The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop ... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare |
 | I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VIII. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
|
THE LIBRARY. |
|
| II. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII. |
| XCIV. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. |
| CI. |
| CII. |
| CIII. |
| CIV. |
| CV. |
| CVI. |
| CVII. |
| CVIII. |
| CIX. |
| CX. |
| CXI. |
| CXII. |
| CXIII. |
| CXIV. |
| CXV. |
| CXVI. |
| CXVII. |
| CXVIII. |
| CXIX. |
| CXX. |
| CXXI. |
| CXXII. |
| CXXIII. |
| CXXIV. |
| CXXV. |
| CXXVI. |
| CXXVII. |
| CXXVIII. |
| CXXIX. |
| CXXX. |
| CXXXI. |
| CXXXII. |
| CXXXIII. |
| CXXXIV. |
| CXXXV. |
| CXXXVI. |
| CXXXVII. |
| CXXXVIII. |
| CXXXIX. |
| CXL. |
| CXLI. |
| CXLII. |
| CXLIII. |
| CXLIV. |
| CXLV. |
| CXLVI. |
| CXLVII. |
| CXLVIII. |
| CXLIX. |
| CL. |
| CLI. |
| CLII. |
| CLIII. |
| CLIV. |
| CLV. |
| CLVI. |
| CLVII. |
| CLVIII. |
| CLIX. |
| CLX. |
| CLXI. |
| CLXII. |
| CLXIII. |
| CLXIV. |
| CLXV. |
| CLXVI. |
| CLXVII. |
| CLXVIII. |
| CLXIX. |
| CLXX. |
| CLXXI. |
| CLXXII. |
| CLXXIII. |
| CLXXIV. |
| CLXXV. |
| CLXXVI. |
| CLXXVII. |
| CLXXVIII. |
| CLXXIX. |
| CLXXX. |
| CLXXXI. |
| CLXXXII. |
| CLXXXIII. |
| CLXXXIV. |
| CLXXXV. |
| CLXXXVI. |
| CLXXXVII. |
| CLXXXVIII. |
| CLXXXIX. |
| CXC. |
| CXCI. |
| CXCII. |
| CXCIII. |
| CXCIII. |
| CXCIV. |
| CXCV. |
| CXCVI. |
| CXCVII. |
| CXCVIII. |
| CXCIX. |
| CC. |
| CCI. |
| CCII. |
| CCIII. |
| CCIV. |
| CCV. |
| CCVI. |
| CCVII. |
| CCVIII. |
| CCIX. |
| CCX. |
| CCXI. |
| CCXII. |
| CCXIII. |
| CCXIV. |
| CCXV. |
| CCXVI. |
| CCXVII. |
| CCXVIII. |
| CCXIX. |
| CCXX. |
| CCXXI. |
| CCXXII. |
| CCXXIII. |
| CCXXIV. |
| CCXXV. |
| CCXXVI. |
| CCXXVII. |
| CCXXVIII. |
| CCXXIX. |
| CCXXX. |
| CCXXXI. |
| CCXXXIII. |
| CCXXXIV. |
| CCXXXV. |
| CCXXXVI. |
| CCXXXVII. |
| CCXXXVIII. |
| CCXXXIX. |
| CCXL. |
| CCXLI. |
| CCXLII. |
| CCXLIII. |
| CCXLIV. |
| CCXLV. |
| CCXLVI. |
| CCXLVII. |
| CCXLVIII. |
| CCXLIX. |
| CCL. |
| CCLI. |
| CCLII. |
| CCLIII. |
| CCLIV. |
| CCLV. |
| CCLVI. |
| CCLVII. |
| CCLVIII. |
| CCLIX. |
| CCLX. |
| CCLXI. |
| CCLXII. |
| CCLXIII. |
| CCLXIV. |
| CCLXV. |
| CCLXVI. |
| CCLXVII. |
| CCLXVIII. |
| CCLXIX. |
| CCLXX. |
| CCLXXI. |
| CCLXXII. |
| CCLXXIII. |
| CCLXXIV. |
| CCLXXV. |
| CCLXXVI. |
| CCLXXVII. |
| CCLXXVIII. |
| CCLXXIX. |
| CCLXXX. |
| CCLXXXI. |
| CCLXXXII. |
| CCLXXXIII. |
| CCLXXXIV. |
| CCLXXXV. |
| CCLXXXVI. |
| CCLXXXVII. |
| CCLXXXVIII. |
| CCLXXXIX. |
| CCXC. |
| CCXCI. |
| CCXCII. |
| CCXCIII. |
| CCXCIV. |
| CCXCV. |
| CCXCVI. |
| CCXCVII. |
 | The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop |  |
103
THE LIBRARY.
Hail! Contemplation! grave, majestic Dame!
In thee, glad Science greets a Parent's name:
Thine is each art of speech, each rapturous strain:
The Graces lead, the Virtues fill thy train!
In thee, glad Science greets a Parent's name:
Thine is each art of speech, each rapturous strain:
The Graces lead, the Virtues fill thy train!
From all of evil, life or dreads, or knows,
It's real trifles, and it's fancied woes,
O! lead thy Votary! pensive, yet serene,
To some lone seat, thy favorite, hallow'd scene,
Where his calm breast may every power employ;
Feel self-born peace, and independent joy.
It's real trifles, and it's fancied woes,
O! lead thy Votary! pensive, yet serene,
To some lone seat, thy favorite, hallow'd scene,
Where his calm breast may every power employ;
Feel self-born peace, and independent joy.
And see! the Library my steps invites;
Fraught with true profit, and with pure delights;
Calls to a feast, which elegance must love,
The man must relish, and the heart approve.
Fraught with true profit, and with pure delights;
104
The man must relish, and the heart approve.
How awful is the Spot!—Each honour'd Name,
Each theme of modern praise, and early fame,
Bards, Statesmen, Sages, lov'd, rever'd, admir'd,
Whom Sense enlighten'd, and whom Glory fir'd,
Rise to my view, still sweet, still great, still bold,
Alive in power, and active as of old.
Each theme of modern praise, and early fame,
Bards, Statesmen, Sages, lov'd, rever'd, admir'd,
Whom Sense enlighten'd, and whom Glory fir'd,
Rise to my view, still sweet, still great, still bold,
Alive in power, and active as of old.
Yes! wasteful Time! here, here, thy rage is vain!
Away! fond Boaster!—Genius scorns thy reign.
Away! fond Boaster!—Genius scorns thy reign.
The Poet here, whom generous transport rais'd,
Survives coeval with the worth he prais'd.
If Deeds exalted gave his breast to glow,
Or Pity bade him sympathize with Woe;
If sweetly soft he chose the Lover's part;
Or Truth to Satire urg'd his honest heart;
His Verse still lives, his Sentiment still warms,
His Lyre still warbles; and his Wit still charms.
Survives coeval with the worth he prais'd.
If Deeds exalted gave his breast to glow,
Or Pity bade him sympathize with Woe;
If sweetly soft he chose the Lover's part;
Or Truth to Satire urg'd his honest heart;
His Verse still lives, his Sentiment still warms,
His Lyre still warbles; and his Wit still charms.
105
Here by the past to form the rising age,
The grave Historian spreads his ample page;
Whose faithful care preserves the Hero's fame,
Or damns to infamy the Traitor's name;
Whose Records bid fair Virtue ever live;
And share immortal, in the life they give.
The grave Historian spreads his ample page;
Whose faithful care preserves the Hero's fame,
Or damns to infamy the Traitor's name;
Whose Records bid fair Virtue ever live;
And share immortal, in the life they give.
Here the firm Patriot, on whose winning tongue,
The snow-soft dews of mild Persuasion hung,
Who knew to lead, inspirit, and controul,
The ductile Passions; and usurp the Soul;
Still pleads, still rules; now lively, now severe;
Exalts the purpose; or commands the tear.
The snow-soft dews of mild Persuasion hung,
Who knew to lead, inspirit, and controul,
The ductile Passions; and usurp the Soul;
Still pleads, still rules; now lively, now severe;
Exalts the purpose; or commands the tear.
Here the firm friends of Science and of Man,
Who taught new Arts, or open'd Nature's Plan;
Who each improv'd, or drew from both combin'd,
Health to the Body, vigor to the Mind;
Who bade Mankind to nobler aims arise,
More good, more just, more happy, or more wise;
Shine, deathless, as the bliss their toil procur'd;
While mem'ry pays the debt, desert ensur'd.
Who taught new Arts, or open'd Nature's Plan;
Who each improv'd, or drew from both combin'd,
Health to the Body, vigor to the Mind;
Who bade Mankind to nobler aims arise,
More good, more just, more happy, or more wise;
106
While mem'ry pays the debt, desert ensur'd.
In such lov'd spot (if Fortune deign to smile)
Calm let me live, and every care beguile;
Hold converse with the Great of every time,
The Learn'd of every class, the Good of every clime!
There better still, as wiser grow; and there
('Tis just ambition, tho' 'tis hopeless prayer)
Still found, like them, on real worth my claim;
And catch their Merit, to partake their Fame.
Calm let me live, and every care beguile;
Hold converse with the Great of every time,
The Learn'd of every class, the Good of every clime!
There better still, as wiser grow; and there
('Tis just ambition, tho' 'tis hopeless prayer)
Still found, like them, on real worth my claim;
And catch their Merit, to partake their Fame.
| The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop | |