The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle including several original pieces, with a new life of the author. By the Rev. John Sim |
The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle | ||
THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
[“The best of parents blest my younger days]
“What others teach with frowns, they taught with praise.
“They held, to praise one virtue would inspire
“A gen'rous manly soul to aim at higher.
“While he, whose rising talents were represt,
“With a great genius never will be blest.
“Thus plant a vine on Nor'way's rocky coast,
“Soon will it die, nipt by the chilling frost:
“But in a warmer sun, and kindlier soil
“Will spread amain, and big with clusters smile.
“Yet some are like the fir, by kindness lost,
“Which thrives but on a rough and barren coast.
“That leads thro' nature, up to nature's God.
“While others teach their sons the love of gold,
“He to my opening judgment would unfold
“The classic page.—My mother would inspire
“And fan the sallies of the muse's fire:
“She taught me to be great, was to be good;
“That goodness far excell'd the noblest blood.”
“To hear at school some parts of Ovid read,—
“Strange raptures set my panting breast on fire;
“And my soul languish'd with unknown desire.
“Then would I wish, alas, had I been he,
“Who wrote that book, how happy should I be!
“And, all alone, great nature's charms admire,
“Far, far estrang'd from every childish toy,
“While the christalline river roll'd along
“In concert murmurs to the sylvan song;
“The voice of nature thrilling from each spray,
“While soft ideas melt my soul away!
“Now, seated on the rocky cliff, look o'er
“The swelling flood, that roar'd from shore to shore:
“Then wild grand thoughts would all my bosom fill;
“My hair would bristle, and my head would thrill!
“But the poetic thought, th'Aonian flame
“Would kindle in my breast strange extasy,
“And lead my passive fancy on with joy.”
[Hence, ye vain nymphs, that in th'Aonian shade]
Hence, ye vain nymphs, that in th'Aonian shadeBoast to inspire the fancy's raptur'd dream,
Far other powers my wounded soul invade,
And lead me by the banks of other stream.
Ye, that beheld when Salem's bard divine
On Chebar's willows hung his silent lyre,
While Judah's yoke and Zion's ruin'd shrine
Did every thought with bleeding woe inspire,
From Siloe's banks or Carmel's lonely dells,
O come, ye Angels of the melting heart;
O come, with every generous pang that dwells
In friendship's bitterest tender bleeding smart!
Still to my eyes the dear lov'd form appears,
But ah! how chang'd; the prey of fell disease!
Cold gleams the eye, the cheek pale langour wears,
And weakness trembles in the wasted knees.
Ah! what dear plans with future action fraught,
With beauteous prospect rose in friendship's eye:
And must, oh heaven, can nature bear the thought?
Must these dear views like morning shadows fly?
Yes, nature weeps, and virtue joins her flame,
And mourning o'er the woes herself inspir'd,
Repeats the friend's, the brother's, sacred name,
And fondly views each scene herself desir'd.
Yes, friendship cannot quit her darling field,
Still bids each hope display its fairest bloom,
Then sickning sees each promis'd joy withheld,
And sink with Cassio to the dreary tomb.
[Plato was clos'd; mine eyes no more awake]
Plato was clos'd; mine eyes no more awake;But Plato's lore still vision'd round my head:
Meseem'd th'Elysian dales around me spread,
Where spirits chuse what mortal forms to take;
“Mine be the Poet's eye; I crowns forsake.”
Sudden before me stood an awful shade;
On his firm mien simplicity array'd
In majesty, the Grecian bard bespake:
He thus: “Bright shines the Poet's lot untry'd;
“Canst thou than mine to brighter fame aspire!
“High o'er th'Olympian height my raptures tower'd,
“Each Muse the fleet-wing'd handmaid of mine ire;
“Yet o'er their generous flight what sorrows ply'd,
“While freezing every joy dependence lower'd.”
ELEGIAC.
A NIGHT PIECE.
The scene is an old church-yard (now the principal street of the city of Edinburgh), where the famous Buchanan, and some of the most celebrated personages of his age and nation lie interred.Of industry suspends her toil awhile,
And solemn silence reigns; the men of law
Nor throng the passage to the wrangling bar,
Nor clients, walking o'er the pavement, curse
Their cause's long delay. The labourer
Lies wrapt in sleep, his brawny nerves unbrac'd,
Gathering new vigour for to-morrow's toil.
And happy he who sleeps! Perhaps, just now,
The modest widow, and the weak old man,
Fainting with want, recline the languid head;
While o'er their riotous debauch, the rout
Of Bacchanalians, with impetuous laugh,
Applaud the witless but invenom'd jest.
At yon dim taper, poring o'er his bonds,
Or copious rent-roll, crooked av'rice sits;
Or sleepless on his tawdry bed revolves
On plans of usury. Oh, thrice dire disease!
Unsocial madness! Wherefore all this care,
This lust of gold, that from the mind excludes
An heir debauch'd, who wishes nothing more
Than the old dotard dead, shall throw it all
On whores and dogs away; then, cursing life,
That nought but scoundrel poverty affords,
By his own hand a mangled carcase falls.
Of brutal riot stroll along the streets,
Scenting the prostitutes: perhaps the son
Of some well meaning countryman entic'd
By lewd companions, midnight orgies holds,
Kennels with some abominable wretch,
Contracting soul disease; one day to strike
His hopeless parents' hearts with biting grief,
And o'er their rev'rend hoary cheeks to pour
The sad parental tear.
The silver moon, with majesty divine,
Emerges from behind yon sable cloud;
Around her all the spacious heavens glow
With living fires! In the pale air sublime,
St. Giles's column rears its ancient head,
Whose builders many a century ago
Were moulder'd into dust. Now, O my soul,
Be fill'd with sacred awe! I tread above
The chiefs of ancient days, great in the works
Of peace, and dreadful in the ranks of war,
Whose manly harness'd breasts and nervous arms
Stood as the brazen bulwarks of the land;
But now, in death's blank courts, mixt with the sons
Of basest deeds; and now unknown as they.
And bitter spleen? Ye statesmen, where the meed
Of all your toils, and victims at the shrine
Of wild ambition? Active Moray's bones
With Errol's dust in dreary silence rest:
The sly Buchanan and the zealous Knox
Mingle their ashes in the peaceful grave
With Romish priests, and hapless Mary's friends.
No quarrel now, no holy frauds disturb
The slumber of the dead. Yet let me ask,
And awful is the question, Where, oh, where
The clay that now I tread above inspir'd?
Hah! 'twas a flash of fire! how bright it shone!
How soon it was no more! Such is the life,
The transient life of man: awhile he breathes,
Then in a little with his mother earth
Lies mixt, and known no more. Even his own race
Forget his name; and should the sound remain,
Ah, let ambition sicken at the thought!
Dull as a twice-told tale it meets the ear.
In dark oblivion: others only live
In fables wild and vague. Our hoary sires,
Who saw the wave of Marlbro's sword decide
The fate of Europe, and her trembling kings,
Relate his actions as a monkish tale
Without concern: and soon the days shall come,
When Prussia's hinds shall wild adventures tell
Of Fred'ric and his brothers, such as oft
The British labourer, by winter's fire,
Tells to his wond'ring children of the feats
Of Arthur and his knights, and Celtic wars.
This nether world, who, from old Nimrod's days,
Down to the present, have beheld the fate
Of emperors and kings, say, Which the life
The ever conscious shade will like to own?
Does Cesar boast of his immortal name,
How, wading thro' the blood of millions, he
Enslav'd his country? No: he drops the head,
And imprecates oblivion to enwrap
The horrid tale. Not so poor Socrates:
With everlasting smiles he humbly owns
The life, that was a blessing to mankind.
Would from their country's interest never flinch,
Look down with sweet complacence on the realms
Their valour sav'd. O Wallace, patriot chief!
Who durst alone thy country's right assert;
Betray'd and sworn away by all but thee.
And thou, great Bruce, who many a doubtful day,
For thy enslav'd and groaning country' sake,
Say, what bold ecstasies, heroic joys,
Your mighty souls inspire, when you behold
A nation to this day bless'd by your arms!
And such the recompensing heav'n of those,
The happy few, who truly great of soul
Are masters of themselves; who patient wait
Till virtue's endless sabbath shall arrive,
When vice shall reign no more, and virtue bleed
And weep no more: when every honest pang
Their hearts have felt, and mourn'd their efforts vain,
Shall yield high joy, when God himself applauds.
POLLIO;
AN ELEGY.
Spem bonam certamque domum reporto.
—HORAT.
ADVERSTISEMENT.
It has been often said, that fiction is the most proper field for poetry. If it is always so, the writer of this little piece acknowledges it is a circumstance against him. The following Elegy was first suggested, and the ideas contained in it raised, on revisiting the ruins and woods that had been the scene of his early amusements with a deserving brother, who died in his twenty-first year.
The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green;
Where spreading poplars shade the cottage-door,
The villagers in rustic joy convene.
With solemn meditation let me stray;
This is the hour, when to the wise and good,
The heavenly maid repays the toils of day.
Whispers the gently-waving boughs among;
The star of evening glimmers o'er the dale,
And leads the silent host of heaven along.
The silver empress of the night appears!
Yon limpid pool reflects a stream of light,
And faintly in its breast the woodland bears.
Solemn and constant, from yon dell resound;
The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade;
The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground.
The Gothic abbey rears its sculptur'd towers;
Dull through the roofs resounds the whistling gale;
Dark solitude among the pillars lowers.
And, solemn, shade a chapel's sad remains;
Where yon scath'd poplar through the window waves,
And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains:
Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where,
Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclin'd,
Pores on the graves, and sighs a broken prayer.
Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears
Its crumbling turrets: still its towery head
A warlike mien, a sullen grandeur wears.
Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends;
Still his big bones his youthful prime declare,
Though trembling, o'er the feeble crutch he bends.
Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led;
Gone is the bower, the grot a ruin'd heap,
Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread.
Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the Lea,
Eying their rescued fields with proud delight;
Now lost to them! and, ah, how chang'd to me!
The dear idea of my Pollio bring;
So shone the moon through these soft nodding trees,
When here we wander'd in the eves of spring.
And modest cowslips deck the streamlet's side;
When fragrant orchards to the roseate morn
Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colours dy'd:
These were the emblems of his healthful mind;
To him the letter'd page display'd its lore,
To him bright fancy all her wealth resign'd:
Flames, never to th'illiberal thought allied;
The sacred Sisters led where virtue glow'd
In all her charms; he saw, he felt, and died.
Big with the scenes now past my heart o'erflows,
Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rise,
And dwells luxurious on her melting woes.
Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee;
When all was fearless innocence and glee.
Has oft been conscious of those happy hours;
But now the hill, the river crown'd with pines,
And sainted well have lost their cheering powers:
Where hast thou fled, and left me here behind!
My tenderest wish, my heart to thee was bare,
Oh, now cut off each passage to thy mind!
The trackless shores that never were repast!
Dread separation! on the depth untry'd
Hope faulters, and the soul recoils aghast.
And shall these stars glow with immortal fire,
Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies,
And could thy bright, thy living soul expire?
The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear,
The tow'ring wish that scorns the bounds of time,
Chill'd in this vale of death, but languish here:
The languid stranger feebly buds, and dies;
Yet there's a clime where virtue shall expand,
With godlike strength, beneath her native skies.
With patience waits the rosy opening day;
The mariner at midnight's darksome tide,
With cheerful hope expects the morning ray:
In mental vision view the happy shore,
Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast,
Where fate and death divide the friends no more.
Who now, perhaps, frequents this solemn grove,
Would tell the awful secrets of the dead,
And from my eyes the mortal film remove!
Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire,
Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles at pain,
And wings his spirit with sublime desire.
Still, oh, my soul! still be thy dear employ;
Still thus to wander through the shades be thine,
And swell thy breast with visionary joy:
In ancient days, the holy Seers retir'd,
And, led in vision, drank at Siloe's fount,
While rising ecstasies their bosoms fir'd;
The burning desarts smil'd as Eden's plains,
One friendly shade the wolf and lambkin chose,
The flowery mountains sung, “Messiah reigns!”
Yet, let me oft frequent this solemn scene,
Oft to the Abbey's shatter'd walls retire,
What time the moonshine dimly gleams between.
And weeping yews o'ershade the letter'd stones,
While midnight silence wraps these drear abodes,
And soothes me wand'ring o'er my kindred bones,
When from the bursting graves the just shall rise,
All nature smiling, and, by angels borne,
Messiah's Cross far blazing o'er the skies.
MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS:
AN ELEGY.
Fama adjiciet posthuma laudi;
Nostris longum tu dolor et honor.
Buchanan.
And gently stir the bosom of the lake:
The fawns that panting in the covert lay,
Now thro' the gloomy park their revels take.
The wood glows yellow'd by the evening rays,
Silent and beauteous flows the silver Forth,
And Annan murmuring thro' the willows strays.
Where oft the wild notes sooth'd the love-sick boy?
Why cease in Mary's bower the songs of love?
The songs of love, of innocence, and joy!
The sportive virgins tread the flowery green;
Here by the moon full oft in cheerful May,
The merry bride-maids at the dance are seen.
In robes of white adorn'd with violet blue?
Fondly with purple flowers they deck yon bier,
And wave in solemn pomp the bows of yew.
Appears the Lady of th'aërial train,
Tall as the Sylvan Goddess of the bow,
And fair as she who wept Adonis slain.
Wandering by Judah's flowery mountains wept,
And with fair Iphis, by the hallow'd strand
Of Siloe's brook, a mournful sabbath kept.
'Tis Mary's guardian genius lost in woe:
“Ah, say, What deepest wrongs have thus combin'd
“To heave with restless sighs thy breast of snow!
“Your solemn rites! Here comes no foot profane:
“The Muse's son, and hallow'd is his eye,
“Implores your stay, implores to join the strain.
“Alas, what faultering sounds of woe be these!
“Ye nymphs, who fondly watch her languid eyes,
“Oh, say what music will her soul appease!”
“And let the turtles moan in Mary's bower;
“Let grief indulge her grand sublimity,
“And melancholy wake her melting power;
“On honour's side, or generous transport knew,
“Has dy'd its haggard hands in Mary's blood,
“And o'er her fame has breath'd its blighting dew.
“And with funereal flowers your tresses braid,
“While in this hallowed bower we raise the tomb,
“And consecrate the song to Mary's shade.
“Her's every charm, and every loveliest grace,
“Heaven lent an angel's beauty to her face.
“Where from the oak depends the misletoe,
“Where creeping ivy shades the Druids' cell,
“Where from the rock the gurgling waters flow:
“You, thro' the fairy dales of Teviot glide,
“Or brush the primrose banks, while Cynthia sheds
“Her silv'ry light o'er Esk's translucent tide:
“By virtue's tears, by weeping beauty, come,
“Unbind the festive robes, unbind the hair,
“And wave the cypress bough at Mary's tomb.
The mournful Lady of the chorus cried;
“Your airy tints of baleful hue prepare,
“And thro' this grove bid Mary's fortunes glide:
“And wailing notes, unfold the tale of woe!”
She spoke, and waking thro' the breathing wind,
From lyres unseen the solemn harpings flow.
“What lasting joys her smiling fate portends!
“To wield the awful British sceptres born!
“And Gaul's young heir her bridal-bed ascends.
“The little loves their purple wings display;
“When sudden, shrieking at the dismal glare
“Of funeral torches, far they speed away.
“Her eighteenth April hears her widow'd moan,
“The bridal-bed the sable hearse succeeds,
“And struggling factions shake her native throne.
“May'st thou, O Queen! thy lovely form display;
“No more thy beauty reign the charm of France,
“Nor in Parisian bowers outshine the day.
“Ah, what drear horrors gliding thro' thy breast!
“While from thy weeping eyes fair Gallia fled,
“Thy future woes in boding sighs confest !
“And now convuls'd with faction's fiercest rage,
“Commits its sceptre to thy gentle hand,
“And asks a bridle from thy tender age.”
Her native shore receives the mournful Queen;
November wind o'er the bare landscape blows,
In hazy gloom the sea-wave skirts the scene.
Bleak in the shade of rude pil'd rocks appears;
Cold on the mountain's side, type of her fate,
Its shatter'd walls a Romish chapel rears.
O'er the dark vale, prophetic of her reign:
Beneath the curving mountain's craggy brow
The dreary echoes to the gales complain.
The high pil'd city rears her Gothic towers;
The stern brow'd castle, from his lofty rock,
Looks scornful down, and fixt defiance lowers .
Far from her heart was seen to speed away;
Strait dark-brow'd factions entering in, destroy
The seeds of peace, and mark her for their prey.
Her Francis comes, by love's soft fetters led;
Far other spouse now wakes her midnight hour ,
Enrag'd, and reeking from the harlot's bed.
The veil was drawn—but darker scenes arose,
Another nuptial couch the fates prepare,
The baleful teeming source of deeper woes.
Far from the couch offended prudence fled;
Of deepest crimes deceitful faction rav'd,
And rous'd her trembling from the fatal bed.
Instead of crooks, the Grampian shepherds wield;
Fanatic rage the ploughman's visage wears,
And red with slaughter lies the harvest field.
The beauteous Queen, all tears, is seen to fly;
Now, through the streets a weeping captive borne,
Her woe the triumph of the vulgar eye.
Again, forlorn, from rebel arms she flies,
And, unsuspecting, on a sister Queen,
The lovely, injur'd fugitive relies.
Heaven oft delights to set the virtuous free;
Some friend appears and breaks affliction's chain:
But, ah, no generous friend appears for thee!
Deform'd the airy scenery as it past;
The haunt where listless melancholy dwells,
Where every genial feeling sinks aghast.
“Ah, cease to tell it in the female ear!
“A woman's stern command! a profer'd friend!
“Oh, generous passion, peace, forbear, forbear!
“No softening thought of what thy woes had been,
“When thou, the heir of England's crown, in vain
“Didst sue the mercy of a tyrant Queen?
“And feel those woes that once had been thine own;
“No pleading tear to drop for Mary's sake,
“For Mary's sake, the heir of England's throne?
“Dry'd were the tears which for thyself had flow'd;
“Dark politics alone engag'd thy view;
“With female jealousy thy bosom glow'd!
“Did honour wave his banner o'er the deed?
“Ah!—Mary's fate thy name shall ever brand,
“And ever o'er her woes shall pity bleed.
“When first thy woeful captive hours began,
“Ere heaven, ah, hapless Mary! set thee free,
“That babe to battle march'd in arms—a man.”
And hands half-rais'd, the guardian wood-nymphs wait;
While, slow, and sad, the airy scenes arise,
Stain'd with the last deep woes of Mary's fate.
The thirsty saw-dust strews the marble floor,
Blue gleams the axe, the block its shoulders rears,
And pikes and halberds guard the iron door.
And Mary's maids, a mournful train, pass by;
Languid they walk, and pensive hang the head,
And silent tears pace down from every eye.
She smiles on heaven, and bows the injur'd head:
The axe is lifted—From the deathful scene
The guardians turn'd and all the picture fled—
As 'rapt in vision, dart their earnest eyes;
So when the huntsman hears the rattling fawn,
He stands impatient of the starting prize.
As Cuma's maid when by the god inspir'd;
She cries, “and Mary's meed my breast has fir'd.
“Age after age shall see their flag unfurl'd,
“With sovereign pride, wherever roars the main,
“Stream to the wind, and awe the trembling world.
“Age after age, thro' length'ning time, shall see
“Her branching race on Europe's every throne,
“And either India bend to them the knee.
“I see her death scene:—On the lowly floor
“Dreary she sits; cold grief has glaz'd her eye,
“And anguish gnaws her, till she breathes no more.
“Faction is rous'd, and sends the baleful yell!
“Oh, save! ye generous few, your Mary's tomb;
“Oh, save her ashes from the baleful spell!
“Points to yon far, but glorious opening sky;
“See Truth walk forth, majestic awful Queen!
“And party's blackening mists before her fly.
“And Mary's virtues all illustrious shine—
“Yes, thou hast friends, the godlike and humane
“Of latest ages, injur'd Queen, are thine .”
Now thro' the grove a trembling radiance shed;
With sprightly note the wood-lark hail'd the day,
And with the moonshine all the vision fled.
The unhappy Mary, in her infancy, was sent to France to the care of her mother's family, the House of Guise. The French court was at that time the gayest and most gallant of Europe. Here the Princess of Scotland was educated with all the distinction due to her high rank; and as soon as years would allow, she was married to the Dauphin, afterwards Francis II. and on the death of this monarch, which closed a short reign, the politics of the House of Guise required the return of the young Queen to Scotland. She left France with tears, and the utmost reluctance; and on her landing in her native kingdom, the different appearance of the country awakened all her regret, and affected her with a melancholy which seemed to forebode her future misfortunes.
These circumstances, descriptive of the environs of Holy Rood House, are local; yet, however dreary the unimproved November view may appear, the connoisseur in gardening will perceive that plantation, and the efforts of art, could easily convert the prospect into an agreeable and most romantic summer landscape.
When she was brought prisoner through the streets of Edinburgh, she suffered almost every indignity which an outrageous mob could offer. Her person was bedaubed with mire, and her ear insulted with every term of vulgar abuse. Even Buchanan seems to drop a tear when he relates these circumstances.
The Author of this little Poem to the memory of an unhappy Princess, is unwilling to enter into the controversy respecting her guilt or her innocence. Suffice it only to observe, That the following facts may be proved to demonstration:—The Letters, which have always been esteemed the principal proofs of Queen Mary's guilt, are forged. Buchanan, on whose authority Francis, and other historians, have condemned her, has falsified several circumstances of her history, and has cited against her public records which never existed, as has been lately proved to demonstration. And to add no more, the treatment she received from her illustrious cousin was dictated by a policy truly Machiavelian—a policy which trampled on the obligations of honour, of humanity and morality. From whence it may be inferred, That, to express the indignation at the cruel treatment of Mary, which history must ever inspire, and to drop a tear over her sufferings, is not unworthy of a writer who would appear in the cause of virtue.
LIBERTY:
An Elegy to the Memory of his Royal Highness Frederic, late Prince of Wales.
The lambkins bleating pour along the green;
In festive pomp, advancing o'er the lawn,
The nymphs of Liberty surround their Queen.
Where oaks and laurels form'd a grateful shade;
Her walks adorn'd with every flower that blows,
Her walks where with the loves the muses play'd.
With silver palms entwin'd, appear'd the throne,
In heaven's own colours, where the altars blaz'd,
The glories of her reign illustrious shone.
Beneath his vine the rural patriarch sleeps;
The cattle o'er the boundless common stray,
And nature one unblemish'd sabbath keeps.
From council deep the awful patriots rise,
There sudden vengeance blasts the traitors towers,
And prostrate in the dust the tyrant lies.
Ere Persian luxe your better times defac'd;
But shone not all whose deeds your pride would plume,
Here Brutus lower'd in shades ambiguous cast.
'Tis there your polish'd chiefs their trophies raise;
With mingled grief and rage the native eyes
Wide o'er his fields the hostile standards blaze;
Rush on his thoughts—the battle fires his breast;
Thus glows, Caractacus, thy noble ire,
With all the Goddess in thy mien confest.
There Mattathias frowns, and points the place
Where low on earth his country's altars lie,
And bids his sons revenge the foul disgrace.
While ardour kindling in their eye-balls glows;
With sword half drawn, the godlike Judas stands,
And victory fires his soul, and marks the foes.
From Gothic night the muses guard his toils;
There juries sit; the laws support his throne,
And freedom o'er the piece triumphant smiles.
The nymphs obey the sign, and leave the dells
Where blooms the lilac, where the wild rose blows,
Where hermit peace with mild contentment dwells.
(The tyrant's dread) the Goddess march'd along;
The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder hung.
(The muse beheld them trip the sacred ground,)
Fair freedom o'er their mien its graces shed,
Their brows with oak and purple blossoms bound.
While to their Queen they raise the votive strain;
“Wide o'er the world,” they sung, “from sky to sky,
“Extend, O Goddess, thy benignant reign.
“Tho' Java's spicy fields embalm the gale,
“Tho' Ganges sees unbidden harvests smile,
“All, all these sweets without thee nought avail.
“The swelling clusters of the bending vine,
“The fruitful lawns confess his toilful care,
“Alas! the fruits his languid hopes resign!
“And still Euphrates boasts his fertile plains;
“Ah! vain the boast—'tis there the murd'rer roves,
“'Tis there wild terror solitary reigns!
“And as he views the solemn waste around,
“With eager watch explores the Turkish bands,
“And dreads the plund'rer's rage in every sound.
“With antient splendour to thy Greece return:
“Ignoble slaves thy once lov'd seats destroy,
“On Pindus, thee, the silent muses mourn!
“Fallen Genius there her broken urns deplores;
“Thy dictates exil'd from her hostile shores.
“O'er Britain's plains, the muse delighted roves,
“Delighted wanders o'er the banks of Thames,
“Or rests secure in Clifden's rural groves.
“The joyous shepherd and the hind are seen,
“The voice of mirth, when evening shades the lea,
“Heard loud and nat'ral o'er the village-green.
“Secure the fold, his labour's all his own;
“No ravisher profanes his osier shades,
“His labours wealth and independence crown.”
As thro' Elisian shades she sportive rov'd—
The British nymphs in mournful pomp appear,
The British nymphs to freedom best belov'd.
The cypress binds their locks with darksome green;
Yet grateful raptures mid their sorrows flow,
While thus with Fred'ric's praise they hail their Queen.
“'Twas not in vain he vow'd his heart to thee;
“Fair, midst thy heroes, stands his name confest,
“The friend of men, the patron of the free.
“Tho' long ere eve at life's bright noon he fell,
“Yet shall the song, oft as this day returns,
“At freedoms shrine his happy labours tell.
“Beneath his smile with ancient splendour rose,
“Corruption blasted, fled his virtuous rage,
“And Britain triumph'd o'er her bosom foes.—
“You thro' the haunted dells of Mona glide,
“Or brush the upland lea when Cynthia sheds
“Her silver light on Snowdon's hoary side.
“And strew your choicest flowers on Fred'ric's bier!
“'Tis Liberty's own nymphs that raise the tomb,
“While o'er her Son the Goddess drops a tear.
“Your bowers he rear'd, to him your strains belong;
“Even virtue joins to gain the Muse's praise,
“Him loves the Muse whose deeds demand the song!”
ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.
Disgraceful stamp on this flagitious age,
In conscious innocence secur'd from blame,
She sigh'd—but only sigh'd o'er Britain's shame:
She saw her children throng their early tomb,
Disease slow wasting fade her Glo'ster's bloom!
She saw—but death appear'd a friendly guest,
His arrow pointing to the realms of rest!
Calmly she views him, dauntless and resign'd,
Yet drops one tear for those she leaves behind.
Which honour, truth, and gratitude bestow.
EPITAPH ON GENERAL WOLF.
And if the Father's sacred name be thine,
If thou hast mark'd thy stripling's cheeks to glow
When war was mentioned, or the Gallic foe,
If shining arms his infant sports employ,
And warm his rage—Here bring the warlike boy,
Here let him stand, whilst thou enrapt shalt tell
How fought the glorious Wolf, how glorious fell:
Then, when thou mark'st his bursting ardors rise,
And all the warrior flashing in his eyes,
Catch his young hand, and while he lifts it here,
By Wolf's great soul the future Wolf shall swear
Eternal hate against the faithless Gaul,
Like Wolf to conquer, or like Wolf to fall.
Rais'd and inspir'd, O gallant Wolf, by thee.
EPITAPH ON MR. MORTIMER.
Pleas'd was each Muse, for full his honours spread:
To bear his genius to its utmost shore,
The length of human days could give no more.
The Arts and all the gentle Muses mourn;
And shades of English heroes gliding by,
Heave o'er thy shrine the languid hopeless sigh.
Thine all the breathing rage of bold design,
And all the poetry of painting thine.
Oh! long had thy meridian sun to blaze,
And onward hov'ring in its magic rays
What visions rose!—Fair England's patriots old,
Monarchs of proudest fame, and barons bold,
In the fir'd moments of their bravest strife,
Bursting beneath thy hand again to life!
Rush'd on, and shapeless darkness clos'd around.
Alas! while ghosts of heroes round thy tomb,
Robb'd of their hope, bewail the Artists doom,
Thy friend, O Mortimer, in grief sincere,
Pours o'er the man sad memory's silent tear;
And in the fond remembrance of thy heart,
Forgets the honours of thy wond'rous art.
To the Memory of Comm. Johnstone.
Thy course to steer, yet still preserved by heaven;
As childhood closed thy ceaseless toils began,
And toils and dangers ripen'd thee to man:
Thy country's cause thy ardent youth inspir'd,
Thy ripen'd years thy country's dangers fir'd;
All life to trace the councils of the foe,
All zealous life to ward the lifted blow .
Fair o'er Britannia threw her painted shade,
Thy active mind illiberal ease disdain'd;
Forth burst the senator unaw'd, unstain'd!
By private aim unwarpt as generous youth,
Thy ear still listening to the voice of truth,
That sacred power thy bursting warmth controll'd,
And bade thee at her side be only bold.
Nor toils of state alone thy cares employ'd;
The Muses in thy sunshine glow'd and joy'd.
And discord rioted on Salem's strand,
Thy hands to Salem's strand the olive bore,
Alas, denied—and liberal peace no more
Smiled on the crest of hope; thy country's weal
Again to action waked thy patriot zeal;
Old Tagus saw the British red cross stream
O'er Gallia's lilies and the tawny gleam
Of proud Iberia's castles: Belgia mourn'd
Her broken faith, and Afric's shores return'd
Her Lisboan groans for British friendship spurn'd.
And round thy head the mists of faction pour'd;
Dark lower'd the storm; but heaven's own light rose mild,
And rescu'd honour on thy death-bed smil'd ,
That heaven's forgiveness and its balm were thine.
Hails thee, and blesses heaven that heard her prayer.
For ever green the laurel o'er thy tomb
Shall flourish, ever white its flowery bloom;
And gratitude, oh Johnstone, round thy shrine,
And friendship, heave the sigh, and thy fair wreath entwine!
The Commodore was remarkably happy in procuring intelligence. He sent the first notice of the Spanish declaration of war in 1761 to Admiral Rodney, then commanding in the West Indies, in consequence of which the Havannah was taken. He sent also the first account of the sailing and destination for the West Indies of the grand Spanish fleet in 1780 to Admiral Rodney, then also commander on that station. Both messages were carried from Lisbon by the same person, Capt. M'Laurin. In consequence of this intelligence, many of the Spanish transports were taken, and the operations of the combined force of France and Spain in the West Indies retarded for that season.
Alluding to the French and Dutch prizes he sent into the Tagus in 1779 and 1780, and to his capture of four Dutch Indiamen in Saldanna bay in 1781.
Alluding to the sentence against him in the cause of Captain Sutton, being reversed by the House of Lords, the account of which he received about twenty-four hours before his death.
An Inscription on an Obelisk at Langford, in Wilts, the Seat of the Earl of Radnor, commemorating the unfortunate Fate of Mr. Servinton, who was formerly in possession of that Estate.
Allow a pause to hear the tale of woe;
Here stood the parent elm in elder days,
Here o'er its Lord slow wav'd the wither'd bough,
While pale and cold his famish'd cheek full low,
On the rude turf in death's last swooning lay.
As by the menials taunted from the door;
Fainting he wander'd—then beneath the tree
Sunk down—sweet heaven, what pangs his bosom tore,
When o'er yon lordly dome, his own no more,
He roll'd his dying eyes.—Ah! what compare
To this the lessons taught of sages hoar?
By his mad revels, by the gilded snare,
By all thy hopes of joy, oh, fortune's child, beware!
Sacred to the Heirs of Radnor Castle.
The awful lesson here bestow'd attend,
What time rapt fancy's shadowy forms descend.
What Bachanalian revels loud resound,
With festive fires the midnight windows blaze,
And fever'd tumult reels his giddy round.
The ousted Heir, so riotous erewhile,
Now sits a Suppliant at his wonted board,
Insulted by the base-born menials' smile.
With anguish'd heart resistless of his woe,
Forlorn he strays those lawns, his own no more,
Unknowing where, on trembling knees and slow:
Fainting he sinks—Ah! let thy mind descry,
On the cold turf, how low his humbl'd head,
On yon fair dome how fixt his ghastly eye.
Oh, thou, of these proud towers the promis'd heir,
By every manly virtue's holy tie,
By honour's fairest bloom, Oh fortune's child, beware!
ODES.
KNOWLEDGE:
AN ODE.
At ease, my careless fancy stray'd,
And o'er the landscape ran:
And weigh'd, what share of joy or woe
Is doom'd to toiling man.
The oxen low beneath my feet,
Along the clover'd dale;
The golden sheaves the reapers bind,
The ploughman whistles near behind,
And breaks the new mown vale.
“Ev'n all the gifts of heaven beside,
“Compared to thee, how low!
“The blessings of the earth, and air
“The beasts of fold and forest share,
“But godlike beings know.
“But how sublime the excellence
“Of wisdom's sacred lore!
“In death's deep shades what nations lie,
“Yet still can wisdom's piercing eye
“Their mighty deeds explore.
“With great Leonidas, withstand
“The Asian world in arms;
“She hears the heav'nly sounds that hung
“On Homer's and on Plato's tongue,
“And glows at Tully's charms.
“She penetrates with Newton's eye,
“And marks the planets roll:
“The human mind with Locke she scans;
“With Cambray, virtue's fame she fans,
“And lifts to heaven the soul.
“Of metals, plants, of men and worms,
“She joys to trace with Boyle,
“A gleam, that bodes a life complete,
“Beyond this mortal toil.
“Yet wisdom learns to scorn them all,
“And arms the breast with steel:
“Ev'n death's pale face no horror wears;
“But ah! what horrid pangs and fears
“Unknowing wretches feel!
“And fairer than the morning shines,
“Where wisdom's treasures glow:
“But ah! how void yon peasant's mind,
“His thoughts how darken'd and confin'd,
“Nor cares he more to know.
“Of ancient times his history bound;
“Alas! it scarce goes higher:
“In vain to him is Maro's strain,
“And Shakespeare's magic powers in vain;
“In vain is Milton's fire.
“Can give his soul the grand delight
“To trace Almighty power:
“His team thinks just as much as he
“Of nature's vast variety,
“In animal and flower.”
Accosts mine ear; I look'd around,
And lo! an ancient sage,
Hard by an ivy'd oak stood near,
That fenc'd the cave, where many a year
Had been his hermitage.
His snowy beard wav'd to the wind,
And added solemn grace;
Attention mark'd his lively eye,
And peace smil'd in his face.
My ear was all at his command,
And thus the sage began:
“Godlike it is to know, I own;
“But oh! how little can be known,
“By poor short-sighted man.
“And star-crown'd science boastful guide,
“Display their fairest light;
“There, led by some pale meteor's ray,
“That leaves them oft, the sages stray,
“And grope in endless night.
“Virtue and vice are merely names,
“And changing every hour;
“Ashley! how loud in virtue's praise!
“Yet Ashley with a kiss betrays,
“And strips her of her dower.
“Hobbes smiles on vice; Descartes maintains
“A godless passive cause:
“See Bayle, oft slily shifting round,
“Would fondly fix on sceptic ground,
“And change, O Truth, thy laws.
“Alas, no joy, no hope it knows
“Above what bestials claim:
“To quench our noblest native fire,
“That bids to nobler worlds aspire,
“Is all its hope, its aim.
“Where ignorance her tents hath plac'd,
“More dismal scenes display:
“Where vice to dark extinction flies,
“And spurns the future day.
“At night then mark the fires of heaven,
“And let thy mind explore;
“Swift as the lightning let it fly
“From star to star, from sky to sky,
“Still, still are millions more.
“With pleasing horror, and control
“Thy wisdom's empty boast:
“What are they!—Thou canst never say:
“Then silent adoration pay,
“And be in wonder lost.
“The wholesome food and poisonous juice;
“And adders, balsams yield?
“How fierce the lurking tyger glares,
“How mild the heifer with thee shares
“The labours of the field?
“The sullen pard, while joy inspires
“Yon happy sportive lambs?
“Now scatter'd o'er the hill they stray;
“Now weary of their gambling play,
“All single out their dams.
“Fond man, thou never canst say what:
“Oh, short thy searches fall!
“By stumbling chance, and slow degrees,
“The useful arts of men increase,
“But this at once is all.
“Long ages still improve the ship,
“Till she commands the shore;
“Each all at once of powers possest,
“Which ne'er can rise to more.
“That weight descends, we see, we know,
“But why, can ne'er explain:
“Then humbly weighing nature's laws,
“To God's high will ascribe the cause,
“And own thy wisdom vain.
“Shalt thou the vanity deplore
“Of all thy soul can find.
“This life a sickly woeful dream,
“A burial of the soul will seem,
“A palsy of the mind.
“Alas, it points the secret spear
“Of many a nameless woe.
“Thy delicacy dips the dart
“In rankling gall, and gives a smart
“Beyond what he can know.
“Of yon unknown, and labouring hind,
“Where all is smiling peace!
“No thoughts of more exalted joy
“His present bliss one hour destroy,
“Nor rob one moment's ease.
“The pangs the virtuous man conceals,
“When crush'd by wayward fate;
“These are not found beneath his roof,
“Against them all securely proof,
“Heaven guards his humble state.
“But mark, how just, the ways of heaven;
“True joy to all is free;
“'Tis thine, O conscience, thine alone,
“It all belongs to thee.
“Gay is his morn; his evening gives
“Content and sweet repose:
“Without them—ever, ever cloy'd,
“To sage or chief, one weary void
“Is all that life bestows.
“Let innocence of soul be thine,
“With active goodness join'd:
“My heart shall then confess thee blest,
“And, ever lively, joyful taste
“The pleasures of the mind.”
“How poor, how blind, is human pride;
“All joy how false and vain;
“But that from conscious worth which flows,
“Which gives the death-bed sweet repose,
“And hopes an after reign!”
MAY-DAY;
OR, THE DRUIDICAL FESTIVAL: AN ODE.
“Steals softly gleaming o'er the eastern lawn:
“Already from their oaken bowers,
“Scattering magic herbs and flowers,
“With white and purple blossoms crown'd,
“From every hill and dell around,
“The Druids hasten to the sacred vale.”
Cadwell, the master of the lyric band,
The sacred Bards, who join'd the Druid's train,
When solemn feasts their hallow'd rites demand.
When swelling down old Snowdon's side,
A thousand harps the note reply'd:
And soon a thousand white-robed bards
March'd round their hoary sire.
The birds of song in every grove
Awoke, and rais'd the strain of love;
The lark sprung joyous from his grassy nest,
And fluttering round, their powers confest,
And join'd the tuneful choir.
Groan'd solemn to the sky:
And soon the dark dispersing shades
And night's foul demons with the twilight fly:
And soon the bleating race the fold forsook,
And o'er the thyme-clad mountain hoar with dew,
And o'er the willow-shaded brook
The floating mists withdrew.
With white and purple blossoms crown'd,
Their mystic staves with wreaths of oak enwove,
The choral bands their sovereign chief surround.
While hoary Cadwell yet surviv'd,
Their solemn feasts the blameless Druids held:
Ere human blood their shrines distain'd,
Ere hell-taught rites their lore profan'd,
'Twas thus o'er Snowdon's brow their sacred anthems swell'd.
Monaeses, sprung from Heber's line,
Who leaving Midian's fertile shore,
When scepter'd Belus challeng'd rites divine;
When tyranny his native fields defa'cd,
Far to the peaceful west
His kindred led—Phœnicia spread the sail,
'Till where the groves of Albion rise,
Where Snowdon's front ascends the skies,
He bade his mates their happy mansions hail.
That through the depth of rolling years
To celebrate creation claims the lay;
The Morn that gave the heavens their birth,
That saw the green, the beauteous earth
All blooming rise beneath the smiles of May.
“And bid the mountain-summits blaze”—
The hallow'd song the Bards and Druids rais'd,
Glad echo caught the sound,
And on the mountain-tops far round,
The sacred altars blaz'd .
“Still may the lively pulse of joy
“Confess thy glad return;
“Still may the harp and song employ
“The sacred hour when first thy trembling beams
“The nodding groves and purling streams,
“And shady grots adorn.”
While by the sacred hill and grove,
Where misletoe the oaks enwove,
All clad in snowy white, august, they march'd along.
On Snowdon's cliffs the kids attentive stand,
While to Creation's Morn, the opening May,
The Master Druid thus resum'd the lay:
“Awake, ye gales, your fragrance shed;
“Ye mountain cedars, bend the head;
“Ye clouds of incense, from Arabia rise;
“Balmy, as after vernal rains,
“Display, fair East, thy beauteous plains,
“As one great altar fuming to the skies!
“'Tis nature's birth demands the lay,
“Ye western isles, the grateful tribute pay;
“Ye flocks, that clothe with fleecy white
“The steep ascending mountain's height,
“Or round the hamlet bleat along the lea,
“Your voices raise;—ye heifers, low,
“And from the furzy dells below,
“Ye falling riv'lets, swell the harmony!
“Till Echo thro' her fairy round
“Repeat it to the silent list'ning vale;
“Raise, raise, ye Bards, the melody,
“Wide spread the hands, low bend the knee,
“And on Creation's Morn the great Creator hail!”
“O from the blood polluted East,
“Hither, ye guardian spirits, haste!
“Here each flower of fragrant smell,
“Each plant that aids the Druid's spell
“Your fostering care demands.
“The craggy glittering steep,
“Along whose rifts the cowslips creep,
“And dashing fountains pour:
“For you the sweet-briar clothes the bank,
“For you, along the bordering mead,
“The white and yellow flowers that love the dank,
“Their watery carpets spread.
“Till o'er the nodding towers the silent night descend!
“O join the song, and far shall fly
“Each demon, who beneath the midnight sky,
“Rides on the screech-owl's wing, and far around
“Scatters disease, and strife, and friendship's rankling wound.
“Here shall the peaceful day decline,
“While fled from scenes of blood and woe,
Th'aërial friendly powers
“In every stream's melodious flow,
“In ev'ry concert of the grove shall join,
“Shall lightly touch the shadowy lyre,
“While with the dawn our joyous choir
“Renew the holy rites from heaven receiv'd,
“When with the sons of God our godlike fathers liv'd.
“Wave the sacred branch on high:
“Round our steps the spring-flowers strew,
“Flowers of bright and cheerful dye,
“Symbols of untainted youth,
“Of glowing love and holy truth.
He spake—and instant round they spread
Chaplets, where the yellow hue
Was mix'd with flowers of lively blue,
Where snow-white lilies with the blossoms red,
The apple boughs enwove.
Thus rose the hallow'd strain,
“Ye cloudy steeps, and winding glades,
“All hail! and by your silver rills,
“Your rosy dells, and thymy hills
“Shall lasting freedom reign.”
May-day by the Druids, according to Dr. Stukeley, was observed as the day of the creation; and on that morn they kindled what they called holy fires on the tops of the mountains.
VICISSITUDE:
AN ODE.
In all thy forms before mine eyes,
I glow with joy to see thee come
In rosy health and youthful bloom:
And now, cold horror trembles o'er my soul,
When thou in blank uncertainty array'd,
With iron-hearted deaf control
Throw'st all around thy awful, dubious shade.
The joys and terrors of thy sway to tell,
Thy sway o'er universal nature spread,
The sweetest hope of man, and darkest dread!
Behold, where shivering in the rattling hail,
While drizzling black clouds o'er him lower,
Bent o'er his staff, with livid visage fell,
Dull Winter stays his creeping step to pause,
And wishful turns his icy eyes
On April's meads. Beck'ning on flowery May,
With gentle shadowy hand thou mov'st away
The lingering churl. Swift o'er the primrose dale
The new-wak'd bee his humming labour plies;
And sudden from each budding grove,
Incense to heaven, the songs of love
Attest rejoicing nature's glad applause.
Walks through the woods, and smiling in her train,
Youth flutters gay on cherub wing,
And life exulting lifts the eye to heaven.
And crown'd with bearded grain,
And hay-grass breathing odours bland,
Bold Summer comes in manhood's lusty prime.
Anon his place is given
To veteran Autumn: yellow glows
His waving robe: with conscious mien sublime
High o'er the loaded clime.
For him the full-orb'd moon with orange rays
Gilds mild the night; for him her course delays;
And jolly wealth lies wide beneath his hand.
But soon decrepit age he shews,
And all his golden honours past,
Naked before October's blast,
He flies the plunder'd land.
Of angry fretful scowl, from forest wild,
Now rheum-eyed Winter hastens to the plain;
The hollow blast low groaning in his ear:
Round his bald head the brown leaves drift amain;
And soon his snowy mantle wide he throws
O'er vale and hill, and isicles he weeps.
The sun withdraws his golden rays,
And short his cold diurnal visit pays
With faint and silvery beam,
As listless to disturb the deep repose,
While languid nature sleeps.
Anon to social mirth beguil'd,
Safe from the tempest breme
That howls without, and beating rain,
The tyrant bids the friendly hearth to blaze;
And with the feats of former days,
Of battles dread, and heroes slain,
And valiant deeds of many a knight,
And loves of ladies passing bright,
The long-contented evening sweet he cheers;
While from his day-sport on the ice-bound stream,
Weary return'd, with wonder and delight,
Unrazor'd youth the various legend hears.
Vicissitude! But far more grateful still
When now from nature's frozen sleep profound,
Invigor'd vegetation wakes,
And Spring with primrose garland crown'd,
The seeds of plenty o'er the fuming ground,
From her green mantle shakes.
HENGIST AND MEY:
A BALLAD.
Sir Elmer had no peer;
And no young knight in all the land,
The ladies lov'd so dear.
Of all the virgin train,
Won every heart at Arthur's court;
But all their love was vain.
Her heart they could not move;
Yet at the ev'ning hour of prayer,
Her mind was lost in love.
And urged her to explain;
“O name the gentle youth to me,
“And his consent I'll gain.”
“His name—how can I say?
“An angel from the fields above
“Has rapt my heart away.
“His lovely form I spied;
“One evening by the sounding shore,
“All by the green wood side.
“That glow'd with mildest grace;
“His courtly mien and purple vest,
“Bespoke his princely race.
“Fast to his ships he fled;
“Yet while I sleep, his graceful form,
“Still hovers round my bed.
“He shakes a warlike lance;
“And now, in courtly garments dight,
“He leads the sprightly dance.
“His skin—as Christmas snow;
“His cheeks outvie the blush of morn,
“His lips like rose-buds glow.
“By nature's finest hand;
“His sparkling eyes declare him born
“To love, and to command.”
Her hopeless pining love:
But when the balmy spring return'd,
And summer cloth'd the grove;
The Saxon banners flew,
And to Sir Elmer's castle gates,
The spear-men came in view.
The castle walls so sheen;
And lo! the warlike Saxon youth
Were sporting on the green.
Lean'd on his burnish'd lance,
And all the armed youth around,
Obey'd his manly glance.
Adown his shoulders flow'd;
His cheeks outvy'd the blush of morn,
His lips like rose-buds glow'd.
Has caught his piercing eyes;
He gives the sign, the bands retire,
While big with love he sighs;
“And came with peace or war;
“Oh, by that cross that veils thy breast,
“Relieve thy lover's care!
“With thee the wild's explore;
“Or with thee share the British crown?
“With thee the cross adore.”
With love's soft warmth she glows;
So blushing through the dews of morn,
Appears the opening rose.
When men their sins bewail,
And Elmer heard King Arthur's horn,
Shrill sounding thro' the dale.
Like April dew-drops fell,
When with a parting dear embrace
Her brother bade farewel.
That veil'd her snowy breast,
With prayers to heaven, her lily hands
Have fixt on Elmer's vest.
He's marched across the plain;
He join'd King Arthur's train.
Came glittering down the hill,
And with their shouts, and clang of arms,
The distant valleys fill.
Assum'd the hoary God;
And Hengist, like the warlike Thor,
Before the horsemen rode.
The captains shout amain;
And Elmer's tall victorious spear
Far glances o'er the plain.
Like light'ning o'er the field;
And soon his eyes the well-known cross
On Elmer's vest beheld.
His eyes shot living fire;
And all his martial heat before,
To this, was mild desire.
With whirlwind speed he prest,
And glancing to the sun, his sword
Resounds on Elmer's crest.
With heedless rage pursued,
'Till trembling in his cloven helm,
Sir Elmer's javelin stood.
The reins slipt through his hand,
And stain'd with blood—his stately corse
Lay breathless on the strand.
“Before my painful sight
“The combat swims—yet Hengist's vest
“I claim as victor's right.”
And all in terror fled;
The bowmen to his castle gates
The brave Sir Elmer led.
“O pull this Saxon dart,
“That whizzing from young Hengist's arm
“Has almost pierc'd my heart.
“And Britons yet unborn,
“Shall with the trophies of to-day
“Their solemn feasts adorn.”
“Oh, Merlin!” loud she cried,
“Thy words are true—my slaughter'd love
“Shall have a breathless bride!
“That low my Hengist lies!
“O Hengist, cruel was thine arm!
“My brother bleeds and dies!”
And life's warm spirits fled:
So nipt by winter's withering blasts,
The snow-drop bows the head.
She lifts her languid eyes;
“Return my Hengist, oh, return,
“My slaughter'd love,” she cries.
“With all his grace he moves;
“Shall more disturb our loves.”
Was drawn from Elmer's side,
And thrice he called his sister Mey,
And thrice he groan'd, and died.
O'ershades an aged thorn,
Sir Elmer's, and young Hengist's corse
Were by the spear-men borne.
With many a sigh and tear,
The village maids to Hengist's grave
Did Mey's fair body bear.
All from the neighbouring groves,
The turtles wail, in widow'd notes,
And sing their hapless loves.
THE PROPHECY OF QUEEN EMMA:
A BALLAD.
Rose the silver dawn of May;
Hostile spears and helmets gleaming
Swell'd along the mountains gray.
Through the winding dales below,
And the echoing hills rebounded
The defiance of the foe.
Edwin's horsemen rush'd along,
From the hills like tempests lowering
Slowly march'd stern Edgar's throng.
And the yew bows half were drawn,
When the female scream ascended,
Shrilling o'er the crowded lawn.
Wav'd aloft their snowy hands,
From the wood Queen Emma shrieking
Ran between the dreadful bands.
Bids you grasp th'unhallow'd spear!
Heaven detests the war fraternal;
Oh, the impious strife forbear!
Flow'd your peaceful early days!
Each was then of each defender,
Each of each the pride and praise.
Nor invade thy brother's right;
O my Edgar, think how often
Edwin dar'd for thee the fight.
Dare thy guardian to the field!
Oh, my sons, let peace allure ye;
Thy stern claims, O Edwin, yield.
Sullen Edgar, clouds thy rear!
Bring'st thou Denmark's banners braving
Thy insulted brother's spear!
Midnight horror fearful howl'd,
Thro' thy trembling forests prowl'd;
Denmark's lance thy bosom gor'd—
And shall Edwin's brave assistance
Be repaid with Denmark's sword!
From whose point he set thee free,
While his warlike sinews fail him,
Weak with loss of blood for thee!
And thy stern resolves forbear!
Shall revenge thy councils darken,
Oh, my Edgar, drop the spear!
How each wound may yet be balm'd:
O revere these holy proffers;
Let the storms of hell be calm'd.
Fir'd their impious rage the more:
From the bow-strings sprung the arrows;
Soon the vallies reekt with gore.
Fled the Queen all stain'd with blood,
In her purple bosom quivering,
Deep a feather'd arrow stood.
Fierce as mounts the flame in air;
And her hands, to heaven extended,
Scatter'd her uprooted hair:
With each other's blood, she cried:
While the eagles round her hover'd,
And wild scream for scream replied—
Turn, my sons, your vengeful eyes;
See what horrors o'er you streaming,
Muster round th'offended skies.
Couch'd by fire-eyed spectres glare,
Circling round you both, suspended
On the trembling threads of air!
Wither'd is your strength ev'n now;
Idly weeping o'er your follies,
Soon your heads shall lowly bow.
O'er your dales shall havoc pour,
Every hold and city storming,
Every herd and field devour.
Thro' the dreadful group prevails!
'Tis the hand of Justice poising
High aloft th'eternal scales.
Rage and rancour all extreme,
Faith and honour's foul defiance,
Thine, O Edgar, kicks the beam!
O'er thy brother's wasted hills,
See the murky clouds dispersing,
And the fertile shower distils.
Blacker spreads the angry sky;
Thro' the gloom pale lightning sallies,
Distant thunders groan and die.
Fed by hell and magic power,
Hatch'd in freedom's mortal hour.
“Cursed be the fraud profound,
“When on Denmark's spear we rested,”
Thro' thy streets shall loud resound.
Now I see thee turn thine eyes—
Ha, in settled darkness lowering,
Now no more the visions rise!
To thy sons from age to age,
Province then from province rending,
War on war shall bleed and rage.
Hapless Edgar, loud she cried—
With her wounds and woes exhausted,
Down on earth she sunk and died.
THE SORCERESS; OR, WOLFWOLD AND ULLA.
A BALLAD.
“Lies lifeless on the clay;
“Yet struggling hope—O day spring, break,
“And lead me on my way.
“Thy red-wing'd vengeance pour;
“Before my Wolfwold's spear be driven—
“O rise, bright morning hour!”
Of all the Saxon race;
Thus Ulla wail'd, in nightly shade,
While tears bedew'd her face.
The full orb'd moon arose;
And o'er the winding dale so still,
Her silver radiance flows.
Her anxious care delay;
But deep with hope and fear imprest,
She holds the moonshine way.
She traced the dale so still;
And sought the cave with rue o'ergrown,
Beneath the fir-crown'd hill.
With hemlock, fenc'd the cell:
The dreary mouth, half under ground,
Yawn'd like the gate of hell.
Cold horror shook her knee;
“And hear, O Prophetess,” she cry'd,
“A Princess sue to thee.”
The dismal screech-owl flew;
The fillet round her auburn hair
Asunder burst in two.
Beneath the moon's pale beam;
Effus'd a golden gleam.
As in her deepest cell,
At midnight's magic hour she try'd
A tomb-o'erpowering spell.
Her groaning voice arose,
“O come, my daughter, fearless, come,
“And fearless, tell thy woes.”
When whirlwinds sudden rise;
As stands aghast the warrior chief,
When his base army flies;
When from the dreary den,
A wrinkled hag came forth, array'd
In matted rags obscene.
Loose hung her ash-grey hair;
As from two dreary caves profound
Her blue-flamed eye-balls glare.
Clung round her shoulder bones;
Like wither'd bark, by lightning sear'd,
When loud the tempest groans.
Her ghostly length array'd,
A gaping rent, full to the view,
Her furrow'd ribs betray'd.
“What sorrow brought thee here?
“So may my power thy cares expel,
“And give thee sweetest cheer.”
“King Edric's daughter see,
“Northumbria to my father fell,
“But sorrow fell to me.
“My father on him smil'd:
“Soon as he gain'd Northumbria's throne,
“His pride the youth exil'd.
“Their gloomy black wings spread,
“And o'er Northumbria's hills and leas
“Their dreadful squadrons sped.
“O generous warrior, hear,
“My daughter's hand, thy willing bride,
“Awaits thy conquering spear.
“Had past the weary year;
“And soon he heard the glad report,
“And soon he grasp'd his spear.
“And wing'd with true love speed,
“Nor day, nor night, he stopt to sleep,
“And soon he cross'd the Tweed.
“He press'd my willing hand;
“I go, my fair, my love, he cries,
“To guard thy father's land.
“The daring foe we meet,
“Ere three short days I trust to lay
“My trophies at thy feet.
“And three long days beside,
“Has cheer'd his fearful bride.
“His doubtful fate decide;”—
“And cease, my child, for all is well,”
The grizzly witch replied.
“The magic circle, stand;
“And fear not ought of ghastly face,
“That glides beneath my wand.”
Then reach'd the labouring moon,
And cloudless at the dire alarms,
She shed her brightest noon.
That black'd the cavern's womb,
And in the deepest nook betray'd
An altar and a tomb.
Were forms of various mien,
And efts, and foul-wing'd serpents, bore
The altar's base obscene.
In corner murk aloof,
And many a snake and famish'd bat
Clung to the crevic'd roof.
A yawning rift betray'd;
And grappling still each others bones,
The strife of death display'd.
“Lord Wolfwold's father's grave,
“And send him to my cave.
“And to the figur'd walls
“His hand of bone shall point and tell
“What fate his son befalls.”
The trembling sweat-drops fell,
And borne by sprights of gliding pace,
The corpse approach'd the cell.
Wav'd o'er the skeleton;
And slowly, at the dread command,
Up rose the arm of bone.
The finger wander'd o'er,
Then rested on a sable bier,
Distain'd with drops of gore.
And black the Sorceress throws,
“And be those signs, my child,” she cried,
“Fulfill'd on Wolfwold's foes.
“Attend, my child, attend,
“And mark what flames from altar high,
“And lowly floor ascend.
“The blaze shines forth to view,
“Then Wolfwold lives—but hell forbid
“The glimmering flame of blue!”
And wav'd her wand on high;
And, while she spoke the mutter'd charm,
Dark lightning fill'd her eye.
Her hands aloft were spread,
And every joint, as marble bound,
Felt horror's darkest dread.
Were now as vi'let pale,
And, trembling in convulsive throes,
Exprest o'erwhelming ail.
Where living lustre shone,
Were now transform'd to sightless white,
Like eyes of lifeless stone.
And glimmering to the view,
The quivering flame rose thro' the floor,
A flame of ghastly blue.
Low from the inmost cave,
Young Wolfwold rose in pale attire,
The vestments of the grave.
His cheek was wan as clay,
And half cut thro', his hand appear'd,
That beckon'd her away.
Her heart struck at her side,
And burst—low bow'd her listless head,
And down she sunk and died.
SONGS.
THE SHEPHERD IN LOVE.
And I her only swain
To tend our flocks in rural mead,
And on the verdant plain;
Oh, how I'd pipe upon my reed
To please my only maid,
While from all sense of fear we're freed
Beneath an oaken shade.
And clouds do black the sky,
Then to our oaken safe retreat
We'd both together hie:
There I'd repeat my vows of love
Unto the charming fair,
Whilst her dear fluttering heart should prove
Her love like mine sincere.
And flocks are pent in fold,
Beneath an oaken tree we'd rest
In joys not to be told.
And when Aurora's beams set free
The next enlivening day,
We'd turn our flocks at liberty
And down we'd sit and play.
THE LINNETS.
Two linnets I had taen,
The pretty warblers seem'd to pray
For liberty again:
I sprung across the mead,
In vain they tun'd their downy throats
And warbl'd to be freed.
In which my cottage stood,
I thought I saw the queen of love
When Chlora's charms I view'd.
I gaz'd, I lov'd, I press'd her stay
To hear my tender tale,
But all in vain, she fled away,
Nor could my sighs prevail.
Came pity to my breast,
And thus I as compassion bade
The feather'd pair addrest:
“Ye little warblers, cheerful be,
“Remember not ye flew;
“For I, who thought myself so free,
“Am caught as well as you.”
THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think of wark!
Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread
When Colin's at the door!
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.
There is nae luck at aw;
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.
My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
'Tis aw to pleasure my gudeman
For he's baith leel and true.
Put on the muckle pot,
Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw,
It's aw to please my ain gudeman.
For he's been lang awa.
Been fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And mak the table neat and clean,
Let every thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa.
His breath like cauler air,
His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair!
And shall I see his face again,
And shall I hear him speak!
I'm downright dizzy wi the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
“That thrilled through my heart,
“Till death we'll never part:
“But why should I of parting tauk,
“It may be far awa;
“The present moment is our ain,
“The neist we never saw .”
I hae nae mair to crave—
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And shall I see his face again,
And shall I hear him speak!
I'm downright dizzy wi the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
ESKDALE BRAES .
Where the Wauchope her yellow wave joins,
Where the lambkins on sunny braes bask,
And wild woodbine the shepherd's bower twines.
Oft sigh'd the still noon-tide away,
Or by moonlight all desolate stray'd,
While woeful she tun'd her love-lay:
My shepherd comes cheerly along,
Broomholm and the Deansbanks refuse
To echo the plaints of his song:
His dog fondly barking I hear;
No more the tir'd lark he pursues,
And tells me his master draws near.
Thy heroes, O Esk, could display,
When with laurels they planted thy side,
From France and from Spain borne away.
My poor shepherd lad from the shore;
Ambition bewitch'd the vain boy,
And oceans between us now roar.
I behold on the rude billows tost;
Unburied his scatter'd bones lie,
Lie bleaching on some desert coast!
That first heard his love-tale, and his vows,
My pale ghost shall wander forlorn,
And the willow shall weep o'er my brows.
In Warblaw woods join the sad throng,
To Hallow E'en's blast tell my tale,
As the spectres, ungrav'd, glide along.
Old Esk still his crystal tide pours,
Still golden the Wauchope waves gleam,
And still green, oh Broomholm, are thy bowers!
The rivers in red floods combine!
The turtles their widow'd notes coo,
And mix their sad ditties with mine!
All nature seems with me to mourn,—
Strait the village-bells merrily play'd,
And announc'd her dear Jamie's return.
The silver streams murmur new charms,
As, smiling, her Jamie drew near,
And all eager sprung into her arms.
The scene is laid on the banks where the two rivers of the Wauchope and Ewes join the Esk; on the banks of the former, was anciently a castle belonging to the Knights Templars, on the ruins of which was built the house at which Mr. Mickle's father resided, and where the poet was born. It was composed at the request of Mr. Ballantyne, and was to have been set to music by Mr. Commissioner Balmaine, of the Scotch excise, had not death prevented him. Both these gentlemen were born in this district.
The seat of John Maxwell, Esq. author of the celebrated Essay on Tune; Deansbanks, so called from the Dean of the Knights Templars.
The skirts of this very picturesque mountain form a bank for the Esk and the Wauchope, and are covered with a beautiful and romantic wood.
FRAGMENTS.
[Tell me, gentle Echo, tell]
Where and how my lover fell?
On the cold grass did he lie,
Crown'd with laurels did he die?
Echo twice gave swift reply,
“Crown'd with laurels, crown'd with laurels, he did die.”
A cruel sword his bosom tore.
Say, with his parting vital flame,
Did he sigh Ophelia's name?
Was he constant, still the same?
Echo sigh'd “Ophelia's name.”
And breath'd his gallant soul away,
Ye gentler spirits of the air,
Why was not Ophelia there?
Echo answer'd her despair,
“Why was not Ophelia there?”
Sleeping on the hill-side lay,
Thus to Echo thro' the glade
The lovely maniac talk'd and stray'd:
Strait on fancy's wild wings borne
By the glimpse of opening morn,
She saw—or thought she saw, her love
Lie bleeding [OMITTED]
[Come, gentle peace, on every breathing gale]
Come, gentle peace, on every breathing gale,O come, and guard the slumbers of the vale;
Awake, gay mirth and glee, with playful wile,
Wake with the morn, and o'er the landscape smile!
[“Upbraid me not, nor thankless fly]
“Upbraid me not, nor thankless fly“The grace I would bestow;”
(Sir Cadwal sat in window high,
King Edward stood below.)
“But friendly to thyself receive
“The bounties I intend;—
“A knight among my knights to live,
“And be my table friend.”
“Yestreen, at midnight's solemn hour,
“When deep the darkness lay,
“I rose my orisons to pour
“Before the opening day:
“When horrid yells my ears astound,
“And screams of dismal cry,
“Echo'd from every hill far round,
“Howl on the winds and die.
“With yellow glimm'ring light,
“The scatter'd flames on every side
“Strike horror on the sight.
“Ah! what a scene the sun survey'd,
“When o'er yon lake he rose!
“Our villages in ashes laid,
“And prone in dust our brows;
“Our manly brows, form'd to command,
“Low bend beneath thy rage:
“Insult me not—from thy dire hand
“No off'ring can assuage!”
“Unbar, proud Cadwal,” Edward cried,
“Unbar thy gates of steel—” [OMITTED]
Black rose the smoke with dust inflate,
And red sparks darted through;
With brain benumb'd, and faltering gait
King Edward slow withdrew.
The gilded roofs and towers of stone
Now instant all around,
With sudden crash and dreadful groan
Rush thund'ring to the ground.
Sir Cadwal's harp his hand obey'd,
He felt a prophet's fire;
And 'mid the flames all undismay'd,
He struck the sacred lyre. [OMITTED]
MISCELLANEOUS.
ALMADA HILL:
AN EPISTLE FROM LISBON.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Though no subjects are more proper for poetry than those which are founded upon historical retrospect, the author of such a poem
In the twelfth century, Lisbon, and great part of Portugal and Spain, were in possession of the Moors. Alphonso, the first King of Portugal, having gained several victories over that people, was laying siege to Lisbon, when Robert, Duke of Gloucester, on his way to the Holy Land, appeared upon the coast of that kingdom. As the cause was the same, Robert was easily persuaded to make his first crusade in Portugal. He demanded that the storming of the castle of Lisbon, situated on a considerable hill, and whose ruins shew it to have been of great strength, should be allotted to him, while Alphonso was to assail the walls and the city. Both leaders were successful; and Alphonso, among the rewards which he bestowed upon the English, granted to those who were wounded, or unable to proceed to Palestine, the castle of Almada, and the adjoining lands.
The river Tagus below and opposite to Lisbon is edged by steep grotesque rocks, particularly on the south side. Those on the south are generally higher and much more magnificent and picturesque than the cliffs of Dover. Upon one of the highest of these, and directly opposite to Lisbon, remain the stately ruins of the castle of Almada.
In December, 1779, as the author was wandering among these ruins, he was struck with the idea, and formed the plan of the following poem; an idea, which, it may be allowed, was natural to the translator of the Lusiad; and the plan may, in some degree, be called a supplement to that work.
The following poem, except the corrections and a few lines, was written in Portugal. The descriptive parts are strictly local. The finest prospect of Lisbon and the Tagus (which is there about four miles broad,) is from Almada, which also commands the adjacent country from the rock of Cintra to the castle and city of Palmela, an extent of above fifty miles. This magnificent view is completed by the extensive opening at the mouth of the Tagus, about ten miles below, which discovers the Atlantic ocean.
Now pale with snows, now black with drizzling rains,
From leafless woodlands, and dishonour'd bowers
Mantled by gloomy mists, or lash'd by showers
Steals from the sun to play on Isis' stream;
While from these scenes by England's winter spread,
Swift to the cheerful hearth your steps are led,
Pleas'd from the threatening tempest to retire,
And join the circle round the social fire;
In other climes through sun-bask'd scenes I stray,
As the fair landscape leads my thoughtful way,
As upland path, oft winding, bids me rove
Where orange bowers invite, or olive grove,
No sullen phantoms brooding o'er my breast,
The genial influence of the clime I taste;
Yet still regardful of my native shore,
In ev'ry scene my roaming eyes explore,
Whate'er its aspect, still, by memory brought,
My fading country rushes on my thought.
And warm'd with honest indignation burn,
'Till hopeless, sicklied by the climate's gloom,
Your generous fears call forth Britannia's doom,
What hostile spears her sacred lawns invade,
By friends deserted, by her chiefs betray'd,
Low fall'n and vanquish'd!—I, with mind serene
As Lisboa's sky, yet pensive as the scene
Around, and pensive seems the scene to me,
From other ills my country's fate foresee.
Not from the hands that Gaul's proud thunders bear,
Nor those that turn on Albion's breast the sword
Beat down of late by Albion when it gored
Their own, who impious doom their parent's fall
Beneath the world's great foe, th'insidious Gaul;
Yes, not from these the immedicable wound
Of Albion—Other is the bane profound
Destined alone to touch her mortal part;
Herself is sick and poisoned at the heart.
The gallant deeds of ancient days arise;
The scenes the Lusian muses fond display'd
Before me oft, as oft at eve I stray'd
Where Gama march'd his death-devoted band,
While Lisboa aw'd with horror, saw him spread
The daring sails that first to India led;
And oft Almada's castled steep inspires
The pensive muse's visionary fires;
Almada hill to English memory dear,
While shades of English heroes wander here.
Remains, and ever shall, Almada hill;
The hill and lawns to English valour given,
What time the Arab Moors from Spain were driven,
Before the banners of the Cross subdued,
When Lisboa's towers were bathed in Moorish blood
By Gloster's lance.—Romantic days that yield
Of gallant deeds a wide luxuriant field,
Dear to the muse that loves the fairy plains,
Where ancient honour wild and ardent reigns.
Amid the solemn pomp of mouldering towers
Supinely seated, wide and far around
My eye delighted wanders. Here the bound
Of fair Europa o'er the ocean rears
Its western edge; where dimly disappears
The Atlantic wave, the slow descending day
Mild beaming pours serene the gentle ray
The tower-like summits of the mountain shore;
Dappling the lofty cliffs, that coldly throw
Their sable horrors o'er the vales below.
Far round the stately-shoulder'd river bends
Its giant arms, and sea-like wide extends
Its midland bays, with fertile islands crown'd,
And lawns for English valour still renown'd;
Given to Cornwallia's gallant sons of yore,
Cornwallia's name the smiling pastures bore;
And still their lord his English lineage boasts
From Rolland, famous in the croisade hosts.
Where sea-ward narrower rolls the shining tide
Through hills by hills embosom'd on each side,
Monastic walls in every glen arise
In coldest white fair glistening to the skies
Amid the brown-brow'd rocks; and, far as sight,
Proud domes and villages array'd in white
Climb o'er the steeps, and thro' the dusky green
Of olive groves, and orange bowers between,
Speckled with glowing red, unnumber'd gleam—
And Lisboa towering o'er the lordly stream
Her marble palaces and temples spreads
Wildly magnific o'er the loaded heads
Of bending hills, along whose high-piled base
The port capacious, in a moon'd embrace,
Throws her mast-forest, waving on the gale
The vanes of every shore that hoists the sail.
Let fancy, roaming as the scene inspires,
Pursue the present and the past restore,
And nature's purpose in her steps explore.
Th'Iberian fields and Lusitanian Spain.
While Italy, obscured in tawdry blaze,
A motley, modern character displays,
And languid trims her long exhausted store,
Iberia's fields, with rich and genuine ore
And scenes untrac'd in every landscape lie.
Here every various dale with lessons fraught
Calls to the wanderer's visionary thought
What mighty deeds the lofty hills of Spain
Of old have witness'd—From the evening main
Her mountain tops the Tyrian pilots saw
In lightnings wrapt, and thrill'd with sacred awe,
Thro' Greece the tales of gorgons, hydras spread,
And Geryon dreadful with the triple head;
The stream of Lethe , and the dread abodes
Of forms gigantic, and infernal gods.
But soon, by fearless lust of gold impell'd,
They min'd the mountain, and explor'd the field;
Till Rome and Carthage, fierce for empire, strove,
As for their prey two famish'd birds of Jove.
The rapid Durius then and Bœtis' flood
Were dy'd with Roman and with Punic blood,
While oft the lengthening plains and mountain sides
Seem'd moving on, slow rolling tides on tides,
When from Pyrene's summits Afric pour'd
Her armies, and o'er Rome destruction lower'd.
If patriot zeal his British breast inflame,
Here let him trace the fields to freedom dear,
Where low in dust lay Rome's invading spear;
Where Viriatus proudly trampled o'er
Fasces and Roman eagles steept in gore;
Or where he fell, with honest laurels crown'd,
The awful victim of a treacherous wound;
While freedom's wounds the brave and good revere;
Still pouring fresh th'inexpiable stain
O'er Rome's patrician honour, false and vain!
And touch his bosom with unhallow'd fire;
If merit spurn'd demand stern sacrifice,
O'er Ev'ra's fields let dread Sertorius rise,
Dy'd in his country's blood, in all the pride
Of wrongs reveng'd, illustrious let him ride
Enshrin'd, o'er Spain, in victory's dazzling rays,
Till Rome looks pale beneath the mounting blaze.
But let the British wanderer thro' the dales
Of Ev'ra stray, while midnight tempest wails:
There, as the hoary villagers relate,
Sertorius, Sylla, Marius, weep their fate,
Their spectres gliding on the lightning blue,
Oft doom'd their ancient stations to renew;
Sertorius bleeding on Perpenna's knife,
And Marius sinking in ambition's strife:
As forest boars entangled in a chain,
Dragg'd on, as stings each leader's rage or pain;
And each the furious leader in his turn,
Till low they lie, a ghastly wreck forlorn.
Say, Who shall fix the swelling torrent's bounds?
Or who shall sail the pilot of the flood?
Alas, full oft, some worthless trunk of wood
Is whirl'd into the port, blind fortune's boast,
While noblest vessels, founder'd, strew the coast!
That bear the title of our country's cause
To humanise barbarians, and to raise
Our country's prowess, their asserted praise;
If these delight, Hispania's dales display
The various arts and toils of Roman sway.
Here jealous Cato laid the cities waste,
And Julius here in fairer pride replac'd,
By every river, and the barren bough
Of laurel shaded by the olive's bloom,
And grateful Spain the strength of lordly Rome;
Her's mighty bards , and her's the sacred earth
That gave the world a friend in Trajan's birth.
Debas'd in false refinement nerveless lay,
The northern hordes on Europe's various climes
Planted their ruling virtues and their crimes.
Cloister'd by Tyber's stream the slothful staid,
To Seine and Loire the gay and friv'lous stray'd,
A sordid group the Belgian marshes pleas'd,
And Saxony's wild forests freedom seiz'd,
There held her juries, pois'd the legal scales:—
And Spain's romantic hills and lonely dales
The pensive lover sought; and Spain became
The land of gallantry and am'rous flame.
Hail, favour'd clime! whose lone retreats inspire
The softest dreams of languishing desire,
Affections trembling with a glow all holy,
Wildly sublime, and sweetly melancholy;
Till rapt devotion to the fair, refine
And bend each passion low at honour's shrine.
So felt the iron Goth when here he brought
His worship of the fair with valour fraught.
Soon as Iberia's mountains fixt his home,
He rose a character unknown to Rome;
His manners wildly colour'd as the flowers
And flaunting plumage of Brazilian bowers:
New to the world as these, yet polish'd more
Than e'er the pupil of the Attic lore
Might proudly boast. On man's bold arm robust
The tender fair reclines with fondest trust:
With nature's finest touch exulting glows
The manly breast which that fond aid bestows:
That first of generous joys on man bestow'd,
In Gothic Spain in all its fervour glow'd.
Of danger then assum'd the dearest charms.
What for the fair was dared or suffered, bore
A saint-like merit, and was envied more;
Till led by love-sick fancy's dazzled flight,
From court to court forth roam'd adventure's knight;
And tilts and tournaments, in mimic wars,
Supply'd the triumphs and the honour'd scars
Of arduous battles for their country fought,
Till the keen relish of the marv'llous wrought
All wild and fever'd; and each peaceful shade,
With batter'd armour deckt, its knight display'd,
In soothing transport, list'ning to the strain
Of dwarfs and giants, and of monsters slain;
Of spells all horror, and enchanters dire,
And the sweet banquet of the am'rous fire,
When knights and ladies chaste, reliev'd from thrall,
Hold love's high holiday in bower and hall.
With magic power the tales of magic wrought;
Till by the muses arm'd, in all the ire
Of wit, resistless as electric fire,
Forth rode La Mancha's knight; and sudden fled
Goblins and beauteous nymphs, and pagans dread,
As the delirious dream of sickness flies,
When health returning smiles from vernal skies.
To chivalry when honour's wreath she seiz'd
From wisdom's hand. From Taurus' rugged steep,
And Caucasus, far round with headlong sweep,
As wolves wild howling from their famish'd den,
Rush'd the devouring bands of Saracen:
Their savage genius, giant-like and blind,
Trampling with sullen joy on human kind;
Assyria lay its own uncover'd grave,
And Gallia trembled to the Atlantic wave:
In awful waste the fairest cities moan'd,
And human liberty expiring groan'd
When chivalry arose:—Her ardent eye
Sublime, that fondly mingled with the sky,
Where patience watch'd, and stedfast purpose frown'd,
Mixt with devotion's fire, she darted round,
The Cross she bore, and proudly to the field
High plum'd she rush'd; by honour's dazzling fir'd,
Conscious of heaven's own cause, and all inspir'd
By holy vows, as on the frowning tower
The lightning vollies, on the crested power
Of Saracen she wing'd her javelin's way,
And the wide-wasting giant prostrate lay.
The passion wild of these bold days deride;
But let the humbler sage with reverence own
That something sacred glows, of name unknown,
Glows in the deeds that heaven delights to crown;
Something that boasts an impulse uncontroll'd
By school-taught prudence, and its maxims cold.
Fir'd at the thought, methinks on sacred ground
I tread; where'er I cast mine eyes around,
Palmela's hill and Cintra's summits tell
How the grim Saracen's dread legions fell;
Turbans and scymetars in carnage roll'd,
And their moon'd ensigns torn from every hold:
Yes, let the youth whose generous search explores
The various lessons of Iberia's shores,
Let him as wandering at the muse's hour
Of eve or morn, where low the Moorish tower,
Fallen from its rocky height and tyrant sway,
Lies scatter'd o'er the dale in fragments grey,
Let him with joy behold the hills around,
With olive forests and with vineyards crown'd,
All grateful pouring on the hands that rear
Their fruit, the fruitage of the bounteous year.
Then let his mind to fair Ionia turn,—
Alas! how waste Ionia's landscapes mourn;
And thine, O beauteous Greece, amid the towers
Where dreadful still the Turkish banner lowers:
That dims his soul, the peasant hugs his chain.
And whence these woes debasing human kind?
Eunuchs in heart, in polish'd sloth reclin'd,
Thy sons, degenerate Greece, ignobly bled,
And fair Byzantium bow'd th'imperial head;
While Tago's iron race, in dangers steel'd,
All ardour, dar'd the horrors of the field.
The towers of Venice trembl'd o'er her flood,
And Paris' gates aghast and open stood;
Low lay her peers on Fontarabia's plains:
And Lisboa groan'd beneath stern Mah'met's chains:
Vain was the hope the north might rest unspoil'd;
When stern Iberia's spirit fierce recoil'd.
As from the toils the wounded lion bounds,
And tears the hunters and the sated hounds;
So smarting with his wounds th'Iberian tore
And to his sun-scorch'd regions drove the Moor:
The vengeful Moors, as mastiffs on their prey,
Return'd; as heavy clouds their deep array
Blacken'd o'er Tago's banks. As Sagrez braves
And stems the furious rage of Afric's waves,
So braved, so stood the Lusitanian bands,
The southern bulwark of Europa's lands.
Such were the foes by chivalry repell'd,
And such the honours that adorn'd her shield.
And ask what Christian Europe owes the high
And ardent soul of gallant chivalry,
Ask, and let Turkish Europe's groans reply!
The evening sun with bold though fading beams,
Gleam these bold deeds with dim yet golden rays.
But let not glowing fancy as it warms
O'er these, high honour's youthful pride in arms,
Forget the stern ambition and the worth
Of minds mature, by patriot kings call'd forth;
That worth which rous'd the nation to explore
Old Ocean's wildest waves and farthest shore.
An awful solitude, old Ocean roar'd:
As to the fearful dove's impatient eye
Appears the height untry'd of upper sky;
So seem'd the last dim wave, in boundless space
Involv'd and lost, when Tago's gallant race,
As eagles fixing on the sun their eyes,
Through gulphs unknown explor'd the morning skies,
And taught the wond'ring world the grand design
Of parent heaven, that shore to shore should join
In bands of mutual aid, from sky to sky,
And Ocean's wildest waves the chain supply.
The Briton's earnest eye, and British muse!
Here bids the youthful traveller's care forego
The arts of elegance and polish'd shew;
Bids other arts his nobler thoughts engage,
And wake to highest aim his patriot rage;
Those arts which rais'd that race of men, who shone
The heroes of their age on Lisboa's throne.
What mighty deeds in filial order flow'd,
While each still brighter than its parent glow'd,
Till Henry's naval school its heroes pour'd
From pole to pole wherever Ocean roar'd!
Columbus, Gama, and Magellan's name,
Its deathless boast; and all of later fame
Its offspring—kindling o'er the view the muse
The naval pride of those bright days reviews;
Sees Gama's sails, that first to India bore,
In awful hope, evanish from the shore;
Sees from the silken regions of the morn
What fleets of gay triumphant vanes return!
What heroes, plumed with conquest, proudly bring
The eastern sceptres to the Lusian king!
Methinks I hear the Ocean's murmurs wail,
And every breeze repeat the woeful tale,
How bow'd, how fell proud Lisboa's naval throne—
Ah heaven, how cold the boding thoughts rush on!
Methinks I hear the shades that hover round
Of English heroes heave the sigh profound,
Prophetic of the kindred fate that lowers
O'er Albion's fleets and London's proudest towers.
That Gama fondly rear'd on India's clime:
On justice and benevolence he plac'd
It pond'rous weight, and warlike trophies grac'd
Its mountain turrets; and o'er Asia wide
Great Albuquerk renown'd its generous pride.
The injur'd native sought its friendly shade,
And India's princes blest its powerful aid;
Till from corrupted passion's basest hour
Rose the dread demon of tyrannic power.
Sampayo's heart, where dauntless valour reign'd,
And counsel deep, she seiz'd and foul profan'd.
Then the straight road where sacred justice leads,
Where for its plighted compact honour bleeds,
Was left, and holy patriot zeal gave place
To lust of gold and self-devotion base:
Deceitful art the chief's sole guide became,
And breach of faith was wisdom; slaughter, fame.
Yet though from far his hawk-eye mark'd its prey,
Soon through the rocks that crost his crooked way,
As a toil'd bull fiercely he stumbled on,
Till low he lay, dishonour'd and o'erthrown.
With all his interested rage of heart,
Follow'd, as blighting mists on Gama's toil,
And undermin'd and rent the mighty pile;
Convulsions dread its deep foundations tore;
Its bending head the scath of lightning bore:
Its fallen turrets desolation spread;
And from its faithless shade in horror fled
Its pristine strength long storms on storms withstood:
A Nunio's justice, and a Castro's sword,
Oft raised its turrets, and its dread restored.
Yet, like the sunshine of a winter's day
On Norway's coast, soon died the transient ray.
A tyrant race, who own'd no country , came,
Deep to intrench themselves their only aim;
With lust of rapine fever'd and athirst,
With the unhallow'd rage of gain accurst;
Against each spring of action, on the breast,
For wisest ends, by nature's hand imprest,
Stern war they waged; and blindly ween'd, alone
On brutal dread, to fix their cruel throne.
The wise and good, with indignation fir'd,
Silent from their unhallow'd board retired;
The base and cunning staid, and, slaves avow'd,
Submiss to every insult smiling bow'd.
Yet while they smil'd and bow'd the abject head,
In chains unfelt their tyrant lords they led;
Their avarice, watching as a bird of prey,
O'er every weakness, o'er each vice held sway;
Till secret art assumed the thwarting face,
And dictate bold; and ruin and disgrace
Closed the unworthy scene. Now trampled low
Beneath the injured native, and the foe
From Belgia lured by India's costly prey,
Thy glorious structure, Gama, prostrate lay;
And lies in desolated awful gloom,
Dread and instructive as a ruin'd tomb.
Was ancient Lusian virtue stain'd and lost:
On Tago's banks, heroic ardour's foes,
A soft, luxurious, tinsel'd race, arose;
Triumphant tyrants o'er the weak and low:
Yet wildly starting from the gaming board
At every distant brandish of the sword;
Already conquer'd by uncertain dread
Imploring peace with feeble hands out-spread;—
Such peace as trembling suppliants still obtain,
Such peace they found beneath the yoke of Spain;
And the wide empires of the east no more
Poured their redudant horns on Lisboa's shore.
Of human pride! how soon is Empire lost!
The pile by ages rear'd to awe the world,
By one degenerate race to ruin hurl'd!
And shall the Briton view that downward race
With eye unmov'd, and no sad likeness trace!
Ah heaven! in every scene, by memory brought,
My fading country rushes on my thought.
Vibrates o'er Tago's stream with solemn knell.
Turn'd by the call my pensive eye surveys
That mighty scene of hist'ry's shame and praise.
Methinks I hear the yells of horror rise
From slaughter'd thousands shrieking to the skies,
As factious rage or blinded zeal of yore
Roll'd their dire chariot wheels through streams of gore.
I hear the triumph of a nation's joy ,
From bondage rescued and the foreign sword,
And independence and the throne restored!
Trembles with horror; fainting lightnings glare;
Shrill crows the cock, the dogs give dismal yell;
And with the whirlwind's roar full comes the swell;
Convulsive staggers rock th'eternal ground,
And heave the Tagus from his bed profound;
A dark red cloud the towers of Lisboa veils;
Ah heaven, what dreadful groan! the rising gales
Bring light; and Lisboa smoaking in the dust
Lies fall'n.—The wide-spread ruins, still august,
Still shew the footsteps where the dreadful God
Of earthquake, cloath'd in howling darkness, trod;
Where mid foul weeds the heaps of marble tell
From what proud height the spacious temples fell;
And penury and sloth of squalid mien
Beneath the roofless palace walls are seen
In savage hovels, where the tapst'ried floor
Was trod by nobles and by kings before:
How like, alas, her Indian empire's state!
How like the city's and the nation's fate!
Yet time points forward to a brighter day;
Points to the domes that stretch their fair array
Through the brown ruins, lifting to the sky
A loftier brow and mien of promise high;
Points to the river-shore where wide and grand
The courts of commerce and her walks expand,
The universal queen, and fix her reign;
Where pleas'd she hears the groaning oar resound;
By magazines and ars'nals mounded round,
Whose yet unfinished grandeur proudly boasts
The fairest hope of either India's coasts,
And bids the Muse's eye in vision roam
Through mighty scenes in ages long to come.
To Tago's empress-stream superior praise;
O'er every vauntful river be it thine
To boast the guardian shield of laws divine;
But yield to Tagus all the sovereign state
By nature's gift bestow'd and partial fate,
The sea-like port and central sway to pour
Her fleets, by happiest course, on every shore.
Thy genius, commerce, rear'd her infant head,
Her cradle bland on Tago's lap she chose,
And soon to wondering childhood sprightly rose;
And when to green and youthful vigour grown
On Tago's breast she fix'd her central throne;
Far from the hurricane's resistless sweep
That tears with thundering rage the Carib deep;
Far from the foul-wing'd winter that deforms
And rolls the northern main with storms on storms;
Beneath salubrious skies, to summer gales
She gives the vent'rous and returning sails:
The smiling isles, named Fortunate of old,
First on her Ocean's bosom fair unfold:
Thy world, Columbus, spreads its various breast,
Proud to be first by Lisboa's waves carest;
And Afric wooes and leads her easy way
To the fair regions of the rising day.
Thy straits, Alcides, give the ready tide;
And turn the prow, and soon each shore expands
From Gallia's coast to Europe's northern lands.
That lofty oak , Assyria's boastful king,
Deep, said the angel-voice, the roots secure
With bands of brass, and let the life endure,
For yet his head shall rise.—And deep remain
The living roots of Lisboa's ancient reign;
Deep in the castled isles on Asia's strand,
And firm in fair Brazilia's wealthy land.
And say, while ages roll their length'ning train,
Shall nature's gifts to Tagus still prove vain,
An idle waste!—A dawn of brightest ray
Has boldly promised the returning day
Of Lisboa's honours, fairer than her prime
Lost by a rude unletter'd age's crime—
Now heaven-taught science and her liberal band
Of arts, and dictates by experience plann'd,
Beneath the smiles of a benignant Queen
Boast the fair opening of a reign serene,
Of omen high.—And Camoens' ghost no more
Wails the neglected Muse on Tago's shore;
No more his tears the barbarous age upbraid:
His griefs and wrongs all sooth'd, his happy shade
To Tago's banks; and earnest to adorn
The Hero's brows, he weaves the Elysian crown,
What time the letter'd chiefs of old renown,
And patriot heroes, in the Elysian bowers
Shall hail Braganza! Of the fairest flowers
Of Helicon, entwin'd with laurel leaves
From Maxen field, the deathless wreath he weaves;
Anxious alone, nor be his vows in vain,
That long his toil unfinished may remain!
Whose glow of heart embraces human kind,
To see a nation rise! But ah, my friend,
How dire the pangs to mark our own descend!
With ample powers from ruin still to save
Yet as a vessel on the furious wave,
Through sunken rocks and rav'nous whirlpools tost,
Each power to save in counter-action lost,
Where, while combining storms the decks o'erwhelm,
Timidity slow faulters at the helm,
The crew, in mutiny, from every mast
Tearing its strength, and yielding to the blast;
By faction's stern and gloomy lust of change,
And selfish rage inspired and dark revenge—
Nor ween, my friend, that favouring fate forbodes
That Albion's state, the toil of demi-gods,
And from unnumber'd friendly aspects sprung,
When poison'd at the heart its soul expires,
Shall e'er again resume its generous fires:
No future day may such fair frame restore:
When Albion falls, she falls to rise no more!
The expedition of Vasco de Gama, the discoverer of the East Indies, was extremely unpopular, as it was esteemed impracticable. His embarkation is strongly marked by Osorius the historian. Gama, before he went on board, spent the night along with the crews of his squadron in the chapel of our Lady at Belem, on the spot where the noble Gothic church now stands adjoining the convent of St. Jerome.
In the chapel they bound themselves to obedience to Gama, and devoted themselves to death. “On the next day, when the adventurers marched to the ships, the shore of Belem presented one of the most solemn and affecting scenes perhaps recorded in history. The beach was covered with the inhabitants of Lisbon. A numerous procession of priests in their robes sung anthems, and offered up invocations to heaven. Every one beheld the adventurers as brave innocent men going to a dreadful execution, as rushing upon certain death.” Introduct. to the Lusiad.
The houses in Portugal are generally whitened on the outside, white being esteemed as repulsive of the rays of the sun.
The river of Lima, in the north of Portugal, said to be the Lethe of the ancients, is thus mentioned by Cellarius in his Geographia Antiqua. “Fabulosus Oblivionus fluvius Limia, ultra Lusitaniam in septentrione.” It runs through a most romantic and beautiful district; from which circumstance it probably received the name of the river of Oblivion, the first strangers who visited it forgetting their native country, and being willing to continue on its banks. The same reason of forgetfulness is ascribed to the Lotos by Homer, Odys. ix. There is another Lethe of the ancients in Africa.
This great man is called by Florus the Romulus of Spain. What is here said of him is agreeable to history.
Palmela's hill and Cintra's summits—are both seen from Almada, and were principal forts of the Moors. They were stormed by Alphonso the First about the time of the conquest of Lisbon.
The irruption of the Mohammedans into Europe gave rise to that species of poetry called Romance. The Orlando Furioso is founded upon the invasion of France,
By Fontarabia ------
Milton.
The promontory of Sagrez, where Henry, Duke of Visco, resided and established his naval school, is on the southern part of Portugal, opposite to Africa.
Albuquerk, Sampayo, Nunio, Castro, are distinguished characters in the Lusiad, and in the history of Portuguese Asia.
A tyrant race, who own'd no country, came,—before the total declension of the Portuguse in Asia, and while they were subject to Spain, the principal people, says the historian Faria, who were mostly a mixed race born in India, lost all affection for the mother country, nor had any regard for any of the provinces where they were only the sons of strangers: and present emolument became their sole object.
Besides the total slaughter of the Moors at the taking of Lisbon, other massacres have bathed the streets of that city in blood. King Fernando, surnamed the Careless, was driven from Lisbon by a bloody insurrection, headed by one Velasquez a taylor. Some time after on the death of Fernando, Adeyro, the queen's favourite, was stabbed in her presence, the bishop of Lisbon was thrown from the tower of his own cathedral, and the massacre of all the queen's adherents became general; and many were murdered under that pretence, by those who had an enmity against them. In 1505 between two and three thousand Jews were massacred in Lisbon in the space of three days, and many Christians were also murdered by their private enemies under a similar pretence that they were of the Hebrew race. Thousands flocked in from the country to assist in their destruction, and the crews of some French and Dutch ships then in the river, says Osorious, were particularly active in murdering and plundering.
When the Spanish yoke was thrown off, and the duke of Braganza ascended the throne under the title of John IV. This is one of the most remarkable events in history, and does the Portuguese nation infinite honour.
This description is literally just. Whole families, of all ages, are every where seen among the ruins, the only covering of their habitations being ragged fragments of sail cloth; and their common bed dirty straw. The magnificent and extensive ruins of the palace of Braganza contain several hundreds of these idle people, much more wretched in their appearance than the gypsies of England.
The Praza de Commercio, or Forum of Commerce, is one of the largest and most magnificent squares in Europe. Three sides consist of the Exchange and the public offices; the fourth is formed by the Tagus, which is here edged by an extensive and noble wharf, built of coarse marble.
Alludes to the establishment of the Royal Academy of Lisbon in May 1780, under the presidency of the most illustrious Prince Don John of Braganza, duke of Lafoens, &c. &c. &c. The author was present at the ceremony of its commencement, and had the honour to be admitted a member.
Camoens, the first poet of Portugal, published his Lusiad at a time of the deepest declension of public virtue, when the Portuguese empire in India was falling into rapid decay, when literature was totally neglected, and all was luxury and imbecility at home. At the end of books V. and VII. of his Lusiad, he severely upbraids the nobility for their barbarous ignorance. He died neglected in a workhouse, a few months before his country fell under the yoke of Philip II. of Spain, whose policy in Portugal was of the same kind with that which he exercised in the Netherlands, endeavouring to secure submission by severity, with the view of reducing them beneath the possibility of a successful revolt.
This title is given by the Portuguese historians to Don John, one of the younger sons of John I. of Portugal, who had visited every court of Europe. The same title is no less due to the present illustrious descendant of his family, the duke of Lafoens. His grace, who has within these few years returned to his native country, was about twenty two years absent from it. During the late war, he was a volunteer in the army of the Empress Queen, in which he served as lieutenant-general, and particularly distinguished himself at the battle of Maxen, where the Prussians were defeated. After the peace, he not only visited every court of Europe, most of whose languages he speaks fluently, but also travelled to Turkey and Egypt, and even to Lapland. His Grace is no less distinguished by his taste for the Belles Lettres, than for his extensive knowledge of history and science.
STANZAS.
For thou, though young, art wise,
And known to thee is every flower
Beneath our milder skies:
And lovely mien combin'd,
That fittest to the pensive eye
Displays the virtuous mind?
Methought might long reside?
But April's blossoms banish'd thence,
Gave summer, Flora's pride.
But on the gay partere
Carnations glow, and tulips flaunt,
No humble flow'ret there.
“Has bow'd the languid head;
“For on its bloom the blazing skies
“Their sultry rage have shed.
“Of winter's dull presage,
“That seeks not where the dog-star's ray
“Has shed his fiercest rage.
“Where rude the bramble grows;
“There, shaded by the humble thorn,
“The lingering Primrose blows.”
On passing the Bridge of Alcantra, near Lisbon, where Camoens is reported to have chosen his Station, when Age and Necessity compelled him to beg his daily Sustenance.
Oft as at pensive eve I pass the brookWhere Lisboa's Maro, old and suppliant stood,
Fancy his injured eld and sorrows rude
Brought to my view. 'Twas night: with chearless look
Methought he bow'd the head in languid mood,
As pale with penury in darkling nook
Forlorn he watch'd. Sudden the skies partook
A mantling blaze, and warlike forms intrude.
Here Gama's semblance braves the boiling main,
And Lusitania's warriors hurle the spear;
But whence that flood of light that bids them rear
Their lofty brows! From thy neglected strain,
Camoens, unseen by vulgar eye it flows;
That glorious blaze, to thee, thy thankless country owes.
STANZAS ON MR. GARRICK.
Its front the image of the God display'd:
All heaven approv'd it e'er Minerva stole
The fire of Jove and kindled up the soul.
E'er Garrick rose had charms for every eye:
'Twas nature's genuine image wild and grand,
The strong mark'd picture of a master's hand.
The Bard's bold painting burst into a flame:
Each part new force and vital warmth receiv'd,
As touch'd by heaven—and all the picture liv'd.
IMITATIONS OF SPENSER.
SYR MARTYN:
A POEM, IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
ADVERTISEMENT.
This Attempt in the Manner of Spenser was first published in 1767, since which time it has passed through some Editions under the Title of the CONCUBINE; a title, which, it must be confessed, conveyed a very improper idea both of the subject and spirit of the Poem. It is now more properly intitled SYR MARTYN, and the Author is happy to find that the public approbation of the Work has given him an opportunity to alter its name so much to advantage.
The first Publication was not accompanied with any prefatory Address, by which either the intention of the Writer might be explained, or the candour of the Reader solicited. To solicit candour for the poetical execution he still declines, for Taste is not to be bribed; but perhaps justice to himself may require some explanation of his design, and some apology for his use of the Manner of Spenser.
It is an established maxim in criticism, That an interesting moral is essential to a good poem. The character of the Man of Fortune is of the utmost importance both in the political and moral world: to throw, therefore, a just ridicule on the pursuits and pleasures which often prove fatal to the important virtues of the Gentleman, must afford an interesting moral, but it is the management of the Writer which alone must render it striking. Yet however he may have failed in attaining this, the Author may decently assert, that to paint false pleasure as it is, ridiculous and contemptible, alike destructive to virtue and to happiness, was, at least, the purpose of his Poem.
It is also an established maxim in criticism, That the subject of a poem should be One; that every part should contribute to the completion of One design, which, properly pursued, will naturally diffuse itself into a regular Beginning, Middle, and End. Yet in attaining this Unity of the Whole, the necessary Regularity must still be poetical, for the spirit of poetry cannot exist under the shackles of logical or mathematical arrangement. Or, to use the words of a very eminent Critic, “As there must needs be a connexion, so that connexion will best answer its end, and the purpose of the writer, which, whilst it leads by a sure train of thinking to the conclusion in view, conceals itself all the while, and leaves to the Reader the satisfaction of supplying the intermediate links, and joining together, in his own mind, what is left in a seeming posture of neglect and inconnexion.”
If therefore the delineation of the character of the man of birth, who, with every advantage of natural abilities and amiable disposition, is at once lost to the public and himself; if this character has its beginning, middle, and end, the poem has all the unity that propriety requires: how far such unity is attained, may perhaps be seen at one view in the following argument:
After an invocation to the genius of Spenser, and proposition of the subject, the Knight's first attachment to his Concubine, his levity, love of pleasure, and dissipation, with the influence over him which on this she assumes, are parts which undoubtedly constitute a just beginning.
The effects of this influence, exemplified in the different parts of a gentleman's relative character—in his domestic elegance of park, gardens, and house—in his unhappines as a lover, a parent, and a man of letters—behaviour as a master to his tenants, as a friend, and a brother—and in his feelings in his hours of retirement as a man of birth, and a patriot, naturally complete the middle, to which an allegorical catastrophe furnishes the proper and regular end.
Some reasons, perhaps, may be expected for having adopted the manner of Spenser. To propose a general use of it were indeed highly absurd; yet it may be presumed there are some subjects on which it may be used with advantage. But not to enter upon any formal defence, the Author will only say, That the fulness and wantonness of description, the quaint simplicity, and above all, the ludicrous, of which the antique phraseology and manner of Spenser are so happily and peculiarly susceptible, inclined him to esteem it not solely as the best, but the only mode of composition adapted to his subject.
CANTO I.
Of pleasures faerie land,
Where virtues budds are blighted as
By foul enchanters wand.
And, fancy, to thy faerie bowre betake!
Even now, with balmie freshnesse, breathes the gale,
Dimpling with downy wing the stilly lake;
Through the pale willows faultering whispers wake,
And evening comes with locks bedropt with dew;
On Desmonds mouldering turrets slowly shake
And ever and anon faire Mullas plaints renew.
That powre of charme thy naiads once possest,
Melodious Mulla! when, full oft whyleare,
Thy gliding murmurs soothd the gentle brest
Of haplesse Spenser; long with woes opprest,
Long with the drowsie patrons smyles decoyd,
Till in thy shades, no more with cares distrest,
No more with painful anxious hopes accloyd,
The sabbath of his life the milde good man enjoyd:
The muses wooed him, when each evening grey
Luxurious fancy, from her wardrobe drest
Brought forth her faerie knights in sheen array
By forrest edge or welling fount, where lay,
Farre from the crowd, the carelesse bard supine:
Oh happy man! how innocent and gay,
How mildly peacefull past these houres of thine!
Ah! could a sigh avail, such sweete calme peace were mine!
Unbidden transports through my bosome swell;
With pleasing reverence awd mine eyes survey
The hallowed shades where Spenser strung his shell,
The brooke still murmurs through the bushy dell,
Still through the woodlands wild and beauteous rise
The hills green tops; still from her moss-white cell
Complayning echoe to the stockdove sighs,
And fancy, wandering here, still feels new extacies.
Ye wilde-wood Muses of the native lay!
Ye who these bancks did whilom constant roam,
And round your Spenser ever gladsome play!
Oh come once more! and with your magick ray
These lawns transforming, raise the mystick scene—
The lawns already own your vertual sway,
Proud citys rise, with seas and wildes atweene;
In one enchanted view the various walks of men.
Fronting the sunne, a rock fantastick rose;
From every rift the pink and primrose smild,
On middle cliff each flowry shrub that blows
On Mayes sweete morne a fragrant grove displayd,
Beauteous and wilde as ever druid chose;
From whence a reverend wizard through the shade
Advaunst to meet my steps; for here me seemd I strayd.
A few thin hairs; bright in his eagle eye,
Meint with heavens lightning, social mildnesse glowd;
Yet when him list queynt was his leer and slie,
Yet wondrous distant from malignitie;
For still his smyle did forcibly disclose
The soul of worth and warm hart-honestie:
Such winning grace as age but rare bestows
Dwelt on his cheeks and lips, though like the withering rose.
A purple girdle loosely tyd his waist
Enwove with many a flowre from many a shore,
And half conceald and half reveald his vest,
His vest of silk, the Faerie Queenes bequest
What time she wooed him ere his head was grey;
A lawrell bough he held, and now addrest
To speech, he points it to the mazy way
That wide and farre around in wildest prospect lay.
The wilderness of life extensive lies;
The path of blustering fame and warlike ire,
Of scowling powre and lean-boned covetise,
Of thoughtlesse mirth and follys giddy joys;
And whither all those paths illusive end,
All these at my command didactick rise,
And shift obedient as mine arm I bend.
He said, and to the field did strait his arm extend.
But certes, lever would I see and hear,
How, oft, the gentle plant of generous ground
And fairest bloom no ripend fruit will bear:
Oft have I shed, perdie, the bitter tear
To see the shoots of vertue shrink and dy,
Untimely blasted in the soft greene eare:
To tell, O reverend Seer, thy prompt enchantment try.
Foresee the sorrowes of their elder age!
Full oft, quoth he, my bosom melts with ruth
To note the follies of their early stage,
Where dissipations cup full deepe they pledge;
Ne can the wizards saws disperse to flight
The ills that soon will warre against them wage,
Ne may the spells that lay the church-yarde spright,
From pleasures servile bands release the luckless wight.
An ample field of British clime I ween,
A field which never by poetick eyes
Was viewd from hence. Thus, though the rural scene
Has by a thousand artists pencild beene,
Some other may, from other point, explore
A view full different, yet as faire beseene:
So shall these lawns present one lawnskepe more;
For certes where we stand stood never wight before.
Fleet as he spake still rose the imagerie
Of all he told depeinten to the sight;
It was, I weet, a goodlie baronie:
Beneath a greene-clad hill, right faire to see,
The castle in the sunny vale ystood;
All round the east grew many a sheltering tree,
And on the west a dimpling silver flood
Ran through the gardins trim, then crept into the wood.
And fill with worthy deed the fleeting houres!
What pleasaunce mote a learned wight enjoy
Emong the hills and vales and shady bowres,
To mark how buxom Ceres round him poures
The hoary-headed wheat, the freckled corne,
The bearded barlie, and the hopp that towres
So high, and with his bloom salews the morne,
And with the orchard vies the lawnskepe to adorn.
Pomona lashes on everie tree,
The velvet-coated peach, the plumb so hore,
The nectrines redd, and pippins sheene to see,
How happy here with Woodstocks laughing swain
And Avons bard of peerlesse memorie
To saunter through the dasie-whitened plain,
When fancys sweetest impe Dan Spenser joins the train.
Oft by the brooke his infant steps they led,
And oft the fays, with many a warbling tone
And laughing shape, stood round his morning bed:
Such happiness bloomd fair around his head.
Yet though his mind was formd each joy to taste,
From him, alas! dear homefelt joyaunce fled,
Vain meteors still his cheated arms embraced;
Where all seemd flowrie gay, he found a drery waste.
Lured by the fragrance of the new-mown hay,
As carelesse sauntering through the elm-fenced green,
He with his book beguild the closing day,
The dairy-maid hight Kathrin friskd that way;
A roguish twinkling look the gypsie cast,
For much she wishd the lemmans part to play;
Nathlesse unheeding on his way he past,
Ne enterd in his heart or wish or thought unchast.
Her easie waste in milch-white boddice dight,
Her golden locks curld down her shoulders sleek,
And halfe her bosome heaving met the sight,
Whiles gayly she accosts the sober wight:
Freedom and glee blythe sparkling in her eye,
With wanton merrimake she trips the knight,
And round the younkling makes the clover flye:
But soon he starten up, more gamesome by and bye.
But certes you shall woo and strive in vain.
Fast in his armes he caught her then ywis;
Yfere they fell; but loud and angry then
Gan she of shame and haviour vild complain,
While bashfully the weetlesse boy did look:
With cunning smyles she viewd his awkward pain;
The smyle he caught, and eke new courage took,
And Kathrine then a kiss, perdie, did gentlie brook.
One thought bestowd on what would surely be;
But well his aunt perceiv'd his dangerous toy,
And sore she feard her auncient familie
Should now be staind with blood of base degree:
For sooth to tell, her liefest hearts delight
Was still to count her princely pedigree,
Through barons bold all up to Cadwall hight,
Thence up to Trojan Brute ysprong of Venus bright.
From baselie matching with plebeian bloud,
Whole nights she schemd to shonne thilk foull disgrace,
And Kathrins bale in wondrous wrath she vowd:
Yet could she not with cunning portaunce shroud,
So as might best succede her good intent,
But clept her lemman and vild slut aloud;
That soon she should her gracelesse thewes repent,
And stand in long white sheet before the parson shent.
And prompt the scenerie rose, where listless lay
The knight in shady bowre, by streamlet lavd,
While Philomela soothd the parting day:
Here Kathrin him approachd with features gay,
And all her store of blandishments and wiles;
The knight was touchd—but she with soft delay
And gentle teares yblends her languid smiles,
And of base falsitie th'enamourd boy reviles.
And, faultring oft, exclaims with wondring stare,
What mean these sighs? dispell thine ydle feares;
And, confident in me, thy griefes declare.
And need, quoth she, need I my heart to bare,
And tellen what untold well knowne mote be?
Lost is my friends good-will, my mothers care—
By you deserted—ah! unhappy me!
Left to your aunts fell spight, and wreakfull crueltie.
No; sooner shall yond hill forsake his place,
He laughing said, and would have caught her hand;
Her hand she shifted to her blubberd face
With prudish modestie, and sobd, Alas!
Grant me your bond, or else on yonder tree
Ah, welladay! shall hang my babe and me,
And everie night our ghostes shall bring all hell to thee.
As when, aloft on well-stored cherrie-tree,
The thievish elfe beholds with pale affright
The gardner near, and weets not where to flee:
And will my bond forefend thilk miserie?
That shalt thou have; and for thy peace beside,
What mote I more? Housekeeper shalt thou be—
An awfull oath forthwith his promise tied,
And Kathrin was as blythe as ever blythesome bride.
Her kindest counsels scornd, and sore did pine
To think what well she knew would shortly be,
Cadwallins blood debasd in Kathrins line;
For very dole she died. Oh sad propine,
Syr knight, for all that care which she did take!
How many a night, for coughs and colds of thine,
Has she sat up, rare cordial broths to make,
And cockerd thee so kind with many a daintie cake!
Extends its twinkling line from spray to spray,
Gently as sleep the weary lids invades,
So soft, so gently pleasure mines her way:
But whither will the smiling fiend betray,
Ah, let the knights approching days declare!
Though everie bloome and flowre of buxom May
Bestrew her path, to desarts cold and bare
The mazy path betrays the giddy wight unware.
His manlie sense that fairest blossoms bore,
His temper gentle as the whispering gale,
His native goodnesse, and his vertuous lore!
Now through his veins, all uninflamd before,
Th'enchanted cup of dissipation hight
Has shedd, with subtil stealth, through everie pore,
Its giddy poison, brewd with magicke might,
Each budd of gentle worth and better thought to blight.
To chace the foming bore and fallow deer,
At first the traders beverage shylie tastes;
Inflamd he lusts for the delirious cheer:
So bursts the boy disdainful of restrent,
Headlong attonce into the wylde career
Of jollitie, with all his mind unbent,
And dull and yrksome hangs the day in sports unspent.
Each day affords a floode of roring joy;
The springs green months ycharmd with cocking flee,
The jolly horce-race summers grand employ,
His harvest sports the foxe and hare destroy;
But the substantial comforts of the bowl
Are thine, O winter! thine to fire the boy
With Englands cause, and swell his mightie soul,
Till dizzy with his peres about the flore he rowl.
Hang many a badgers snout and foxes tail,
The which had he through many a hedge persewd,
Through marsh, through meer, dyke, ditch, and delve and dale;
To hear his hair-breadth scapes would make you pale;
Which well the groome hight Patrick can relate,
Whileas on holidays he quaffs his ale;
And not one circumstance will he forgett,
So keen the braggard chorle is on his hunting sett.
Beholds the springing racers sweep the ground;
Now lightlie by the post the foremost flies,
And thondring on, the rattling hoofs rebound;
The coursers groan, the cracking whips resound:
And gliding with the gale they rush along
Right to the stand. The knight stares wildly round,
And, rising on his sell, his jocund tongue
Is heard above the noise of all the noisie throng.
As youthful spirits thoughtlesse led the way,
Her gilden baits, ah, gilded to decoy!
Kathrin did eve and morn before him lay,
Watchfull to please, and ever kindlie gay;
Till, like a thing bewitchd, the carelesse wight
Resigns himself to her capricious sway:
In necromancers thrall in halfe such pitteous plight.
What need her now, she recks, one smyle bestow;
Each care to please were trouble thrown away,
And thriftlesse waste, with many maxims moe,
As, What were she the better did she so?
She conns, and freely sues her native bent;
Yet still can she to guard his thralldom know,
Though grimd with snuff in tawdrie gown she went,
Though peevish were her spleen and rude her jolliment.
And roving through the trees his mattin sings,
Lively with joy, till on a lucklesse thorne
He lights, where to his feet the birdlime clings;
Then all in vain he flapps his gaudie wings;
The more he flutters still the more foredone:
So fares it with the knight: each morning brings
His deeper thrall; ne can he brawling shun,
For Kathrin was his thorne and birdlime both in one.
The ruddie sunne appears to rest his chin,
When not a breeze disturbs the murmuring rill,
And mildlie warm the falling dewes begin,
The gamesome trout then shews her silverie skin,
As wantonly beneath the wave she glides,
Watching the buzzing flies, that never blin,
Then, dropt with pearle and golde, displays her sides,
While she with frequent leape the ruffled streame divides.
Well has the urchin markt her merry play,
An ashen rod obeys his guilefull hands,
And leads the mimick fly across her way;
Askaunce, with wistly look and coy delay,
The hungrie trout the glitteraund treachor eyes,
Semblaunt of life, with speckled wings so gay;
Then, slylie nibbling, prudish from it flies,
Till with a bouncing start she bites the truthless prize.
Struck with amaze she feels the hook ypight
Deepe in her gills, and, plonging where the beech
In vain the deepest rock, her late delight,
In vain the sedgy nook for help she tries;
The laughing elfe now curbs, now aids her flight,
The more entangled still the more she flies,
And soon amid the grass the panting captive lies.
That wanton bounding, and exulting joy,
That lately welcomd the retourning ray,
When by the rivletts bancks, with blushes coy,
April walkd forth—ah! never more to toy
In purling streame, she pants, she gasps, and dies!
Aye me! how like the fortune of the boy,
His days of revel and his nights of noise
Have left him now, involvd, his lemmans hapless prize.
The parke where rural elegance had placed
Her sweet retreat, where cunning art did play
Her happiest freaks, that nature undefacd
Receivd new charmes; ah, see, how foul disgracd
Now lies thilke parke so sweetlie wylde afore!
Each grove and bowery walke be now laid waste;
The bowling-greene has lost its shaven flore,
And snowd with washing suds now yawns beside the dore.
Crocus, and polyanthus speckld fine,
And daffodils in fayre confusion grew
Emong the rose-bush roots and eglantine;
These now their place to cabbages resign,
And tawdrie pease supply the lillys stead;
Rough artichokes now bristle where the vine
Its purple clusters round the windows spread,
And laisie coucumbers on dung recline the head.
Where oft, by moonshine, on the daisied greene,
In jovial daunce, or tripping side by side,
Pomona and her buxom nymphs were seene;
Or, where the clear canal stretchd out atweene,
Deffly their locks with blossomes would they brede;
Or, resting by the primrose hillocks sheene,
They sung their loves the while the fruitage gaily spread:
In all the pride of blossome strewd the plain;
The hillocks gently rising through the land
Must now no trace of natures steps retain;
The clear canal, the mirrour of the swain,
And bluish lake no more adorn the greene,
Two durty watering ponds alone remain;
And where the moss-floord filbert bowres had beene,
Is now a turnip field and cow yarde nothing cleane.
All this devisd for trim oeconomie;
But certes ever from her birth bereft
Of elegance, ill fitts her title high:
Coarse were her looks, yet smoothe her courtesie,
Hoyden her shapes, but grave was her attyre,
And ever fixt on trifles was her eye;
And still she plodden round the kitchen fyre,
To save the smallest crombe her pleasure and desyre.
Fast at her side a bounch of keys yhong,
Dull care sat brooding on her jealous brow,
Sagacious proverbs dropping from her tongue:
Yet sparing though she beene her guestes emong,
Ought by herself that she mote gormandise,
The foul curmudgeon would have that ere long,
And hardly could her witt her gust suffice;
Albee in varied stream, still was it covetise.
This crooked ronion, for in soothly guise
She was her genius and her counsellor:
Now cleanly milking-pails in careful wise
Bedeck each room, and much can she despise
The knights complaints, and thriftlesse judgment ill:
Eke versd in sales, right wondrous cheap she buys,
Parlour and bedroom too her bargains fill;
Though useless, cheap they beene, and cheap she purchasd still.
Did like to sing and worken all the day,
And at the harvest feast still first did play;
And ever at the terme their rents did pay,
For well they knew to guide their rural geer:
All in a row, yclad in homespun gray,
They marchd to church each Sunday of the year,
Their imps yode on afore, the carles brought up the rear.
No more with social hospitable glee
The village hearths at Christmas tide resound,
No more the Whitsun gamboll may you see,
Nor morrice daunce, nor May daye jollitie,
When the blythe maydens foot the deawy green;
But now, in place, heart-sinking penurie
And hopelesse care on every face is seen,
As these the drery times of curfeu bell had been.
And dark of look, a tawdrie villain came,
Muttering some words with serious-meaning face,
And on the church dore he would fix their name;
Then, nolens volens, they must heed the same,
And quight those fieldes their yeomen grandsires plowd
Eer since black Edwards days, when, crownd with fame,
From Cressie field the knights old grandsire prowd
Led home his ycomandrie, and each his glebe allowd.
Beneath the gripe of laws stern rapine fall,
The friendlesse widow, from her hearth expelld,
Withdraws to some poor hutt with earthen wall:
And these, perdie, were Kathrins projects all;
For, sooth to tell, grievd was the knight full sore
Such sinful deeds to see: yet such his thrall,
Though he had pledgd his troth, yet nathemore
It mote he keep, except she willd the same before.
What for thy witchcraft too secure may be!
Not Circes cup may so transform the heart,
Or bend the will, fallacious powre, like thee;
Lo manly sense, of princely dignitie,
Witchd by thy spells, thy crowching slave is seen;
Lo, high-browd honour bends the groveling knee,
Seems like a blighted flowre of dank unlovely mien.
Such ruthlesse bondage on his slave impose,
As Kathrin on the knight full deffly can;
Ne may the knight escape, or cure his woes:
As he who dreams he climbs some mountains brows,
With painful struggling up the steep height strains,
Anxious he pants and toils, but strength foregoes
His feeble limbs, and not a step he gains;
So toils the powrelesse knight beneath his servile chains.
Learnd was thilk clerk in deeds, and passing slie;
Slow was his speeche, and solemn was his face
As that grave bird which Athens rankt so high;
Pleasd Dullness basking in his glossie eye,
The smyle would oft steal through his native phlegm;
And well he guards Syr Martyns propertie,
Till not one peasant dares invade the game:
But certes, seven yeares rent was soon his own just claim.
Still yawns on everie long-depending case.
The knights gay bloome the while slid fast away;
Kathrin the while brought bantling imps apace;
While everie day renews his vile disgrace,
And straitens still the more his galling thrall:
See now what scenes his houshold hours debase,
And rise successive in his cheerlesse hall.
So spake the Seer, and prompt the scene obeyd his call.
And discomposd yon stranger he receives;
Lo, how with sulkie look, and moapt with spleen,
His frowning mistresse to his friend behaves;
In vain he nods, in vain his hand he waves,
Ne will she heed, ne will she sign obay;
Nor corner dark his awkward blushes saves,
Ne may the hearty laugh, ne features gay:
The hearty laugh, perdie, does but his pain betray.
Some generous cause did still his lips inspire;
To shelter from his lawyers cruel ire
An auncient hinde, around whose cheerlesse fire
Sat grief, and pale disease. The poor mans wrong
Affects the knight: his inmost harts desire
Gleams through his eyes; yet all confusd, and stung
With inward pain, he looks, and silence guards his tongue.
See, how with sidelong glaunce and haviour shy
He steals the look to read his lemmans will,
Watchfull the dawn of an assent to spy.
Look as he will, yet will she not comply.
His friend with scorn beholds his awkward pain;
From him even pity turns her tear-dewd eye,
And hardlie can the bursting laugh restrain,
While manlie honour frowns on his unmanlie stain.
He wavd his hand, and other scenes arose.
See there, quoth he, the knight supinely laid
Invokes the household houres of learnd repose;
An auncient song its manly joys bestows:
The melting passion of the Nutt-brown Mayde
Glides through his breast; his wandering fancy glows,
Till into wildest reveries betrayd,
He hears th'imagind faire, and wooes the lovely shade.
How to the green wode shade, betide whateer,
She with her banishd love would fearlesse goe,
And sweet would be with him the hardest cheer.
O heaven! he sighs, what blessings dwell sincere
In love like this!—But instant as he sighd,
Bursting into the room, loud in his ear
His lemman thonders, Ah! fell dole betide
The girl that trusts in man before she bees his bride!
Delight your fancy! she disdainful cries;
When straight her imps all brawling round her throng,
And, bleard with teares, each for revenge applies:
Him cheife in spleene the father means chastise,
But from his kindlie hand she saves him still;
Yet for no fault, anon, in furious wise
And then, next breath, does all to coax its stubborn will.
Withdraws the curtain of the murderers bed,
So pale and cold at heart, as halfe aswoon
The knight stares round; yet good nor bad he sed.
Alas! though trembling anguish inward bled,
His best resolve soon as a meteor dies:
His present peace and ease mote chance have fled,
He deems; and yielding, looks most wondrous wise,
As from himself he hopd his grief and shame disguise.
The hallowd temple of content may be!
While now his days abroad with groomes he wore,
His mistresse with her liefest companie,
A rude unletterd herd! with dearest glee,
Enjoys each whisper of her neighbours shame;
And still anon the flask of ratafie
Improves their tales, till certes not a name
Escapes their blasting tongue, or goody, wench, or dame.
Making sweete solace of some scandall new,
A boistrous noise came thondring at the gate,
And soon a sturdie boy approachd in view;
With gold far glitteraund were his vestments blue
And pye-shapd hat, and of the silver sheen
An huge broad buckle glaunst in either shoe,
And round his necke an India kerchiefe clean,
And in his hand a switch: a jolly wight I ween.
Where ruddie Phœbus slacks his firie team;
(With burning golde then flames th'ethereal steepe,
And oceans waves like molten silver seem)
Eke had he seen, with dimond glittering beam,
The starre of morn awake the roseate day,
While yet beneath the moone old Nilus stream
Pale through the land reflects the gleamy ray,
As through the midnight skyes appeares the milky way.
Unknown to Carthage, had he frequent sped:
At Christmas tide, where other heavens are spred,
Besprent with starres that Newton never red,
Where in the north the sun of noone is seene:
Wherever Hannos bold ambition led,
Wherever Gama saild, there had he beene,
Gama , the dearling care of beautys heavenly queene.
Where bold Neârch young Ammons fleet did guide;
A task so dred the world-subduing host
Could not another for such feats provide:
And often had he seen that ocean wide
Which to his wearie bands thilke youth did say
None but th'immortal Gods had ever spyd;
Which sight, quoth he, will all your toils repay:
That none mote see it more als he the Gods did pray .
For ten long seasons did the younkling toil,
Through stormes, through tempests, and the battels fire,
Through cold, through heat, cheerd by the hope the while
Of yet revisiting his natal soil:
And oft, when flying in the monsoon gale,
By Æthiopias coast or Javas ile,
When glauncing over oceans bosom pale,
The ship hung on the winds with broad and steadie sail:
With wide-spred wing unmovd, the eagle bends,
When, on old Snowdons brow prepard to light,
Sailing the liquid skye he sheer descends:
Thus oft, when roving farre as wave extends,
The scenes of promist bliss would warm the boy;
To meet his brother with each wish yblends,
And friendships glowing hopes each thought employ;
And now at home arrivd his heart dilates with joy.
To spy the streamlett or the elm tree shade,
Where oft at eve, beneath the cawing rooks,
He with his feres in mery childhoode playd:
But all was changd!—Unweetingly dismayd
And who but Kathrin now is dearnly frayd
When entering in she kens the stranger guest:
Then with sad mien she rose, and kindlie him embrest.
Then, sobbing deepe, Glad will Syr Martyn be,
Faire Syr, of your retourne, she gently said;
But what mishap! our infant familie,
The dearest babes, though they were nought to me,
That ever breathd, are laid in deadly plight:
What shall we do!—great were your courtesie
To lodge in yonder tenants house to night;
The skilfull leache forbids that noise my babes should fright.
To wait his brother, at her bidding fares,
Conducted by a gossip pert and sly:
Kathrin the while her malengines prepares.
Now gan the duske suspend the plowmans cares,
When from his rural sportes arrives the knight;
Soon with his mates the jovial bowl he shares,
His hall resounds!—amazd the stranger wight
Arreads it all as done to him in fell despight.
Of stranger guest: Go, bid him welcome here;
What seeks he there? quoth he. Perdie, what would
You seek? says to the boy the messenger.
To see the knight, quoth he, I but requere.
Syr knight, he scornes to come; the servant said.
Go, bid him still, quoth he, to welcome cheer:
But all contrarywise the faytor made,
Till rage enflamd the boy; and still his rage they fed.
His faire estate; and certes, well I read,
He weens to hold your patrimonie fast.
Next morne a lawyer beene ybrought with speed,
And wise he lookt, and wisely shook his hede.
Him now impowrd, the youth with rage yblent
Vows never to retourne; then mounts his steed,
And leaves the place in fancy hugely shent:
All which to Kathrins mind gave wondrous great content.
The castle of the earl of Desmond, on the banks of the river Mulla in Ireland, was some time the residence of Spenser, the place where he wrote the greatest part of the Faerie Queene.
CANTO II.
His youthedes thoughtlesse stage;
But dissipation haunts him to
The blossomes of old age.
Then thus resumd,—As he whose homeward way
Lies through the windings of some verdant wood;
Through many a mazy turn and arbour gay
He sues the flowery steps of jollie May,
While through the openings many a lawnskepe new
Bursts on his sight; yet, never once astray,
Still home he wends: so we our theme pursue,
Through many a bank and bowre close following still our cue.
A wyld romantick dell its fragrance shed;
Safe from the thonder showre and scorching beame
Their faerie charmes the summer bowres displaid;
Wyld by the bancks the bashfull cowslips spread,
And from the rock above each ivied seat
The spotted foxgloves hung the purple head,
And lowlie vilets kist the wanderers feet:
Sure never Hyblas bees roovd through a wilde so sweet.
So leads a solemn walk its bowry way,
The pale-leaved palms and darker limes among,
To where a grotto lone and secret lay;
The yellow broome, where chirp the linnets gay,
Waves round the cave; and to the blue-streakd skyes
A shatterd rock towres up in fragments gray:
The she-goat from its height the lawnskepe eyes,
And calls her wanderd young, the call each banck replies.
What time the wondering boy to manhood rose,
When fancy first her launskepes gan adorne,
And reasons folded buddes their flowres disclose,
What time young transport through the spirits flows,
When nature smyles with charmes unseen before,
When with the unwonted hopes the bosome glows,
While wingd with whirlwind speed the thoughts explore
And hung the dew-drop in the hyacinths bell,
For him employd their virtue breathing powres,
And Cambrias genius bade his worth excell:
His youthful breast confest the wondrous spell;
His generous temper warmd with fayre design,
The friend and patriot now his bosome swell,
The lover and the father now combine,
And smyling visions form, where bliss and honour join.
Must now no more with dreams of bliss decoy;
Yet here he liken still himself to meet,
Though woes, a gloomy train, his thoughts employ:
Oh lost to peace, he sighs, unhappy boy!
Oh lost to every worth that life adorns!
Oh lost to peace, to elegance, and joy!
Th'aërial genius of the cave returns,
Whiles in the bubbling rill the plaintive Naiade mourns.
The dell, the grotto, and the broome-clad hill;
See, quoth the Wizard, where the knight bestows
An houre to thought and reasons whispers still;
Whiles, as a nightly vision boding ill,
Seen with pale glymps by lonely wandering swayne,
Truth, gleaming through the fogs of biast will,
Frowns on him sterne, and honest shame gins fayne
In her reflective glass his lifes ignoble straine.
How oft hast thou, she cries, indignant viewd
The titled cypher and his solemn traine,
The busie face, and dull solicitude,
That, ever plodding in important mood,
Has not a soul to reach one noble aim,
Nor soul, nor wish—whose vacant mind endewd
With not one talent, yet would lewdly claim
For his vile leaden bust the sacred wreath of fame:
By labouring in the British clime to rear
Those arts that quencht prowd Romes partrician fire,
And bowd her prone beneath the Gothick spear;
Illustrious cares! befitting patriot peer!
Such arts as soothd the base unmanly ear
Of Greece and Persia bending to their fall;
When freedome bled unwept, and scornd was glorys call.
What other views before thee would disclose!
As fancy painted and thy wish inspird
What glorious scenes beneath thy shades arose!
Britannias guardians here dispell her woes,
Forming her laws, her artes, with godlike toil;
There Albion, smyling on their learnd repose,
Sees manly genius in their influence smile,
And spread the hallowd streames of virtue round the ile.
Such views still opening, still extending higher,
Cares whence the state derives its firmest powres,
And scenes where friendship sheds her purest fire;
And did, ah shame! these hopes in vain expire
A morning dreame!—As lorn the spendthrift stands,
Who sees the fieldes bequeathd him by his sire,
His own no more, now reapt by strangers hands;
So languid must I view faire honours fertile lands.
On the greene margin of the streame he lay,
While softlie stealing on his languid mind
Th'ideal scene would hold a moments sway,
And the domestick houre all smyles display,
Where fixt esteeme the fond discourse inspires:
Now through his heart would glide the sprightlie ray
Where married love bids light his purest fires,
Where elegance presides, and wakes the young desires.
Shockd he beholds the odious colours rise,
Where selfishnesse, low pride and spleen combind,
Bids every anguishd thought his mate despise,
His mate unformd for sweete affections ties:
Grovling, indelicate—Stung to the heart
His indignation heaves in stifled sighs;
But soon his passion bursts with suddein start:
His children strike his thoughts with lively piersant smart.
Suddein he leaves the cave and mantling trees,
And up the furzie hill his footsteps haste,
While sullenly he soothes his soul to rest:
Meantime the opening prospect wide he gains,
Where, crownd with oake, with meadow flowres ydrest,
His British chaplet, buxom summer reigns,
And waves his mantle greene farre round the smyling plains.
And old grey towres of rural churches rise,
The fieldes still lengthening shew their crowded charms,
In fayre perspective and in richest guise:
His sweeping scythe the white-sleevd mower plies,
The plowman through the fallow guides his teame,
Acrosse the wheaten fielde the milkmayde hies,
To where the kine, foreby the reedy streame,
With frequent lowe to plaine of their full udders seeme.
Dan Æols blustering stormes did long repell,
Till witchd it was, when by an headlong shock,
As the hoar fathers of the village tell,
With horrid crash on All Saints eve it fell:
But from its trunk soon sprouting saplings rose,
And round the parent stock did shadowy swell;
Now, aged trees, they bend their twisted boughs,
And by their moss-greene roots invite the swains repose.
And round the various lawnskepe raunge his eyes:
There stretch the corney fieldes in various greens,
Farre as the sight: there, to the peaceful skyes
The darkning pines and dewy poplars rise:
Behind the wood a dark and heathy lea,
With sheep faire spotted, farre extended lies,
With here and there a lonlie blasted tree;
And from between two hills appears the duskie sea.
Shifts oer the fieldes, now gilds the woody dale,
The flockes now whiten, now the ocean bay
Beneath the radiance glistens clear and pale;
And white from farre appeares the frequent sail
By traffick spread. Moord where the land divides,
Hulky and black, a gallant warre ship rides,
And over the greene wave with lordly port presides.
Long gazd the knight, with fretfull languid air;
Then thus, indulging the reflective houre,
Pours fourth his soul: Oh, glorious happy care!
To bid Britannias navies greatly dare,
And through the vassal seas triumphant reign,
To either India waft victorious warre,
To join the poles in trades unbounded chain,
And bid the British throne the mighty whole sustain.
May stedfast zeal in Albions senate shine!
What glorious laurells court the patriots hand!
How base the hand that can such meed decline!
And was, kind fate! to snatch these honours mine?
Yes! greene they spred, and fayre they bloomd for me;
Thy birth and duty bade the chief be thine;
Oh lost, vain trifler, lost in each degree!
Thy country never turnd her hopeful eyes to thee.
Nor Africk yeilds, nor Chilys earth contains
Such funds of wealth as crown the plowmans toils,
And tinge with waving gold Britannias plains;
Even on her mountains cheerful plenty reigns,
And wildly grand her fleecy wardrobe spreads:
What noble meed the honest statesman gains,
Who through these publique nerves new vigour sheds,
And bids the useful artes exalt their drooping heads:
His countrys greatnesse, sees, on every tide,
Her fleets the umpire of the world assume,
And spread her justice as her glories wide—
Oh wonder of the world, and fairest pride,
Britannias fleet! how long shall pity mourn
And stain thy honours? from his weeping bride
And starving babes, how long inhuman torn
Shall the bold sailor mount thy decks with heart forlorn!
His brides distresse his restlesse fancy sees,
And fixing on the land his earnest eyes,
Ah! hither turn, ye sons of courtlie ease,
And let the brave mans wrongs, let interest plead;
Say, while his arme his countrys fate decrees,
Say, shall a fathers anguish be his meed;
His wrongs unnerve his soul, and blight each mighty deed?
O thou reservd by heavens benign decree
To blast those artes that quench the British flame,
And bid the meanest of the land be free;
Oh, much humanity shall owe to thee!
And shall that palm unenvyd still remain!
Yet hear, ye lordlings, each severitie,
And every woe the labouring tribe sustain,
Upbraids the man of powre, and dims his honours vain.
The rousing musicke of the horne he hears
Shrill echoing through the wold; and by the north
Where bends the hill, the sounding chace appears;
The hounds with glorious peal salute his ears,
And wood and dale rebound the swelling lay;
The youths on coursers fleet as fallow deers
Pour through the downs, while, foremost of the fray;
Away! the jolly huntsman cries; and echoe sounds, Away!
Till where a brooke strays hollow through the bent,
When all confusd, and snuffing wyldlie round,
In vain their fretfull haste explord the scent:
But Reynards cunning all in vain was spent;
The huntsman from his stand his arts had spyd,
Had markt his doublings and his shrewd intent,
How both the bancks he traced, then backward plyd
His track some twentie roods, then bounding sprong aside.
Where, hearkening everie sound, an hare was laid;
Then from the thickest bush he slylie lept,
And wary scuds along the hawthorne shade,
Till by the hills slant foot he earths his head
Amid a briarie thickett: Emblem meet
He oft misguides the peoples rage, I weet,
On others, whilst himself winds off with slie deceit.
The lurking hare is in an instant slain:
Then opening loud, the beagles scent the track
Right to the hill; while thondring through the plain
With blythe huzzas advaunce the jovial train:
And now the groomes and squires, cowherds and boys,
Beat round and round the brake; but all in vain
Their poles they ply, and vain their oathes and noise,
Till plonging in his den the terrier fiercely joys.
The villain bold, and wildly glares around;
Now here, now there, he bends his knees to fly,
As oft recoils to guard from backward wound,
His frothie jaws he grinds—with horrid sound
The pack attonce rush on him: foming ire,
Fierce at his throte and sides hang many a hound;
His burning eyes flash wylde red sparlking fire,
Whiles weltering on the sward his breath and strength expire.
The knight perceives it from his oak-crownd hill,
Down the steep furzie height he slow gan wend,
With troublous thoughts keen ruminating still;
While grief and shame by turns his bosom fill.
And now, perchd prowdlie on the topmast spray,
The sootie blackbird chaunts his vespers shrill;
While twilight spreads his robe of sober grey,
And to their bowres the rooks loud cawing wing their way:
Flames the red beam; while on the distant east
Led by her starre, the horned moone looks o'er
The bending forest, and with rays increast
Ascends; while trembling on the dappled west
The purple radiance shifts, and dies away;
The willows with a deeper green imprest
Nod o'er the brooks; the brooks with gleamy ray
Glide on, and holy peace assumes her woodland sway.
Are these, he murmurs, these my friends! the best
That croud my hall! the sonnes of madning noise,
Whose warmest friendship with the revel dies?
Whose glee it were my dearest peace destroy,
Who with my woes could sport, my wrongs despise;
Could round my coffin pledge the cup of joy,
And on my crimes even then their base-tongued witt employ:
Takes up the barkings of impiety,
The scepticks wild disjointed dreams retails,
These modern ravings of philosophy
Made drank; the cavil, the detected ly,
The witt of ignorance, and gloss unfair,
Which honest dullness would with shame deny;
The hope of baseness vaumpt in candours air:
Good heaven! are such the friends that to my hearth repair!
Even the old peasant shakes his silverd head,
Old saws and stories babbling evermore,
And adding still, Alas, those dayes be fled!
Here indignation pausd, when, up the glade,
Pale through the trees his household smoke ascends;
Wakd at the sight, his brothers wrongs upbraid
His melting heart, and grief his bosome rends:
And now the keene resolve its gleaming comfort lends.
My knight should rise the flowre of chivalrie,
Brave as Syr Arthegal or Valentine,
Another Saint George England then should see,
Britannias genius should his Sabra bee,
Chaind to the rock by dragon to be slain;
But he the virgin princesse soon should free,
And stretch the monster breathless on the plain;
Bribery, the dragon huge, should never rise again.
Escape his false duessas magicke charms,
And folly quaid, yclepd an hydra fell,
Receive a beauteous lady to his arms;
While bardes and minstrales chaunt the soft alarms
Eke should I sing, in courtly cunning terms,
The gallant feast, servd up by Seneshall,
To knights and ladies gent in painted bowre and hall.
And does of human frailtie soothly tell,
Unmeet it were indulge the daintie flights
Of phantasie, that never yet befell:
Uneath it is long habits to expell,
Ne may the best good heart its bliss secure,
Ne may the lively powre of judging well,
In arduous worthy deed long time endure,
Where Dissipation once has fixt her footing sure.
On this faire nymph: the legend thus is told:
To Dians care her life her mother owd;
Faire Dian found her naked on the wold,
Some peasants babe, exposed to deadlie cold,
And to a favourite satyr gave to rear:
Then, when the nymph was fifteen springtimes old,
Equipt her with the bow and huntresse spear,
And of her woodland traine her made a welcome fere.
Fain would she at the chace still lag behind:
One sultry noone, as Phœbe sped afore,
Beneath a leafy vine the nymph reclind,
And, Fan my breast, she cried, oh western wind!
Soon at the wishd-for word Favonius came,
From that day forth the conscious nymph declind
The near inspection of the sovereign dame;
Till mid the chace, one morne, her throes betrayd her shame.
The nymph changd colour, and hung down her head;
Still change thy blushing hue, the goddess cryd:
Forthwith a freezing languor gan invade
Her limbs; and now, with suddein leaves arrayd,
A Russian poppey she transmewd remains:
The various colours ever rise and fade,
The tints still shifting mock the painters pains;
And still her drowsie mood the beauteous nymph retains.
Soft lapt, on balmy pinions farre away;
And with the fawns, by Peneus flowry shore,
From earliest youth the laughing imp did play,
For ever fluttering, debonair, and gay,
And restlesse, as the dove Deucalion sent
To spy if peering oake did yet bewray
Its braunching head above the flooded bent;
But ydlie beating round the day in vain was spent.
To fayre Parnassus groves she took her flight;
There, culling flowretts of a thousand dyes,
Still did her head with tawdry girlonds dight;
As soon the wreath ill sorted would she quight:
Ne ever did she climb the twyforkt hill,
Ne could her eyen explore its lofty height,
Ne did she ever taste the sacred rill
From inspirations fount that ever doth distill.
He drowsy dulness from her mother sprong;
This never would allow her mind aspyre,
That never would allow her patience long,
Thus as she slightly rovd the lawns among,
High Jove beheld her from his starry seat,
And calld her Dissipation: Wylde and young
Still shalt thou be, he said; and this thy fate,
On man thy sleights employ, on man that prowd ingrate.
And holds him injurd when my care denies
The fondling wish, whence sorrow would ensue;
And idle still his prayers invade my skies;
But bold and arduous must that virtue rise
Which I accept, no vague inconstant blaze.
Then be it thine to spred before his eyes
Thy changing colours, and thy wyld-fire rays,
And fruitlesse still shall be that virtue thou canst daze.
The fates assented, and the dæmon flew
Right to the seats of men. The robe she wore
Was starrd with dewdrops, and of palest blue;
Faire round her head playd many a beauteous hue,
As when the rainbow through the bean-flowres plays;
And ween to snatch a prize beneath the rays;
But through the meadows dank the beauteous meteor strays.
With wylie traines the sonnes of earth besett;
Goodnesse of heart before her yawns and dies,
And Friendship ever feels the drowsie fitt
Just when its powre to serve could serve a whitt.
And still behind her march Remorse and Shame,
That never will their yron scourge remitt,
Whenso the fiend resigns her thralls to them:
Sad case, I weet, where still oneselfe oneselfe must blame.
In wanton dalliance first her nett she spred,
And soon in mirthfull tumult on his mind
She softlie stole: yet, while at times he sped
To contemplations bowre, his sight she fled;
Ne on the mountainett with him durst bide;
Yet homewards still she mett him in the glade,
And in the social cup did slily glide,
And still his best resolves eftsoons she scatterd wide
He homeward wends, in heavie musefull stowre,
The smooth deceiver gan his heart assail;
His heart soon felt the fascinating powre:
Old Cambrias genius markt the fatal houre,
And tore the girlond from her sea-greene hair;
The conscious oakes above him rustling lowre,
And through the braunches sighs the gloomy air,
As when indignant Jove rejects the flamens prayer.
His opening mind with many a rapturd dream,
That oft his evening wanderings had inspird,
All by the silent hill or murmuring stream,
Forsake him now; for all as lost they deem:
So home he wends; where, wrapt in jollitie,
His hall to keepen holiday mote seem,
And with the hunters soon full blythe was he,
The blythest wight of all that blythesome companie.
Looks through the glen besprent with silver hore,
Across the stubble, brushing off the dew,
The younkling fowler gins the fieldes explore,
And, wheeling oft, his pointer veres afore,
And oft, sagacious of the tainted gale,
The fluttering bird betrays; with thondring rore
The shott resounds, loud echoing through the dale;
But still the younkling kills nor partridge, snipe, nor quail.
The dog was rash, a swallow twitterd by,
The gun hung fire, and keenness shook his hand,
And there the wind or bushes hurt his eye.
So can the knight his mind still satisfye:
A lazie fiend, Self-Imposition hight,
Still whispers some excuse, some gilden lye,
Himselfe did gild to cheat himselfe outright:
God help the man bewitchd in such ungracious plight.
Obsequiously behind at distance due;
And still to Discontents accursed gates,
The house of sorrow, these ungodly two,
Conduct their fainty thralls—Great things to do
The knight resolvd, but never yet could find
The proper time, while still his miseries grew:
And now these dæmons of the captive mind
Him to the drery cave of Discontent resignd.
Wide was the mouth, the roofe all rudely rent;
Some parts receive, and some exclude the day,
For deepe beneath the hill its caverns went:
The ragged walls with lightning seemd ybrent,
And loathlie vermin ever crept the flore:
Yet all in sight, with towres and castles gent,
A beauteous lawnskepe rose afore the dore,
The which to view so fayre the captives grieved sore.
An owl-frequented bowre, some tents were spred;
Here sat a throng, with eager furious stare
Rattling the dice; and there, with eyes halfe dead,
Dozd out their days: and by the path-way green
A sprightlie troupe still onward heedlesse sped,
In chace of butterflies alert and keen;
Honours, and wealth, and powre, their butterflies I ween.
Into the cave they wend with sullen pace;
Each to his meet apartment dernly fares:
Here, all in raggs, in piteous plight most bace,
The dronkard sitts; there, shent with foul disgrace,
The thriftlesse heir; and o'er his reeking blade
Red with his friends heart gore, in woefull cace
The duellist raves; and there, on vetchie bed,
Crazd with his vaine pursuits, the maniack bends his head.
Ships, coaches, crownes, and eke the gallow tree;
All that he wishd or feard his ghastlie walls;
Present him still, and mock his miserie.
And there, self-doomd, his cursed selfe to flee,
The gamester hangs in corner murk and dread;
Nigh to the ground bends his ungratious knee;
His drooping armes and white-reclining head
Dim seen, cold horror gleams athwart th'unhallowd shade.
The keeper of the cave all haggard sate,
His pining corse a restlesse ague shook,
And blistering sores did all his carkas frett:
All with himselfe he seemd in keen debate;
For still the muscles of his mouthe he drew
Ghastly and fell; and still with deepe regrate
He lookd him round, as if his heart did rew
His former deeds, and mournd full sore his sores to view.
And dard his wisdom and his will arraign;
For boldly he the ways of God blasphemd,
And of blind governaunce did loudly plain,
While vild self-pity would his eyes distain;
As when an wolfe, entrapt in village ground,
In dread of death ygnaws his limb in twain,
Such fierce selfe-pity still this wights dire portaunce crownd.
Where, in the silver age, Content did wonne;
This now was his; yet all mote nought avail,
His loathing eyes that place did ever shun;
But ever through his neighbours lawns would run,
Where every goodlie fielde thrice goodlie seemd,
Such was this weary wight all woe-begone;
Such was his life; and thus of things he deemd;
And suchlike was his cave, that all with sorrowes teemd.
And in his drery purlieus left the knight.
From the dire cave fain would the knight have fled,
And fain recalld the treachrous nymphe from flight:
But now the late obtruder shuns his sight,
And dearly must be wooed: hard by the den,
Where listless Bacchus had his tents ypight,
A transient visit sometimes would he gain,
While wine and merry song beguild his inward pain.
The ghastly tyrant at his couch stood near;
And ay with ruthless clamour gan upbraid,
And words that would his very heartstrings tear:
See now, he sayes, where setts thy vain career;
Approching elde now wings its cheerlesse way,
Thy fruitlesse autumn gins to blanch thy heare,
And aged winter asks from youth its stay;
But thine comes poore of joy, comes with unhonourd gray.
Thy kindnesse flowd, and still with scorne repaid;
Even she on whom thy favours heapt remain,
Even she regards thee with a bosome dead
To kindly passion, and by motives led
Such as the planter of his negroe deems;
What profit still can of the wretch be made
Is all his care, of more he never dreams:
So, farre remote from her, thy troubles she esteems.
The wretched syre precipitates his flight,
And in the bowls wylde fever shuns his teene.
So pass his dayes, while what he might have beene
Its beauteous views does every morne present:
So pass his dayes, while still the raven Spleen
Croaks in his eares, The brightest parts mispent
Beget an hoarie age of griefe and discontent.
Ye who can calmly spurn the ruind Mayd,
Ye who unmovd can view the deepe distresse
That crushes to the dust the parents head,
And rends that easie heart by you betrayd,
Boast not that ye his numerous woes eskew;
Ye who unawd the nuptial couch invade,
Boast not his weaknesse with contempt to view;
For worthy is he still compard, perdie, to you.
ON THE NEGLECT OF POETRY.
Far hence, nor ween to shed thy poison here:
My hinds despise thy lyre's ignoble charm;
Seek in the Sloggards bower thy ill-earn'd cheer:
There while thy idle chaunting soothes their ear,
The noxious thistle choaks their sickly corn;
Their apple boughs, ungraff'd, sour wildlings bear,
And o'er the ill-fenced dales with fleeces torn
Unguarded from the fox, their lambkins stray forlorn.
When to the song the ill-starr'd swain attends—
And well thy meed repays thy worthless toil;
Upon thy houseless head pale want descends
In bitter shower: And taunting scorn still rends,
And wakes thee trembling from thy golden dream:
In vetchy bed, or loathly dungeon ends
Thy idled life—What fitter may beseem!
Who poisons thus the fount, should drink the poison'd stream.
While indignation shook his silver'd head,
And is it thus, the gross-fed lordling's pride,
And hind's base tongue the gentle Bard upbraid!
And must the holy song be thus repaid
By sun-bask'd ignorance, and churlish scorn!
While listless drooping in the languid shade
Of cold neglect, the sacred Bard must mourn,
Though in his hallow'd breast heaven's purest ardours burn!
The awful trust to thee by heaven assign'd!
'Tis thine to humanize the savage breast,
And form in Virtue's mould the youthful mind;
Where lurks the latent spark of generous kind,
'Tis thine to bid the dormant ember blaze:
Heroic rage with gentlest worth combin'd
So spread the olive boughs beneath Dan Phœbus' rays.
The wolf-ey'd Baron's, whose unletter'd rage
Spurn'd the fair Muse; heaven bade on Avon's shore
A Shakespeare rise, and soothe the barbarous age:
A Shakespeare rose; the barbarous heats asswage—
At distance due how many Bards attend!
Enlarg'd and liberal from the narrow cage
Of blinded zeal new manners wide extend,
And o'er the generous breast the dews of heaven descend.
To hear, unmov'd, the tongue of scorn upbraid
The Muse neglected in her wintery bower;
While proudly flourishing in princely shade
Her younger sisters lift the laurel'd head.—
And shall the pencil's boldest mimic rage,
Or sofest charms, fore-doom'd in time to fade,
Shall these be vaunted o'er th'immortal page,
Where passion's living fires burn unimpair'd by age!
Thrilling the palace roof at night's deep hour;
And shall the nightingales in woodland choir
The voice of heaven in sweeter raptures pour!
Ah no! their song is transient as the flower
Of April morn: In vain the shepherd boy
Sits listening in the silent autumn bower;
The year no more restores the short-liv'd joy;
And never more his harp shall Orpheus' hands employ
Has clos'd his strain; and deep eternal night
Has o'er Appelles' tints, so bright while-ere,
Drawn her blank curtains—never to the sight
More to be given—But cloth'd in heaven's own light
Homer's bold painting shall immortal shine;
Wide o'er the world shall ever sound the might,
The raptur'd music of each deathless line:
For death nor time may touch their living souls divine.
High though its rapture, to the Muse of fire!
To Shakespeare's flame of ever-burning ire,
Or Milton's flood of mind, till time expire
Foredoom'd to flow; as heaven's dread energy,
Unconscious of the bounds of place—
TRANSLATIONS.
PSALM LXVIII. Paraphrase.
The Majesty, the Power, the Justice, and the Mercy of God.
Shall proud oppressors still unaw'd devour,
Still trample on the poor man's right,
And lewdly scorn thy pow'r.
The black-wing'd tempests rush,
When o'er the hills with headlong sweep
The inundations gush;
As then the whirling chaff is driven,
So swept away shall be
All who despise the laws of heaven,
Nor honour pay to thee.
Your chearful voices in his praise;
With sacred awe and holy mirth
Resound the God of heaven and earth;
The God whose mercy knows no end,
The poor man's and the widow's Friend,
The helpless orphan's Sire;
Who round the meek afflicted just,
Tho crush'd and humbled in the dust,
Is still a wall of fire.
Thy people to the promis'd shore,
Then shook old earth:—The sky
Shot light'nings from on high;
The ocean saw his God and fled,
The lofty cliffs of Sinai nod
And tremble at the presence of their thund'ring God.
And loud the tribes resound,
And mighty kings and mighty hosts
Lay scatter'd o'er the ground:
Dispers'd as snow in Salmon's plain
So fell, so lay the mighty slain,
And with their purple spoils are crown'd
The tender virgin train.
And great archangels stand,
And twenty thousand chariots wait,
Great Lord thy dread command!
Thro' all thy great, thy vast domains,
With Godlike honours clad,
Captivity in captive chains
Triumphing thou hast led.
That thou might'st dwell with men below,
And be their God and King,
From Bashan and the land of woe
Shalt thou thy people bring:
From Bashan and the desert shore
To blooming fields, and cities fair,
While sacred songsters march before,
And Jacob's princes faint no more,
Shalt thou the way prepare.
Shall bend the duteous knee,
And Ethiopia, wide and great,
Thro' all her vast extended state,
Shall stretch her hands to thee.
Before the terrors of thy hand,
When thy right hand impends the blow
To strike a proud obdurate foe?
How mild thy mercies shine!
The tenderest father's ardent care
But ill resembles thine:
Thy mercies far, oh, far above
Thy other wonders shine,
A mother's ever watchful love
But ill resembles thine!
An Epithalamium, written in Hebrew by Abram Depas, on the marriage of Jacob Franco, Esq; to Miss Abigail D'Aguilar, daughter of the late Baron D'Aguilar.
Resound the song and in our God confide:
Beneath his canopy the bridegroom stands,
In all her beauty shines the lovely bride.
O may their joys still blossom, ever new,
Fair as a garden to the ravish'd view!
To heaven's pure bliss, the sacred law revere;
The stranger's wants, the needy soul's desire
Supply, and humbly with thy neighbour bear:
So shall thy father's grateful heart rejoice,
And thy fair deeds inspire thy people's voice.
Behold the bride with star-like glory shine;
May each succeeding day still glide along
Fair as the first, begirt with grace divine:
Far from her tent may care and sorrow fly,
While she o'erjoy'd beholds her numerous progeny.
See, o'er your son the canopy unfold;
And thou, O hoary rev'rend Sire, rejoice,
May thy glad eyes thy grandson's son behold.
The song of joy, ye youthful kindred raise,
And let the people join, the living God to praise!
SONNET TO VASCO DE GAMA: FROM TASSO.
Against the rising morn; and homeward fraught,
Whose sails came westward with the day, and brought
The wealth of India to thy native shore;
The Greek, who sorrow to the Cyclops wrought;
And he, who, victor, with the Harpies fought,
Never such pomp of naval honors wore.
Yet thou to Camoens ow'st thy noblest fame;
Farther than thou didst sail, his deathless song
Shall bear the dazzling splendour of thy name;
And under many a sky thy actions crown,
While Time and Fame together glide along.
SONNET: FROM PETRARCH.
And bloated slumber on the slothful down,
From the dull world all manly virtue thrown,
And slaved the age to custom's tyrannie.
Those lights by heaven to guide our minds bestown,
Mad were he deem'd who brought from Helicon
The hallow'd water, or the laurel tree.
Exclaim the crowd on sordid gain intent;
Few will attend thee on thy lofty road;
Yet, I, my friend, would fire thy zeal the more:
Ah, gentle spirit, labour on unspent,
Crown thy fair toils, and win the smile of God.
The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle | ||