The poetical wanderer containing, dissertations On the early poetry of Greece, On tragic poetry, and on the power Of noble actions on the mind. To which are added, several poems |
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For what are all
The forms which brave unconscious matter wears?
Not reaching to the heart soon feeble grows
The superficial impulse.
Not so the moral species, nor the powers
Of genius and design; the ambitious mind
There sees herself: by these congenial forms
Touch'd and awakened with intenser art
She bends each nerve and meditates well pleas'd
Her features in the mirror.
Akenside
The forms which brave unconscious matter wears?
Not reaching to the heart soon feeble grows
The superficial impulse.
Not so the moral species, nor the powers
Of genius and design; the ambitious mind
There sees herself: by these congenial forms
Touch'd and awakened with intenser art
She bends each nerve and meditates well pleas'd
Her features in the mirror.
Akenside
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Orlando:
The Melancholy Shepherd.
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene;
In darkness and in storm he found delight,
Nor less than when an ocean wave serene;
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling shene—
Even sad vacissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wish'd not to control.
Beat. Minst. Book I.
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene;
In darkness and in storm he found delight,
Nor less than when an ocean wave serene;
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling shene—
Even sad vacissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wish'd not to control.
Beat. Minst. Book I.
When will this world resume its wonted state?
When will those Grecian days again return?
If ever such there were—when honest worth
And not curs'd gold; alone exalted man.
When love was won by manly form and virtues,
And not corrupted by the proud man's wealth;
When friendship flow'd from the congenial soul,
Nor cringing follow'd splendor's gaudy car.—
Had young Orlando liv'd in such blest times
He had not been the humble wight he was;
Then not dependent for his homely fare
He had not kept a lordly master's sheep;
Then no gay female had despis'd his love,
Or met his modest diffidence with frowns,
His muse would then have won immortal fame,
His sword the conqueror's wreath—his virtue, friendship
—For most those qualities which grace the poet,
The soldier, and the man Orlando had;
But poverty conceal'd them from the world,
Nor culture rear'd the tender plant to bloom.—
When will those Grecian days again return?
If ever such there were—when honest worth
And not curs'd gold; alone exalted man.
When love was won by manly form and virtues,
And not corrupted by the proud man's wealth;
When friendship flow'd from the congenial soul,
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Had young Orlando liv'd in such blest times
He had not been the humble wight he was;
Then not dependent for his homely fare
He had not kept a lordly master's sheep;
Then no gay female had despis'd his love,
Or met his modest diffidence with frowns,
His muse would then have won immortal fame,
His sword the conqueror's wreath—his virtue, friendship
—For most those qualities which grace the poet,
The soldier, and the man Orlando had;
But poverty conceal'd them from the world,
Nor culture rear'd the tender plant to bloom.—
No pipe so often in the still of eve
Breath'd its soft warbbings o'er the drowsy plain,
As young Orlando's, and none so pleasing
Told its melting tale;
No shepherd lad of brave Orlando's years,
Could with such vigour launch the pond'rous stone,
Or with such skill direct the arrow's point.
No shepherd with such swift and easy grace
Could skim along the plain; or daring leap;
None in the wrestler's hardy skilful art,
Could match the youth, or cast him on the turf.
These rural pastimes once he dearly lov'd,
Once none more eager to bear off the prize
Bestow'd on those who in these arts excell'd—
But soon as nineteen years had told their tale,
Their former pleasure and their relish vanish'd,
Nor more ambition led him to the contest;
For then the youth more keenly knew dependence,
Then first fair Anna drew his eye of love.—
Breath'd its soft warbbings o'er the drowsy plain,
As young Orlando's, and none so pleasing
Told its melting tale;
No shepherd lad of brave Orlando's years,
Could with such vigour launch the pond'rous stone,
Or with such skill direct the arrow's point.
No shepherd with such swift and easy grace
Could skim along the plain; or daring leap;
None in the wrestler's hardy skilful art,
Could match the youth, or cast him on the turf.
These rural pastimes once he dearly lov'd,
Once none more eager to bear off the prize
Bestow'd on those who in these arts excell'd—
But soon as nineteen years had told their tale,
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Nor more ambition led him to the contest;
For then the youth more keenly knew dependence,
Then first fair Anna drew his eye of love.—
The village youth had met upon the plain,
(As often was their fond and rural custom)
To imitate the ancient Grecian games.
All ranks that dwelt within the little township
With joy conven'd to see the shepherd's strife.
Among the maids the smiling Anna came
Inspiring love; rich Alner's only child:
Hung careless on her back her darkish hair;
And floated o'er her half-seen lovely limbs
Her robe of snowy hue—Upon her cheek
Shaded with artless curls, health blushing sat;
Her bright blue eye rov'd transient o'er the lawn,
Oft tow'rds the shepherds bent a melting glance.
She shone supreme the beauty of the plain,
Like a rich flower unrival'd by its fellows.
(As often was their fond and rural custom)
To imitate the ancient Grecian games.
All ranks that dwelt within the little township
With joy conven'd to see the shepherd's strife.
Among the maids the smiling Anna came
Inspiring love; rich Alner's only child:
Hung careless on her back her darkish hair;
And floated o'er her half-seen lovely limbs
Her robe of snowy hue—Upon her cheek
Shaded with artless curls, health blushing sat;
Her bright blue eye rov'd transient o'er the lawn,
Oft tow'rds the shepherds bent a melting glance.
She shone supreme the beauty of the plain,
Like a rich flower unrival'd by its fellows.
The bold Orlando with his comrade swains,
In hop'd suspence stood ready for the race;
His pleasing thoughts then no fond female drew.
Tall and erect he waited the command,
To cleave the air and dart across the green;
The flush of manly beauty ting'd his cheek,
And animation sparkled from his eye:
His sprightly limbs in strict proportion form'd
His easy movement and engaging air,
Drew every eye among the female train.—
Then Anna first beheld him and admir'd,
And often on the shepherd fix'd her eye;
He casting heedless his dark eyes around
Met her sweet killing look; and felt his breast
With soft and unknown palpitation heave.
Then first the flame of tyrant love was kindled,
Then first Orlando's sorrows took their date.
Unhappy swain recal thy heart again!
No flock is thine that crops the verdant field,
Thou only art a poor dependent lad!
And Anna's rich and cannot count her wealth;
Her only admiration was thy form—
He must be wealthy who would seek her hand.
The word is given—and swift as eagle's wings,
Start the young swains, and scarcely seem to press
Or touch the verdure with their fleeting feet;
But far before the rest Orlando flies,
(His loose locks waving on the passing wind)
And gains the goal—and claims his easy prize.
But small the joy and pleasure to the victor,
He does not triumph as he did before;
For lovely Anna most attracts his thoughts.
But ah! what torment pierc'd his gentle feelings,
When first he learnt her parent's wealth and pow'r,
And still more keenly Anna's pride and scorn.
Then vanish'd from his breast the cheerful glow,
Content and peace, untouch'd by envy's sting,
The love of pleasure and of rural sports
In solitudes alone he found delight!
Where banish'd from all human observation,
He might bemoan his sad unpitied lot,
And trace those scenes congenial to his soul.
In hop'd suspence stood ready for the race;
His pleasing thoughts then no fond female drew.
Tall and erect he waited the command,
To cleave the air and dart across the green;
The flush of manly beauty ting'd his cheek,
And animation sparkled from his eye:
His sprightly limbs in strict proportion form'd
His easy movement and engaging air,
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Then Anna first beheld him and admir'd,
And often on the shepherd fix'd her eye;
He casting heedless his dark eyes around
Met her sweet killing look; and felt his breast
With soft and unknown palpitation heave.
Then first the flame of tyrant love was kindled,
Then first Orlando's sorrows took their date.
Unhappy swain recal thy heart again!
No flock is thine that crops the verdant field,
Thou only art a poor dependent lad!
And Anna's rich and cannot count her wealth;
Her only admiration was thy form—
He must be wealthy who would seek her hand.
The word is given—and swift as eagle's wings,
Start the young swains, and scarcely seem to press
Or touch the verdure with their fleeting feet;
But far before the rest Orlando flies,
(His loose locks waving on the passing wind)
And gains the goal—and claims his easy prize.
But small the joy and pleasure to the victor,
He does not triumph as he did before;
For lovely Anna most attracts his thoughts.
But ah! what torment pierc'd his gentle feelings,
When first he learnt her parent's wealth and pow'r,
And still more keenly Anna's pride and scorn.
Then vanish'd from his breast the cheerful glow,
Content and peace, untouch'd by envy's sting,
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In solitudes alone he found delight!
Where banish'd from all human observation,
He might bemoan his sad unpitied lot,
And trace those scenes congenial to his soul.
How oft ye streams unconscious of his woe,
Has his lone music stole across your bosom,
And mingled with the murmur of your wave!
How oft ye groves surrounded in your shades
When twilight spread its gradual dusky veil,
Has the fond shepherd pour'd his unheard song,
And trac'd the moon, pale rising thro' your trees;
How oft your brows ye lofty rising mounts
Which frown with sullen pride upon the vale!
Has he with wandering devious footstep climb'd,
Call'd lonesome echo from its distant haunt;
And view'd the landscape spread beneath his eye,
But now no more ye solitary scenes!
Will ye behold your hapless youth return,
No more his pipe shall wake your stilly gloom,
And of proud Anna's cruelty complain—
Beneath yon willow bending o'er the brook,
And kissing with its weeping boughs the stream;
Cover'd with earth and with the grassy sod,
The youthful shepherd rests his humble head;
A feeling lad—a victim of disdain.
Unknown to many, few lament his fate,
Few moisten with their tears his early tomb
Or spread Orlando's genius and his worth:
For he was poor—and who that's poor has friend,
In these cold days of selfishness and wealth
Has his lone music stole across your bosom,
And mingled with the murmur of your wave!
How oft ye groves surrounded in your shades
When twilight spread its gradual dusky veil,
Has the fond shepherd pour'd his unheard song,
And trac'd the moon, pale rising thro' your trees;
How oft your brows ye lofty rising mounts
Which frown with sullen pride upon the vale!
Has he with wandering devious footstep climb'd,
Call'd lonesome echo from its distant haunt;
And view'd the landscape spread beneath his eye,
But now no more ye solitary scenes!
Will ye behold your hapless youth return,
No more his pipe shall wake your stilly gloom,
And of proud Anna's cruelty complain—
Beneath yon willow bending o'er the brook,
And kissing with its weeping boughs the stream;
Cover'd with earth and with the grassy sod,
The youthful shepherd rests his humble head;
A feeling lad—a victim of disdain.
Unknown to many, few lament his fate,
86
Or spread Orlando's genius and his worth:
For he was poor—and who that's poor has friend,
In these cold days of selfishness and wealth
Orlando was a sad romantic youth,
His bosom glow'd with every generous warmth:
Enraptur'd with the muse, he often told
His simple pastoral lay, but it ran not
In lively numbers but in pensive sweetness.
Nature he lov'd, for who that has the soul
Of poesy, of tenderness and virtue,
Can view with cold indifference her charms?
If any can, not such this feeling swain;
His greatest joy was tracing her fair scenes.
Oft when the morn first trembled in the east,
And banish'd darkness from the slumbering earth,
Orlando left his bed, and little cot,
Clamber'd the hillock's height to mark the sun
First tinge the sky with blushing streaks of gold,
And gradual burst with his whole pomp and splendor;
The tow'ring mountains all are tipt with red—
The lake slow winding thro' its sedgy bed,
Reflects the radiance trembling o'er its wave.
The plains with gladness meet the god of day
And echo to the bleatings of the flock.—
Forth from the grove the joyful music wakes,
Varying and wild; sweet nature's tuneful band,
The shepherd calling to his straying flock,
Is distant heard amidst the thankful strain;
And now and then is wasted to the ear,
The music of the mountain goatherd pipe.
At noon when panting with the scorching heat,
Orlando drove his flock to cooling shades,
Where soft and bubbling from the sloping hill,
The limpid rill in easy windings stole;
There while his sheep lay basking on the grass
Or lave their snowy fleeces in the stream;
He on the mossy bank at length reclin'd
Would view the peaceful scene; and pensive muse,
And to his flock attentive tune his pipe;
Tho' dull misfortune's son, he lov'd to look
On happiness, nor sullen envy'd bliss.
But most when evening silent in her steps,
Threw o'er the landscape her dim misty shade,
And nature mourning wept the close of day;
The shepherd lov'd to take his lonely walk:—
His favorite songstress then resum'd her tale,
And every sadness hung upon the breeze;
All that was cheerful faded from the view,
And melancholy held alone her reign.
Then while the little families of peasants
Gather together on the level turf:
Orlando slowly bent his heedless way,
Along the wood which skirts the river's bank
With downcast, thoughtful eye, and folded arms.
When the far distant curfew with drear toll,
Struck superstitious dread in fearful minds;
Not so it met Orlando's listening ear,
It was a solemn music to his care,
And gave a deeper mourning to the scene.
The river washing with its waves its bank,
And now and then the boatman's dashing oar,
Are sounds which ever pleas'd his brooding soul.
But Philomela's warbling most he lov'd,
When from the branches of some spreading tree,
She fill'd the thickets with her love-sick tale:
Busy remembrance when she sweetly sung,
Would trace past scenes and dwell on Anna's charms:
The moralizing swain would speak of man,
How soon his pleasures pass in haste away,
And morning find him in a chilly grave.
The muse records these feeling lines he wrote
With pencil—lighted by the full orb'd moon,
When the sad songstress had her sorrows told,
And all was hush'd to stillness in the grove.
His bosom glow'd with every generous warmth:
Enraptur'd with the muse, he often told
His simple pastoral lay, but it ran not
In lively numbers but in pensive sweetness.
Nature he lov'd, for who that has the soul
Of poesy, of tenderness and virtue,
Can view with cold indifference her charms?
If any can, not such this feeling swain;
His greatest joy was tracing her fair scenes.
Oft when the morn first trembled in the east,
And banish'd darkness from the slumbering earth,
Orlando left his bed, and little cot,
Clamber'd the hillock's height to mark the sun
First tinge the sky with blushing streaks of gold,
And gradual burst with his whole pomp and splendor;
The tow'ring mountains all are tipt with red—
The lake slow winding thro' its sedgy bed,
Reflects the radiance trembling o'er its wave.
The plains with gladness meet the god of day
And echo to the bleatings of the flock.—
Forth from the grove the joyful music wakes,
Varying and wild; sweet nature's tuneful band,
The shepherd calling to his straying flock,
87
And now and then is wasted to the ear,
The music of the mountain goatherd pipe.
At noon when panting with the scorching heat,
Orlando drove his flock to cooling shades,
Where soft and bubbling from the sloping hill,
The limpid rill in easy windings stole;
There while his sheep lay basking on the grass
Or lave their snowy fleeces in the stream;
He on the mossy bank at length reclin'd
Would view the peaceful scene; and pensive muse,
And to his flock attentive tune his pipe;
Tho' dull misfortune's son, he lov'd to look
On happiness, nor sullen envy'd bliss.
But most when evening silent in her steps,
Threw o'er the landscape her dim misty shade,
And nature mourning wept the close of day;
The shepherd lov'd to take his lonely walk:—
His favorite songstress then resum'd her tale,
And every sadness hung upon the breeze;
All that was cheerful faded from the view,
And melancholy held alone her reign.
Then while the little families of peasants
Gather together on the level turf:
Orlando slowly bent his heedless way,
Along the wood which skirts the river's bank
With downcast, thoughtful eye, and folded arms.
When the far distant curfew with drear toll,
88
Not so it met Orlando's listening ear,
It was a solemn music to his care,
And gave a deeper mourning to the scene.
The river washing with its waves its bank,
And now and then the boatman's dashing oar,
Are sounds which ever pleas'd his brooding soul.
But Philomela's warbling most he lov'd,
When from the branches of some spreading tree,
She fill'd the thickets with her love-sick tale:
Busy remembrance when she sweetly sung,
Would trace past scenes and dwell on Anna's charms:
The moralizing swain would speak of man,
How soon his pleasures pass in haste away,
And morning find him in a chilly grave.
The muse records these feeling lines he wrote
With pencil—lighted by the full orb'd moon,
When the sad songstress had her sorrows told,
And all was hush'd to stillness in the grove.
“Thou sweet companion of my lonely hours,
“Who like Orlando shun'st thy fellow tribes
“To pour thy sorrows to the listening night!—
“Not like the world thou giv'st thy little favors
“To those who most are blest with fortune's smiles,
“But to the vassal equal with his Lord.
“A youth unfortunate, a prey to love,
“Unknown to any tenderness but thine;
“Who lost his parents in his infant years,
“And ever since has been a shepherd boy,
“(Attendant on a haughty master's flock)
“Repays thy gently soothing strain with tears;
“When few his favors most he feels those few.
“Say songstress, dost thou mourn unhappy love?
“Thou sure must mourn it—for thou sing'st so sad!
“But ah! thou are not like Orlando scorn'd,
“For all among thy feather'd race are equal;
“The passion is not sway'd by rank, but instinct:
“But poor Orlando's spurn'd because he's poor;
“Anna disdains him—for she's rich and fair,
“Bright as yon moon—but even more deceitful.
“But soon sweet bird, and all thy songs shall end,
“That little throat be clos'd which pours such warblings,
“And he who mourns with thee amid this bower
“Soon to this world of care shall bid adieu,
“Nor longer buffet poverty and woe.
“Perhaps then Anna may bedew his turf,
“With one kind tear—and say the swain had virtues!
“But ah! deceiving dream—she who has heard
“So many ardent vows—with killing scorn,
“Because her pleading swain was poor and humble,
“Will never think with pity on his death;
“But all is one—what she, or what the world
“Think of Orlando when he's in his grave,
“For scorn or pity cannot reach him there.
“Who like Orlando shun'st thy fellow tribes
“To pour thy sorrows to the listening night!—
“Not like the world thou giv'st thy little favors
“To those who most are blest with fortune's smiles,
“But to the vassal equal with his Lord.
“A youth unfortunate, a prey to love,
“Unknown to any tenderness but thine;
“Who lost his parents in his infant years,
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“(Attendant on a haughty master's flock)
“Repays thy gently soothing strain with tears;
“When few his favors most he feels those few.
“Say songstress, dost thou mourn unhappy love?
“Thou sure must mourn it—for thou sing'st so sad!
“But ah! thou are not like Orlando scorn'd,
“For all among thy feather'd race are equal;
“The passion is not sway'd by rank, but instinct:
“But poor Orlando's spurn'd because he's poor;
“Anna disdains him—for she's rich and fair,
“Bright as yon moon—but even more deceitful.
“But soon sweet bird, and all thy songs shall end,
“That little throat be clos'd which pours such warblings,
“And he who mourns with thee amid this bower
“Soon to this world of care shall bid adieu,
“Nor longer buffet poverty and woe.
“Perhaps then Anna may bedew his turf,
“With one kind tear—and say the swain had virtues!
“But ah! deceiving dream—she who has heard
“So many ardent vows—with killing scorn,
“Because her pleading swain was poor and humble,
“Will never think with pity on his death;
“But all is one—what she, or what the world
“Think of Orlando when he's in his grave,
“For scorn or pity cannot reach him there.
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Oenone:
The Deserted Shepherdess.
This epistle is imitated from Ovid, but not literally translated.—Several passages have been here omitted which are in the original, and some additions made which it does not contain.—I mention this that I may not be supposed to have deviated from the latin through mistake, and that these verses may not be considered as a strict copy.
Paris the son of Priam, celebrated in fabulous history for his elegance and beauty; while he kept a stock in Ida's grove, fell in love with Oenone, and received her hand in marriage.—During his residence with her, he was made umpire between the rival goddesses, Venus, Juno and Minerva, to decide who excelled
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Oenone to Paris.
Read cruel Paris this dejected strain,And do not treat it with a proud disdain;
Feel as you did when by my faithful side
You sought carresses from no spartan bride!
O read it o'er, it is my last request!
It breathes no threatenings to disturb your rest;
The far-fam'd nymph of Phrygia's tufted grove,
Here mourns your absence and ungrateful love.
Still would my heart call treacherous Paris mine,
If thou would'st call the sad Oenone thine.
What god opposing my once peaceful lot
Has borne my shepherd from this fertile spot?
What have I done, what crime lurks in my breast
That I'm no longer of your love possess'd?
When we deserv'dly suffer pain and ill,
We ought to bear it with resigning will;
But heavily we droop beneath the blow,
Which leaves disgrace and undeserved woe.
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And kept a little stock upon the plain,
When I of noble birth beheld your charms,
And first receiv'd you to my loving arms;
Tho' now great Priam's son and prince of Troy,
You then was only a mien shepherd boy;
Nor in that rank, did you I scorn to wed,
But took a youthful stranger to my bed.
Often beneath the still sequester'd shade
Amidst the flocks which wanton'd o'er the glade,
Cheerful we've sat secluded from the heat,
While zephyrs whisper'd thro' our cool retreat—
Oft in our little cot secure from hail,
Descending rains and midnight's hollow gale;
In bed of straw upon each other's breast,
Happy we've lain, and sweetly sunk to rest.
Who led you to the caverns hung with rocks,
Where savage beasts conceal'd their infant flocks?
Who led you to the forests stock'd with game,
To the lone waters where the rein-deer came?
I lost Oenone there your footsteps led,
The knotted net with these soft hands have spread,
Follow'd your paths the mountain's giddy rounds,
And with my presence cheer'd your sweeping hounds.
Beneath the beach-trees, weeping oft I stand
And read my name carv'd by your gentle hand,
As their round trunks increase, expands the name,
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There grows a poplar on the river's steep,
(Ah well I know it, there I sit and weep)
Which blooms and thrives your treachery to prove,
And bears the motto of our early love:
Flourish thou poplar by the waters fed,
On whose green bark, these well-known lines are read
“Sooner shall Xanthus leave his channel dry,
“Than Paris live without Oenone's by;”
Xanthus flow back! ye murm'ring streams decay,
Paris still lives, is faithless, far away.
On that unhappy day began my woe,
When wandering thro' the woods with bended bow,
Venus and Juno and the queen of arms,
Made you the judge who most excell'd in charms:
Then jealous fears bade every transport cease,
Then blackening storms o'ercast my former peace;
My bosom heav'd, my strength and colour fled,
When you return'd and the dread tidings spread;
To aged matrons I express'd my fear,
Who all agreed that sorrow's hand was near.
When your bold vessels waited your command,
To bear you from me to a foreign land,
You wept and press'd me with a warm embrace
And kiss'd the tears that trickled down my face,
Still loth to part you gaz'd upon my charms
And closer held me fainting in your arms,
You scarce had spirits when you sad withdrew
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The white sea foams beneath your steady oars,
And gales propitious wast you from the shores;
The lessening canvass my dim eyes pursue
And with their tears the moisten'd sand bedew,
With ardent prayers the Nereids I implore,
To speed your passage and my peace restore;
Have then my prayers brought you thus back again
To mock my love and to insult my pain?
Have I call'd heaven for blessings on your head,
To see you partner of a harlot's bed?
A towering rock o'erlooks the boundless waves,
Which frowns defiance and their fury braves;
There first I spy'd from its bleak giddy steep
Your sails approaching o'er the foaming deep,
Scarce in my transport could I then refrain
From plunging headlong in the passing main.
Borne by propitious winds your ship drew nigh
And first my rival met my searching eye,
Round her lov'd form your faithless arms were press'd
Her head enamour'd hung upon your breast:
With furious hands I tore my floating hair,
And beat my breast in wildness of despair;
My cry resounded thro' fair Ida's grove
The happy scenes of once our happy love.
May gaudy Helen too like me complain,
And mourn like me forsaken lover's pain!
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Which now on poor Oenone she bestows!
You now love one whose false and roving mind,
Has left for you her princely spouse behind;
But when a shepherd here your flock you fed
I made you offer of my virgin bed;
A little cot was all my peaceful home,
I sought not riches nor a costly dome,
I lov'd you not for being Priam's son,
Nor pomp nor splendor e'er Oenone won;
Yet Priam and his wife need not disown
Me as unworthy of their blood and thrown;
Consort to you my merit could command,
Nor would a sceptre ill become my hand.
'Tis no disgrace that I have lain with you
On new fall'n leaves that glitter'd with the dew;
More am I fitted to ascend your bed
Where diamonds dazzle and their lustre shed;
Then in my arms you might securely sleep,
No hostile ships would plow your angry deep;
But Helen's dowry will be wars alarms,
Greece will demand her with revengeful arms;
And pride will swell the haughty fair one's breast,
To see for her two nations in contest.
Shame to the man who for a treacherous bride
Will stab his honor, and his country's pride!
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Will bring destruction on the trojan race.
And do not think this Helen will prove true,
False to all others so she'll be to you;
Now young Atrides mourns his injur'd love
You in your turn shall his dishonor prove.
When chastity once droops its sullied form,
No more 'twill blossom, and survive the storm;
One little stain secludes it from the day,
Nor rolling years can mold that stain away.
Helen's warm passions now on you are turn'd,
So once for Sparta's prince they lively burn'd,
But now his gallant unsuspicious heart,
Feels his disgrace and her dissembling art.
O happy woman! godlike Hector's wife
How sweet thy slumbers, how serene thy life!
No jealous fears thy virtuous love controul,
Constant as warlike, is thy Hector's soul;
Had I, in Paris, Hector's virtues found
Like thine, my days had pass'd their fleeting round.
But lighter than the autumn's wither'd leaves,
Scatter'd and blown by every passing breeze;
Paris forsakes me for another's charms,
Nor longer sinks enraptur'd in my arms:
But still my Paris, still for you I sigh,
For you the tear still glistens in my eye,
Faithful to you I spurn with cold disdain,
The love and offers of each wealthy swain.
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Can ease my bosom, or my joy restore,
To you alone I plead my languid grief,
'Tis you alone can bring me sweet relief!
Pity a faithful, sad, neglected maid,
Revisit Ida's melancholy shade!
Pity a maid who loves with tenderest woe,
And merits all your pity can bestow!
Ally'd with me no bloody wars you'll dread,
Soft peace shall hover o'er our blissful bed.
I am your own; I am your only wife,
And pass'd with you my virgin years of life:
May heaven look down with mercy on my tears,
And crown with Paris my remaining years.
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Lines written on seeing the Representation of a City in Ruins.
This lonely battlement, this fighting hall,
These scatter'd fragments and this mould'ring wall,
Thro' which the tempest pours its solemn sound,
And pensive ivy folds its wreaths around.
Mark the drear spot that once a city spread,
Where the tall column rear'd its haughty head;
Where happiness once strung her syren song.
And splendor roll'd its dazzling pomp along,
Where regal pride sat smiling on his throne
And wisdom, valor, soft-ey'd beauty shone.
These scatter'd fragments and this mould'ring wall,
Thro' which the tempest pours its solemn sound,
And pensive ivy folds its wreaths around.
Mark the drear spot that once a city spread,
Where the tall column rear'd its haughty head;
Where happiness once strung her syren song.
And splendor roll'd its dazzling pomp along,
Where regal pride sat smiling on his throne
And wisdom, valor, soft-ey'd beauty shone.
How chang'd the scene! all these are past away,
Pride, pomp and grandeur moulder in decay;
Mirth's voice is hush'd and o'er the silent plain,
A fearful horror holds its Gothic reign;
Dull melancholy strikes its sleepy string
And superstition spreads her raven wing.
The moon the empress of the gloomy night,
Looks down with sorrow on the tragic sight,
While mournful wandering her eccentric way
She lights the ruins with her trembling ray;
The bird of night espies her grateful beam
And from some crevice flings his hallow scream.
Pride, pomp and grandeur moulder in decay;
Mirth's voice is hush'd and o'er the silent plain,
A fearful horror holds its Gothic reign;
Dull melancholy strikes its sleepy string
And superstition spreads her raven wing.
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Looks down with sorrow on the tragic sight,
While mournful wandering her eccentric way
She lights the ruins with her trembling ray;
The bird of night espies her grateful beam
And from some crevice flings his hallow scream.
Approach proud man, behold this fallen state,
Learn human grandeur, and the word of fate!
“All earthly scenes successive pass away
“All earthly glory hastens to decay!”
Learn human grandeur, and the word of fate!
“All earthly scenes successive pass away
“All earthly glory hastens to decay!”
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The Maid of the Cot:
A Pastoral.
Beneath that lone sorrowful shed,
By whose door the brook murmuring flows,
Where the poplar elates its tall head
And blooms the neglected wild rose;
Liv'd Aline the maid of the cot
Reclin'd on the bosom of rest,
No honors, no riches she fought,
No sorrows invaded her breast.
By whose door the brook murmuring flows,
Where the poplar elates its tall head
And blooms the neglected wild rose;
Liv'd Aline the maid of the cot
Reclin'd on the bosom of rest,
No honors, no riches she fought,
No sorrows invaded her breast.
She tript in her rambles the plain
And drove her flock playful along,
She stole the kind love of the swain
And hail'd the chaste eve with her song:
Delightful her feelings to please
The loneness and stillness of groves,
The hollow complaint of the breeze,
The birds sweetly warbling their loves.
And drove her flock playful along,
She stole the kind love of the swain
And hail'd the chaste eve with her song:
Delightful her feelings to please
The loneness and stillness of groves,
The hollow complaint of the breeze,
The birds sweetly warbling their loves.
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Peace constant attended her ways
And mark'd the fond spots which she chose,
She dwelt in her pastoral lays,
She sunk on her lap to repose;
But ceas'd is the voice of her lay,
Deserted her flock and her cot,
Her virtue is stolen away,
And Aline's repose is forgot.
And mark'd the fond spots which she chose,
She dwelt in her pastoral lays,
She sunk on her lap to repose;
But ceas'd is the voice of her lay,
Deserted her flock and her cot,
Her virtue is stolen away,
And Aline's repose is forgot.
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Ode to Superstition:
In Imitation of Collins.
Whence that horrid sight,
Stalking through the gloom of night!
Darting o'er the heath its eye
And shrieking with a spirit's shrill and death-like cry?
Stalking through the gloom of night!
Darting o'er the heath its eye
And shrieking with a spirit's shrill and death-like cry?
Fell vision hence—approach not here,
The soul that's upright and sincere
Thou canst not harm;
Thou canst not stupify with magic spell,
Or clutch it with thy frightful arm,
Or sink it in thy shivering cell.
The soul that's upright and sincere
Thou canst not harm;
Thou canst not stupify with magic spell,
Or clutch it with thy frightful arm,
Or sink it in thy shivering cell.
Hence with all thy darkling brood!
Throbbing fear and horror bath'd in blood,
Terror with his bristling hair
Chastly as death; inflexible despair.
Throbbing fear and horror bath'd in blood,
Terror with his bristling hair
Chastly as death; inflexible despair.
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Dæmon avaunt! thy hellish reign is o'er,
Bound to thy native home thou shalt disturb no more;
Thy favor'd reign of Gothic night is fled
Resume thy chains, and sink thy impious head!
Bound to thy native home thou shalt disturb no more;
Thy favor'd reign of Gothic night is fled
Resume thy chains, and sink thy impious head!
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Hope:
An irregular Ode.
1. PART I.
Deck'd in blooming amaranthine wreaths,
Sweet hope at distance smiles,
Her genial spirit joy and rapture breathes,
And cunningly beguiles.
The tinge of health glows blushing on her cheek,
Her hair waves on the wind,
Her eyes bewitching, eloquently speak,
Her accents steal the mind.
Sweet hope at distance smiles,
Her genial spirit joy and rapture breathes,
And cunningly beguiles.
The tinge of health glows blushing on her cheek,
Her hair waves on the wind,
Her eyes bewitching, eloquently speak,
Her accents steal the mind.
Along the laughing plain,
The graces in her train;
Fair, young and gay she swiftly glides,
Scarce the thin robe her heaving bosom hides.
The graces in her train;
Fair, young and gay she swiftly glides,
Scarce the thin robe her heaving bosom hides.
On all she bends her mild and placid look,
All feel her soft alarms,
The humble shepherd leans upon his crook,
And ponders on her charms.
All feel her soft alarms,
The humble shepherd leans upon his crook,
And ponders on her charms.
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From the sad lover's drooping languish
She steals away the sigh,
She rears his thoughtful head from anguish,
And darts a lustre in his melting eye;
Where Philomela pours her pensive song,
And peace and quiet lull the rural shade
Musing he roves with folded arms along,
While hope in whispers calls the haughty maid;
She breathes her spirit thro' the lonely grove,
She bids the breeze waft slumbers to his breast,
The happy youth believes Perdita's love,
And gives his sorrow to the arms of rest;
No more he calls on terror and despair,
Nor fury with her haggard eye, her stiff and clotted hair.
She steals away the sigh,
She rears his thoughtful head from anguish,
And darts a lustre in his melting eye;
Where Philomela pours her pensive song,
And peace and quiet lull the rural shade
Musing he roves with folded arms along,
While hope in whispers calls the haughty maid;
She breathes her spirit thro' the lonely grove,
She bids the breeze waft slumbers to his breast,
The happy youth believes Perdita's love,
And gives his sorrow to the arms of rest;
No more he calls on terror and despair,
Nor fury with her haggard eye, her stiff and clotted hair.
Upon the face where discontentments dwell,
She lights the animating glow;
She cheers the author in his wretched cell,
Bids magic scenes before his raptur'd vision flow,
Soft he hears the tinkling fountains
Flowing down the sacred mountains,
Around his brows the laurels bloom,
Honors hail him with caressings
Peace and plenty add their blessings,
The bard looks pleas'd and smiles away his gloom.
She lights the animating glow;
She cheers the author in his wretched cell,
Bids magic scenes before his raptur'd vision flow,
Soft he hears the tinkling fountains
Flowing down the sacred mountains,
Around his brows the laurels bloom,
Honors hail him with caressings
Peace and plenty add their blessings,
The bard looks pleas'd and smiles away his gloom.
She cheers the hero's soul
When the fierce charge the awful trumpets sound,
When death's hoarse thunders roll;
When human blood with crimson slows the ground
And groans of horror rise upon the passing blast.
When the fierce charge the awful trumpets sound,
When death's hoarse thunders roll;
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And groans of horror rise upon the passing blast.
2. PART II.
The cheering glimmering of a distant light
Revives the courage of the travelling boor,
While lone and fearful soothe darksome night
He seeks some hospitable stranger's door;
Revives the courage of the travelling boor,
While lone and fearful soothe darksome night
He seeks some hospitable stranger's door;
But when with weary trembling step he gains
The spot where shone the luminary bright;
Far distant still the flattering ray remains
And twinkles on the mountain's dusky height.
The spot where shone the luminary bright;
Far distant still the flattering ray remains
And twinkles on the mountain's dusky height.
The gathering storm roars sullenly around
The unhappy man still onward holds his way.
Sudden he plunges in the gulph profound
The night owl shrieks—no genius bids his spirit stay.
The unhappy man still onward holds his way.
Sudden he plunges in the gulph profound
The night owl shrieks—no genius bids his spirit stay.
So faithless hope invites
Like her own sex too often false and fair
She spreads with smiling guile the tempting snare,
And lulls her votary with her feign'd delights.
Like her own sex too often false and fair
She spreads with smiling guile the tempting snare,
And lulls her votary with her feign'd delights.
High from Leucadia's brow
Her tresses sorrowfully flowing
Love on her languid aspect glowing,
Sapho look'd down upon the stream below;
The winds were hush'd—no murmur left the shade
Sweet breath'd the accents of the love-sick maid.
Her tresses sorrowfully flowing
Love on her languid aspect glowing,
Sapho look'd down upon the stream below;
The winds were hush'd—no murmur left the shade
Sweet breath'd the accents of the love-sick maid.
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To the blue sky
She rais'd her hand, and mild poetic eye
Bright with a falling tear;
She murmur'd Phaon's name, and from the steep
Plung'd in the bosom of the passing deep.
She rais'd her hand, and mild poetic eye
Bright with a falling tear;
She murmur'd Phaon's name, and from the steep
Plung'd in the bosom of the passing deep.
Keen disappointment, poverty's cold gloom
Were all the trophies that poor Rowley won,
Hope hung her mantle o'er his grassy tomb
And mourn'd too late the sufferings of her son.
Genius had rais'd this feeling child,
Fancy unroll'd her visions to his view
Spenser survey'd his daring son and smil'd;
Fate shook his sable plumes—his poison'd arrow threw.
Were all the trophies that poor Rowley won,
Hope hung her mantle o'er his grassy tomb
And mourn'd too late the sufferings of her son.
Genius had rais'd this feeling child,
Fancy unroll'd her visions to his view
Spenser survey'd his daring son and smil'd;
Fate shook his sable plumes—his poison'd arrow threw.
Sweet be thy slumbers in the sod below
Thou muses darling and thou sport of woe!
Thou muses darling and thou sport of woe!
A gentleman well known in the literary world hearing of the wonderful performances of Chatterton, who published many poems under the name of Rowley, sought the place of his residence with the design of assisting him in his impoverished state, but arrived too late—the unfortunate youth had become his own executioner, and gone beyond the reach of human charity and oppression.
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The Author's Elegy over the remains of his Pen.
Farewell kind friend who zealous in thy trust,
Hast trac'd the wanderings of a youthful heart,
Thy worn remains I now bestow the dust,
And sadly mourn that we are forc'd to part.
Hast trac'd the wanderings of a youthful heart,
Thy worn remains I now bestow the dust,
And sadly mourn that we are forc'd to part.
How patient thou hast borne thy tiresome lot,
And faithful follow'd where I chose to lead!
Mark'd what was passing in my busy thought,
And told the world what they will never read!
And faithful follow'd where I chose to lead!
Mark'd what was passing in my busy thought,
And told the world what they will never read!
Dull lines or not, 'twas all the same to thee,
Thou follow'd on unknown to any fear;
Thy zeal was guided by a love for me,
Who car'd as little for a cynic's sneer.
Thou follow'd on unknown to any fear;
Thy zeal was guided by a love for me,
Who car'd as little for a cynic's sneer.
Thou wast alone the solitary friend
That watch'd my musing in my little cot;
And not like some—thou didst thy comfort lead,
Upon a WIGHT whom honors never sought.
That watch'd my musing in my little cot;
And not like some—thou didst thy comfort lead,
Upon a WIGHT whom honors never sought.
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Now in my service thou art sad decay'd,
Perhaps I've been a master too severe;
Who much too often has requir'd thy aid,
And yet may mourn this usage with a tear.
Perhaps I've been a master too severe;
Who much too often has requir'd thy aid,
And yet may mourn this usage with a tear.
Farewell thou pen—a tender last farewell!
Thou must for ever leave this musing eye.
We all must part and seek the mouldering cell,
We all must sicken, and we all must die.
Thou must for ever leave this musing eye.
We all must part and seek the mouldering cell,
We all must sicken, and we all must die.
How long the WIGHT who mourns o'er thy remains,
Will live beyond thee none on earth can tell;
Perhaps thy elegy may close his strains,
And no more Pens he'll ever bid farewell!
Will live beyond thee none on earth can tell;
Perhaps thy elegy may close his strains,
And no more Pens he'll ever bid farewell!
The End.
| The poetical wanderer | |