil and Commerce slumbering round,
Lull'd by the rising tide's hoarse roar,
There Frome and Avon willow-crown'd,
I view sad-wandering by the shore,
With streaming tears, and notes of mournful sound,
Too late their hapless Bard, untimely lost, deplore.

The late ingenious Dr. John Langhorne, then resident at Blagdon, near Bristol.

Chatterton.

This is at least the Author's opinion, notwithstanding all that has hitherto appeared on the other side of the question. The last line alludes to one of the ingenious Mr. Mason in his Elegy to a young Nobleman:

“See from the depths of his exhaustless mine
“His glittering stores the tuneful spendthrift throws.”

228

ODE XXII. TO CRITICISM.

Fair Nymph! of Taste and Learning born,
Whom Truth's and Candour's gifts adorn,
The Muse's friend! to thee she sings:
Accept the grateful verse she brings.
When Genius, ranging Nature o'er,
Collects his tributary store,
What Matter's tract immense supplies,
Or wide in Mind's vast region lies,
And every thought with skill combines,
And all transmits in tuneful lines;
Then rapture sparkling in thine eye,
Then rais'd thy solemn voice on high;
Thy comment still his work pursues,
The plan explains, the style reviews,
And marks its strength, and marks its ease;
And tells us why and how they please.

229

And when, perhaps, disdaining care,
He blends with faults his products fair;
Whate'er of such thy sight surveys,
Thy tongue in triumph ne'er displays,
But hints, as spots that dim the sun,
Or rocks that future sails should shun.

'Twas Thee whom once Stagyra's grove
Oft with her Sage allur'd to rove;
'Twas Thee to whom in Tadmor's bowers,
Her Statesman vow'd his vacant hours;
'Twas Thee whom, Tibur's vines among,
Her Bard in careless measures sung;
'Twas Thou who thence to Albion's plain
Remov'd, to teach her tuneful train,
When Dryden's age, by thee inspir'd,
Condemn'd the flights his youth admir'd;
And Pope, intent on higher praise,
So polish'd all his pleasing lays:

230

And now, by Thee, our favour'd coast
A Warton, Hurd, and Burke can boast;
And Her, whose pen from Gallic rage
Defended Shakespeare's injur'd page .

Give me, bright Power! with ready ear,
Another's plea for fame to hear,
And bid my willing voice allow
The bays to Merit's modest brow:
And when the Muse her presence deigns,
And prompts my own unstudied strains,
Instruct me them, with view severe,
To inspect, and keep from error clear;
Nor spare, though fancy'd e'er so fine,
One ill-placed thought, or useless line.

Aristotle.

Longinus.

Horace.

The ingenious Mrs. Montague, who has so ably vindicated Shakespeare from the cavils of Voltaire.

231

ODE XXIII. TO DISEASE.

Disease! Man's dread, relentless foe,
Fell source of fear, and pain, and woe!
O say, on what ill-fated coast
They mourn thy tyrant reign the most?
On Java's bogs, or Gambia's sand,
Or Persia's sultry southern strand;
Or Egypt's annual-flooded plain,
Or Rome's neglected, waste domain;
Or where her walls Byzantium rears,
And mosques and turrets crescent-crown'd,
And from his high serail the sultan hears
The wide Propontis' beating waves resound .

232

I'll ask no more—Our clime, tho' fair,
Enough thy tyrant reign must share;
And lovers there, and friends, complain,
By Thee their friends and lovers slain:
And yet our Avarice and our Pride
Combine to spread thy mischiefs wide;
While that the captive wretch confines,
To hunger, cold, and filth resigns,—
And this the funeral pomp attends
To vaults, where mouldering corses lie,—
Amid foul air thy form unseen ascends,
And like a vulture hovers in the sky .

Byzantium: Constantinople; subject to frequent visitations of that dreadful fever, the plague.

Alluding to the too frequent miserable situation of prisoners of war, debtors, &c.; and the absurd custom of burying in churches; circumstances contributing greatly to the propagation of Disease.

233

ODE XXIV. THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING.

There's grandeur in this sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form;
While, bursting now and then between,
The Moon's dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.

Beneath the blast the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies;
The lake's black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.

234

The sight sublime enrapts my thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What History's faithful tongue has taught,
Or Fancy form'd, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill
Of ill to good, or good to ill.

But can my soul the scene enjoy,
That rends another's breast with pain?
O hapless he, who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy!
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows, but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend!

235

ODE XXV. THE MELANCHOLY EVENING.

O haste, ye hovering clouds, away,
Ye clouds so fleecy, dim, and pale,
Thro' which the Moon's obstructed ray
Sheds this sad whiteness o'er the vale!
Forbear, ye bells, that languid strain!
The sight, the sound, are fraught with pain;
The words of dying friends I hear,
The open grave I linger near,
Take the last look, and drop the parting tear!

Bestow my view dire phantoms rise,
The plagues of hapless human-kind!
Pale Fear, who unpursued still flies,
And starts, and turns, and looks behind;

236

Remorse, whose own indignant aim
Deforms with useless wounds her frame;
Despair, whose tongue no speech will deign,
Whose ghastly brow looks dark disdain,
And bends from steep rocks o'er the foaming main.

And Rage, whose bosom inly burns,
While Reason's call he scorns to hear;
And Jealousy, who ruthless turns
From suppliant Beauty's prayer and tear;
Revenge, whose thoughts tumultuous roll
To seek the poniard or the bowl;
And Phrensy, wildly passing by,
With her chain'd arm and starting eye,
And voice that with loud curses rends the sky!

Ambition, here, to heights of power
His course with daring step pursues,
Tho' Danger's frown against him lour,
Tho' Guilt his path with blood bestrews;

237

There Avarice grasps his useless store,
Tho' Misery's plaints his aid implore,
Tho' he, her ruin'd cottage nigh,
Beholds her famish'd infants lie,
And hears their faint, their last expiring cry!

Ye dreadful band! O spare, O spare!
Alas, your ear no prayers persuade!
But, ah! if Man your reign must bear,
Sure Man had better ne'er been made!
Say, will Religion clear this gloom,
And point to bliss beyond the tomb?
Yes, haply for her chosen train;
The rest, they say, severe decrees ordain
To realms of endless night, and everlasting pain !

The Author does not give these as his own sentiments, but merely such as the gloomy moment described might naturally suggest. That the above dreadful idea is adopted by a large body of Christians, is sufficient to authorise its admission into a Poem professing to paint the dark side of things.

238

ODE XXVI. THE PLEASANT EVENING.

Delightful looks this clear, calm sky,
With Cynthia's silver orb on high;
Delightful looks this smooth green ground,
With shadows cast from cots around:
Quick-twinkling lustre decks the tide;
And chearful radiance gently falls
On that white town, and castle walls,
That crown the spacious river's further side.

And now along the echoing hills
The night-bird's strain melodious trills;
And now the echoing dale along
Soft flows the shepherd's tuneful song:
And now, wide o'er the water borne,
The city's mingled murmur swells,

239

And lively change of distant bells,
And varied warbling of the deep-ton'd horn.

Their influence calms the soften'd soul,
The passions feel their strong controul:
While Fancy's eye, where'er it strays,
A scene of happiness surveys;
Thro' all the various walks of life
No natural ill nor moral sees,
No Famine fell, nor dire Disease,
Nor War's infernal unrelenting strife.

For these, behold a heavenly band
Their white wings waving o'er the land!
Sweet Innocence, a cherub fair;
And Peace and Joy, a sister pair:
And Kindness mild, their kindred Grace,
Whose brow serene complacence wears,
Whose hand her liberal bounty bears
O'er the vast range of animated space!

240

Blest vision! O for ever stay!
O far be Guilt and Pain away!
And yet, perhaps, with Him, whose view
Looks at one glance creation through,
To general good our partial ill
Seems but a sand upon the plain,
Seems but a drop amid the main,
And some wise unknown purpose may fulfil.

241

ODE XXVII. AFTER READING AKENSIDE'S POEMS.

To Fancy's view what visions rise,
Remote amid yon azure skies!

What Goddess-form descends in air?
The Grecian Muse, severely fair!
What Sage is he, to whom she deigns
Her lyre of elevated strains?
The Bard of Tyne—his master hand
Awakes new music o'er the land;
And much his voice of right and wrong
Attempts to teach the unheeding throng.

What mean those chrystal rocks serene,
Those laureate groves for ever green,

242

Those Parian domes?—Sublime retreats,
Of Freedom's sons the happy seats!—
There dwell the Few who dared disdain
The lust of power and lust of gain;
The Patriot names of old renown'd,
And those in later ages found;
The Athenian, Spartan, Roman boast,
The pride of Britain's sea-girt coast!

But, oh! what darkness intervenes!
But, oh! beneath, what different scenes!
What Matron she, to grief resign'd,
Beside that ruin'd arch reclin'd?
Her sons, who once so well could wield
The warrior-spear, the warrior-shield,
A turban'd Ruffian's scourge constrains
To toil on desolated plains!—

And She who leans that column nigh,
Where trampled arms and eagles lie;

243

Whose veil essays her blush to hide,
Who checks the tear that hastes to glide?
A mitred Priest's oppressive sway
She sees her drooping race obey:
Their vines unprun'd, their fields untill'd,
Their streets with want and misery fill'd.

And who is She, the Martial Maid
Along that cliff so careless laid,
Whose brow such laugh unmeaning wears,
Whose eye such insolence declares,
Whose tongue descants, with scorn so vain,
On slaves of Ebro or of Seine?
What griesly Churl , what Harlot bold ,
Behind her, chains enormous hold?
Tho' Virtue's warning voice be near,
Alas, she will not, will not hear!
And now she sinks in sleep profound,
And now they bind her to the ground.

244

O what is He, his ghastly form,
So half obscur'd in cloud and storm,
Swift striding on ?—beneath his strides
Proud Empire's firmest base subsides;
Behind him dreary wastes remain,
Oblivion's dark chaotic reign!

Avarice.

Luxury.

Ruin.

University of Virginia Library

ODES.