 | Poems |  |
I. VOL. I.
1
BOOK THE FIRST.
TO FRIENDS.
If, generous friends, your memories be not slow,When backward your own goodness ye might trace;
And ye will only keep the virtuous pace,
Still to do good, and forward still to go;
Ye will remember, that a heedless thing,
Lingering, as with enchantment, once would stray,
Or lost in thought, or borne on fancy's wing,
Where willowy Cam glides-on his silent way;
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And song, though simple, can from care beguile!)
And he would seem to talk with fields and trees,
Or forms unseen, that fancy taught to smile:
For me—remembrance still shall love those days,
If friendship but approve my visionary lays.
3
TO A LADY:
WITH SOME VISIONS OF THE AUTHOR'S.
Anna, when I that open face survey,And read the gentle language of those eyes,
How the dark hour of bigot dulness flies!
How springs my soul to hail the cheerful day!
What lifts, like female worth, the lyric lay?
Hear, then, how long I wander'd, lost in night,
Till late, the Muse did with enlivening ray
Relume my eyes, and fill with new delight:
Then song could please, and charm the soul of woe,
Prompt the bold thought, and kindle freedom's fire:
And, Anna, this to female worth I owe,
And still, at Beauty's call, I strike the lyre.
The rapturous youthful dream no more I share,
Yet shall the visions live, if they but please the fair.
4
ODE ON THE RETURN OF A PUBLIC ANNIVERSARY.
I
While War thro' distant nations roamsWith fiery eye and blood-stain'd spear,
And Pity o'er the warriors' tombs
Hangs the pale wreath, and drops a tear;
While thousands bleed, while thousands die,
Let Britons heave the generous sigh.
II
Mirth hails in vain the festal day;The Muse in vain prepares the song;
The note of triumph dies away,
And Horror chills the poet's tongue;
For thousands bleed, for thousands die,
And Britons heave the generous sigh.
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III
By all the gallant warriors slain,By all the tender hearts that mourn,
The orphan,—and the widow-train,
We pray, sweet Peace, thy blest return!
But oh! while thousand Britons die,
Let Britons heave the generous sigh.
1794.
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SONG,
WRITTEN FOR AN ANNUAL MEETING OF HEREFORDSHIRE YEOMEN, On occasion of a Popular Election at the end of Autumn.
I
Lo! smiling with fruit the gay orchards appear,Soon the juice shall enliven the glass,
The husbandman welcome the close of the year,
And toast in a bumper his lass.
Hail tree! so reviving to Englishmen's eyes!
What tree upon earth is so fair?
Hail juice! not the grape of Italian skies
With beverage so sweet shall compare.
II
But this tree, tho' Britons now call it their own,Was brought from a far distant shore,
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Still it charm'd other nations before.
But in England there grew a still more lovely tree,
Both the native and pride of the soil,
Of life-giving fruit, and of branches so free,
That they spread, and look'd fair thro' the isle.
III
Lo! the nations, on foliage and fruitage so gay,While gazing, with envy repin'd,
And a stem, which they seize, bear in triumph away,
To plant under heavens more kind.
The generous exotic, ye nations, receive,
And with patience and industry rear:—
Oh! may its rich nectar from sorrow relieve,
And the children of Poverty cheer!
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IV
Proceed, youthful tree, fruit a thousand-fold bear,Wide and wide be your branches display'd!
And long as its blessings the planters shall share,
Let strangers repose in the shade!
And ye, Britons, rejoice when ye view the blest tree,
As abroad ye may wantonly roam;
But beware, while the sapling looks smiling and free,
Lest the parent tree wither at home.
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TO AN ENTHUSIAST.
Were you, my friend, some nimble-winged thing,
That could with eagle speed extend your flight,
Then might you range the world,
Then pierce each lonely place:
That could with eagle speed extend your flight,
Then might you range the world,
Then pierce each lonely place:
Whether 'twere lazar-house, or dungeon drear,
Or hill, or beetling cliff, or time-worn cave,
Where Misery sat and sigh'd
Her troubles, still unseen;
Or hill, or beetling cliff, or time-worn cave,
Where Misery sat and sigh'd
Her troubles, still unseen;
And there, perchance, at eve her hollow eye
On the hard stone at times might drop the tear—
As once the dame, who mourn'd
Her hapless children's fate.
On the hard stone at times might drop the tear—
As once the dame, who mourn'd
Her hapless children's fate.
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Then had you, gentle friend, the chymic art
Of some young bee, that roves from flow'r to flow'r,
How fondly might you rove,
What balmy sweets exhale!
Of some young bee, that roves from flow'r to flow'r,
How fondly might you rove,
What balmy sweets exhale!
Then, blest employment! with what tender skill
Wondering might you those honeyed treasures mix,
And form a sovereign balm
To heal the mourner's heart!
Wondering might you those honeyed treasures mix,
And form a sovereign balm
To heal the mourner's heart!
Were you, my friend, some dart-emitting god,
Like him, who pierc'd in Græcia mortal hearts,
How might you range the world,
And find each gladsome place!
Like him, who pierc'd in Græcia mortal hearts,
How might you range the world,
And find each gladsome place!
Whether 'twere village green, or city gay,
How might you roving find each cheerful scene,
Where youths and maidens smile,
And carol thro' the day!
How might you roving find each cheerful scene,
Where youths and maidens smile,
And carol thro' the day!
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And when, perchance, with joy-illumin'd eye,
Thoughtless of love, they frolic'd in the dance,
How might you throw your dart,
And flit unseen away!
Thoughtless of love, they frolic'd in the dance,
How might you throw your dart,
And flit unseen away!
Then you again might change your tiny form,
Stand forth the god, protector of the fair,
Your head with roses crown'd,
And in your hand a torch!
Stand forth the god, protector of the fair,
Your head with roses crown'd,
And in your hand a torch!
Then you might light the lovers on their way,
Then sing the song, that should endear their hearts,
Till they should love, and love,
And still grow old in love!
Then sing the song, that should endear their hearts,
Till they should love, and love,
And still grow old in love!
Ah! could you fondly climb yon orient sun,
Ride on his beam, and travel round the world,
How might you, crown'd with light,
Cheer all the nations round!
Ride on his beam, and travel round the world,
How might you, crown'd with light,
Cheer all the nations round!
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Yes, friend, were you like that refulgent sun,
How might you in your daily course dispense
Light, liberty, and love,
Still travelling to bless!
How might you in your daily course dispense
Light, liberty, and love,
Still travelling to bless!
Were you—but cease, enthusiast, cease your speed;
For what avail, O man, fantastic flights?
Why muse ideal deeds,
Heedless of what is true?
For what avail, O man, fantastic flights?
Why muse ideal deeds,
Heedless of what is true?
You are nor bee, nor sun, nor sprite, nor god—
You are a humble, weak, unwinged thing,
The frail inhabitant
Of this poor clod of earth!
You are a humble, weak, unwinged thing,
The frail inhabitant
Of this poor clod of earth!
And has not this poor earth, that very spot,
Where thou art wont to move, enough of range?
Ah! where then would st thou move?
Behold your proper sphere!
Where thou art wont to move, enough of range?
Ah! where then would st thou move?
Behold your proper sphere!
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Cease then, enthusiast: thy slender bark,
How should it hope to cross the mighty sea?
Keep close to shore—or ah!
Thy bark shall founder soon.
How should it hope to cross the mighty sea?
Keep close to shore—or ah!
Thy bark shall founder soon.
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FROM ANACREON.
“Anacreon, you are growing old;”Thus by the women I am told:
“Take your glass, and there survey
Falling locks and temples gray:”—
But I neither know, nor care,
How my locks and temples are:
This I know, if old I be,
Mirth and Love will quickly flee;
And, if Death will soon be here,
I should seize the pleasure near.
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ODE TO THE CAM.
I
Soon shall the young ambrosial SpringWanton forth, in garlands gay,
And, spreading soft her virgin wing,
Shall wed the Lord of day.
Soon shall reviving Nature homage yield,
And, breathing incense, lead her tuneful train
O'er hill and dale, soft vale, and cultur'd field;
The bard, the lover, and the jocund swain,
Their new-born joys shall sing; earth, sea, and sky,
All wake for thee, fair Spring, their sweetest minstrelsy!
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II
What tho' the winds, and sleety shower,May seem awhile to hush the grove?
Soon, wak'd by nature's living power,
Shall breathe the voice of love?
The lark gay-mount, to hail the purple dawn,
And its clear matin carol thro' the sky,
The throstle's mellow warblings cheer the morn,
The linnet softly trill on hawthorn nigh;
The mists shall vanish soon, and soon the breeze
Kiss every glowing flower, and fan the trembling trees.—
III
I, too, the cheering warmth shall feel,And join the rapturous choral song,
Musing smooth numbers, as I steal,
O Cam! thy banks along.
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No rose unfold its blushing beauties near,
Tho' here no stately tulip spread its bloom,
Nor towering lily deck the gay parterre:
(Inclos'd within the garden's fair domain,
These all, in eastern pride, shall hold their golden reign:—)
IV
Yet wild flowers o'er the fruitful scene,Warm'd by the touch of gentle May,
Shall rise, obedient to their queen,
In simple beauty gay.
To me the violet sheds the richest sweet;
To me the kingcup shines with brightest hues;
The primrose pale, like modest virtue neat,
E'en the meek daisy, can instruct the Muse:
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And in the field-flow'r views a more than master's hand.
V
E'en now the sunbeam, dazzling-bright,Quick-dances on the crisped stream;
And soft, tho' fleeting gales invite
The fond poetic dream:
Nor does in vain the swan majestic sail,
Nor glittering insect range the rushy brink;
Nor the fish sporting down the current steal,
And the light songsters on the margin drink;
Then, wild with bliss, shiver the painted wing,
And to their feather'd loves their sweetest wood-notes sing.
VI
Yet must we leave thy blooming reign:—And short that reign, thou lovely spring—
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Or wills the sovereign King!
Yes, all thy shadowy clouds, thy rainbow hues,
Thy flowers, and songs, thy gales, and glossy bloom,
All must be left, tho' friendly to the Muse;
And man, poor man, lie down in cheerless gloom;—
That season cold of death shall chill his tongue,
Nor beauty's smile return, that wak'd the vernal song.
VII
But speed the hours on restless wing?Must love's light season flit away?
Then hail, O man, the coming spring,
And seize the sweets of May:
Where now the bard of Camus' classic stream,
The skilful hand that wak'd th' Æolian lyre?
Ah! sleeps with him the spring-enamour'd theme,
From him the loves, and “Venus' train,” retire.—
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And Nature's spacious fields, great Newton, sleeps in night.
VIII
No more he treads this hallow'd ground,Nor tracks in thought yon boundless sky;
Ah! Science can but gaze around,
Then, like the Muse, shall die.
Oh! quit then, Fancy, queen of songs and wiles,
The pearl-enamell'd grot, the moss-grown cell,
Thy many thousand hills, and purple isles,
And deign, oh! deign, near sedgy Cam to dwell:
Still let the song of love the valleys cheer,
And blooming Science spread fair spring-time all the year.
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A GLEE FOR THE SOMERSET-HOUSE LODGE OF FREEMASONS.
Lightly o'er the village green
Blue-ey'd fairies sport unseen,
Round and round, in circles gay—
Then at cock-crow flit away:
Thus, 'tis said, tho' mortal eye
Their merry freaks could never spy,
Elves for mortals lisp the pray'r,
Elves are guardians of the fair.
Thus, like elves, in mystic ring,
Merry masons drink and sing.
Blue-ey'd fairies sport unseen,
Round and round, in circles gay—
Then at cock-crow flit away:
Thus, 'tis said, tho' mortal eye
Their merry freaks could never spy,
Elves for mortals lisp the pray'r,
Elves are guardians of the fair.
Thus, like elves, in mystic ring,
Merry masons drink and sing.
Come, then, brothers, lead along
Social rites and mystic song!
Tho' nor madam, miss, or Bess,
Could our myst'ries ever guess;
Nor could ever learn'd divine
Sacred masonry define,
Round our order close we bind
Laws of love to all mankind!
Thus, like elves, in mystic ring,
Merry masons drink and sing.
Social rites and mystic song!
Tho' nor madam, miss, or Bess,
Could our myst'ries ever guess;
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Sacred masonry define,
Round our order close we bind
Laws of love to all mankind!
Thus, like elves, in mystic ring,
Merry masons drink and sing.
Health then to each honest man,
Friend to the masonic plan!
Leaving cynics grave to blunder,
Leaving ladies fair to wonder,
Leaving Thomas still to lie,
Leaving Betty still to spy,
Round and round we push our glass,
Round and round each toasts his lass.
Thus, like elves, in mystic ring,
Merry masons drink and sing.
Friend to the masonic plan!
Leaving cynics grave to blunder,
Leaving ladies fair to wonder,
Leaving Thomas still to lie,
Leaving Betty still to spy,
Round and round we push our glass,
Round and round each toasts his lass.
Thus, like elves, in mystic ring,
Merry masons drink and sing.
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FROM ANACREON.
Bulls with horns kind Nature arms,Guards with hoof the horse from harms;
Hares with swiftness she endued,
With strength of teeth the lion brood;
Fish she taught to swim and play,
Birds to fly, and carol gay,
Man to reason: but has Heaven
Nought to gentle Woman given?
Woman moves in beauty's charms
Stronger than the force of arms;
Charms like helmet that secure,
And, like javelin, swift and sure:
Helmet, lance of fire, and shield,
All to beauteous Woman yield.
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SONNET.
Sweet Maid! when sickness pales that angel-face,Like the rude worm that riots on the rose,
Still goodness in thy gentle bosom glows,
And beauty will not leave her favourite place.
Still round thy languid eye will steal a smile,
As underneath a cloud the sun-beams play,
Kind harbingers of more resplendent day,
Though the full orb conceal himself awhile.
But ah! since Melancholy's baleful hand
Vile poppy-dews hath o'er thy temples spread,
And Death, methinks, looks busy round that bed,
All-hopeless Pity near shall take her stand:
Oh! she shall spare for thee her softest sigh:
For thou wast Pity's child, the friend of Misery.
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ODE
ON THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN, AFTER RAMBLING THROUGH CAMBRIDGESHIRE AND ESSEX.
I
Now farewell Summer's fervid sky,That, while the sun thro' cancer rides,
With chariot slow and feverish eye,
Scorches the beech-clad forest-sides!
And farewell earlier Autumn's milder ray,
Which, the warm labours of the sickle o'er,
Could make the heart of swain industrious gay,
Viewing in barn secure his wheaten store:
What time the social hours moved blithe along,
Urg'd by the nut-brown ale and jolly harvest-song.
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II
What different sounds around me rise!Now midst a barren scene I rove,
Where the rude haum in hillocks lies,
Where the rash sportsman frights the grove.
Ah, cruel sport! ah, pain-awakening sound!
How hoarse your death-note to his listening ear,
Who late, wild-warbled music floating round,
Blest the wild warblers of the rising year;
Who, as each songster strain'd his little throat,
Grateful himself would try the soft responsive note.
III
Yet still in Autumn's fading formThe tender melting charms we trace,
Such as, love's season past, still warm
The sober matron's modest face;
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Blue-mantled skies, light-fring'd with golden hues,
Brooks, whose swoln waters mottled leaves o'erspread,
Fields, where the plough its steady course pursues,
And woods, whose many-shining leaves might move
Fancy's poetic hand to paint the orange grove.
IV
Oh! still,—for Fancy is a child—Still with the circling hours I play,
And feast on hips and blackberries wild,
Like truant school boy gay:
Or eager plunge in cool pellucid stream,
Heedless, that Summer's sultry day is fled;
Or muse, as breathes the flute, some rural theme,
Such theme as Fancy's song may yet bestead;
Or, stretch'd at ease, will teach the listening groves,
In tuneful Maro's strains, some rosy rustic loves.
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V
Now bear me to the distant wood,And bear me to the silent stream,
Were erst I stray'd in serious mood,
Lost in some rapturous dream.
To me, O Hornsey, what retreat so fair?
What shade to me so consecrate as thine?
And on thy banks, poor streamlet, did I care
For all the spring haunts of the tuneful Nine?
Ah! pleasures, how ye lengthen as ye fade!
As spreads the sun's faint orb at twilight's dubious shade!
VI
For, oh pale stream! how many a tearI mingled in thy waters slow!
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Youth takes its tale of woe.
And thus thro' life: for what is human life?
A changeful day, a motley-tinctur'd scene;
How quick succeed the hours of peace and strife!
How sombre tints o'erspread the cheerful green!
E'en while fair Hope lights-up her brightest sky,
She wavers 'midst her doubts, and learns to heave a sigh.
VII
But, lo! the sun now seeks the west,And, see, the distant landscape dies!
And now, with anxious cares oppress'd,
I view yon dome arise!
Ah! soon, too soon, I give the faint adieu,
And sleeps my song, as fades the cheerful day;
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And hag ey'd Spleen November's call obey.
Ye fields, ye groves, whose every charm could please;
Ye gentle friends, adieu, and, farewell, rural ease.
VIII
Yet field, and grove, and gentle friend,When Memory bids, shall re-appear;
Quick, where she lifts her wand, ascend
The long-departed year:
The choirs, whose warblings charm'd the youthful spring,
And Summer's glittering tribes, and all that now
Of Autumn fades, their mingled charms shall bring;
And the full year 'mid Winter's reign shall glow;
While Fancy, as the vision'd forms arise,
Shall pencil woods and groves, and streams and purple skies.
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FROM ANACREON.
Of Atreus' sons I wish to sing,To Cadmus fain would wake the string;
But still in vain my fingers rove;
The lyre will only sound to love.
So now at length the chords I change,
To give my lyre the boldest range;
Yet, with Alcides brave and strong,
And all his labours in my song,
His name the strings will not rebound,
Love lives, and breathes in every sound.
So, farewell, heroes all, for me;
Henceforth my Muse and I are free:
And gaily now I sweep my string,
For Love, and only Love, I sing.
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PERAMBULATORY MUSINGS,
FROM BLENHBIM HOUSE, AT WOODSTOCK, IN OXFORDSHIRE, THE SEAT OF THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH, TO TITLEY HOUSE, IN HEREFORDSHIRE.
Where Blenheim's turrets rise to view,
And where, at length to nature true,
Grave Vanbrugh, wearying long his head,
Soften'd down his house of lead;
And where, as bends the spacious dome,
The rival arts of Greece and Rome
Still live in Rysbrac's free design,
And still in Rubens' colouring shine;
Where Marlborough's valour, Marlborough's praise,
The fair-wrought tapestry displays,
'Mid varying pleasures, thro' the day,
Who might not linger life away?
Or now, as spreads the fair domain
O'er lake, or lawn, o'er hill or plain,
Thro' woods, and groves, or vista clear,
The crystal rivulet sparkling near,
Still loitering, idly gay, along,
Muse as inspir'd, the Sylvan song?
And where, at length to nature true,
Grave Vanbrugh, wearying long his head,
Soften'd down his house of lead;
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The rival arts of Greece and Rome
Still live in Rysbrac's free design,
And still in Rubens' colouring shine;
Where Marlborough's valour, Marlborough's praise,
The fair-wrought tapestry displays,
'Mid varying pleasures, thro' the day,
Who might not linger life away?
Or now, as spreads the fair domain
O'er lake, or lawn, o'er hill or plain,
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The crystal rivulet sparkling near,
Still loitering, idly gay, along,
Muse as inspir'd, the Sylvan song?
How vain the wish! How quick the change!
Thro' simpler scenes my footsteps range;
Where nature smiles in peerless grace,
And art but claims the second place;
Scenes, trimm'd by Shenstone, neat and gay,
Where Faunus' self might pipe all day:
So simple, too, that not a swain
But there might wake his rudest strain.
Hail! Leasowes, now I climb thy hill;
Now bless the babbling of each rill;
Now wander down the friary glade;
Till rous'd I hear the hoarse cascade,
And glows again thro' every grove
The soul of poesy and love:
Then soft I sigh in pastoral strain,
Nor dream of Bleinheim-house again.
Thro' simpler scenes my footsteps range;
Where nature smiles in peerless grace,
And art but claims the second place;
Scenes, trimm'd by Shenstone, neat and gay,
Where Faunus' self might pipe all day:
So simple, too, that not a swain
But there might wake his rudest strain.
Hail! Leasowes, now I climb thy hill;
Now bless the babbling of each rill;
Now wander down the friary glade;
Till rous'd I hear the hoarse cascade,
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The soul of poesy and love:
Then soft I sigh in pastoral strain,
Nor dream of Bleinheim-house again.
Sometimes sad, and sometimes gay,
Like careless pilgrim still I stray,
Till soon arriv'd at Hagley bower,
I sigh to linger there an hour;
Where Littleton in learned ease
Polish'd his verse, and prun'd his trees;
Where Pope, the tuneful groves among,
Soft as at Twickenham, pour'd the song;
And Thomson fix'd in colours clear
The changeful Seasons of the year.
Hail classic scenes! The willing muse
Her flowers of many-mingling hues
Might here entwine, and once again
Hagley bloom forth in cheerful strain.
Then, farewell, Shenstone's simpler scene;
The rustic seat, the meadow green,
Willows, that near the rivulet weep,
The murmuring bees, the milk-white sheep.
When Hagley's beauties rise to view,
Yes! I could bid you all, adieu!
Like careless pilgrim still I stray,
Till soon arriv'd at Hagley bower,
I sigh to linger there an hour;
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Polish'd his verse, and prun'd his trees;
Where Pope, the tuneful groves among,
Soft as at Twickenham, pour'd the song;
And Thomson fix'd in colours clear
The changeful Seasons of the year.
Hail classic scenes! The willing muse
Her flowers of many-mingling hues
Might here entwine, and once again
Hagley bloom forth in cheerful strain.
Then, farewell, Shenstone's simpler scene;
The rustic seat, the meadow green,
Willows, that near the rivulet weep,
The murmuring bees, the milk-white sheep.
When Hagley's beauties rise to view,
Yes! I could bid you all, adieu!
Ever musing, ever ranging,
Ever pleas'd, yet ever changing,
Murmuring onward still I go,
As brooks thro' winding vallies flow,
That sparkle still, and still complain,
That every rude restraint disdain,
And gliding on some latent ore,
Steal something not possess'd before;
Then flow along in headlong haste,
And babble o'er the ferny waste.
Ever pleas'd, yet ever changing,
40
As brooks thro' winding vallies flow,
That sparkle still, and still complain,
That every rude restraint disdain,
And gliding on some latent ore,
Steal something not possess'd before;
Then flow along in headlong haste,
And babble o'er the ferny waste.
Ah! then, does nature deck in vain
The hill and vale, the grove, the plain?
And can her curious hand supply
Nothing to fix this vagrant eye?
Shall art still vary, still improve,
The winding walk, the tapering grove,
And yet man's restless heart implore,
With miser-mutterings, something more?
The hill and vale, the grove, the plain?
And can her curious hand supply
Nothing to fix this vagrant eye?
Shall art still vary, still improve,
The winding walk, the tapering grove,
And yet man's restless heart implore,
With miser-mutterings, something more?
Thus onward, slow I bend my way,
Till soon to Titley-house I stray,
And now delights me most of all
The fair retreat of Titley-hall;
Where near fair Eywood's seat is seen,
And Oxford smiles, like Beauty's queen;
Where Shobden's terrace glitters high,
And varying mountains meet the sky.
—But when such numerous charms invite,
Why most does Titley-house delight?
—Eliza there, melodious maid,
Such measures to my ears convey'd,
As had Cecilia been but near,
Cecilia had not scorn'd to hear:
Softly sad, or sweetly strong,
She directs the varied song,
To native scenes new charms can give,
And bids the breathing canvas live;
Or, as the sports and loves inspire,
Wakes the soul-subduing lyre;
Hence I welcom'd most of all
The fair retreat of Titley-hall.
Till soon to Titley-house I stray,
41
The fair retreat of Titley-hall;
Where near fair Eywood's seat is seen,
And Oxford smiles, like Beauty's queen;
Where Shobden's terrace glitters high,
And varying mountains meet the sky.
—But when such numerous charms invite,
Why most does Titley-house delight?
—Eliza there, melodious maid,
Such measures to my ears convey'd,
As had Cecilia been but near,
Cecilia had not scorn'd to hear:
Softly sad, or sweetly strong,
She directs the varied song,
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And bids the breathing canvas live;
Or, as the sports and loves inspire,
Wakes the soul-subduing lyre;
Hence I welcom'd most of all
The fair retreat of Titley-hall.
Vocal groves and tuneful streams,
Kindling wild poetic dreams,
Where Dryad-nymphs are wont to stray,
Or Naiads swim in wanton play:
Mounts, that climb Jove's vaulted sky,
While Ocean's God rolls thundering by;
Vallies rich, and meadows fair,
Touch'd with Flora's pencil rare,
Rare, as when the nymph was led
By Zephyrus to her bridal bed,
(Then pencil'd did the fields appear,
In all the glories of the year:)
Widest glens, and deepest glades,
Curving walks, and hoarse cascades,
All, that Nature loves to impart,
Or owns the plastic charm of art;
All, that Fancy dares conceive,
Or Fiction's various hand can weave;
All—must cloy the sated eye,
Till beauty's lovely form be nigh:
Where woman walks, there seems to appear
The Venus of the smiling year;
Far from her, we feed on sighs,
Tho' roving fields of Paradise.
Kindling wild poetic dreams,
Where Dryad-nymphs are wont to stray,
Or Naiads swim in wanton play:
Mounts, that climb Jove's vaulted sky,
While Ocean's God rolls thundering by;
Vallies rich, and meadows fair,
Touch'd with Flora's pencil rare,
Rare, as when the nymph was led
By Zephyrus to her bridal bed,
(Then pencil'd did the fields appear,
In all the glories of the year:)
43
Curving walks, and hoarse cascades,
All, that Nature loves to impart,
Or owns the plastic charm of art;
All, that Fancy dares conceive,
Or Fiction's various hand can weave;
All—must cloy the sated eye,
Till beauty's lovely form be nigh:
Where woman walks, there seems to appear
The Venus of the smiling year;
Far from her, we feed on sighs,
Tho' roving fields of Paradise.
44
ODE ON LIBERTY.
WRITTEN ON A PUBLIC ANNIVERSARY.
Hall! more refulgent than the morning star,
Parent of bliss, for whom the nations sigh,
Thee, Liberty, I woo, and seem from far
To mark the brightness of thy raptur'd eye;
While, not to me unseemly, streams thy vest,
Thy locks wild-dancing to the frolic wind;
And, borne on flying feet, thou scorn'st to rest,
Save where meek Truth near thee her seat may find;
Soother of human life, blest Liberty!
Still range thro' nature's walks, and I will range with thee.
Parent of bliss, for whom the nations sigh,
Thee, Liberty, I woo, and seem from far
To mark the brightness of thy raptur'd eye;
While, not to me unseemly, streams thy vest,
Thy locks wild-dancing to the frolic wind;
And, borne on flying feet, thou scorn'st to rest,
Save where meek Truth near thee her seat may find;
Soother of human life, blest Liberty!
Still range thro' nature's walks, and I will range with thee.
45
Say, dost thou love to climb the mountain's brow,
Or haunt meandring stream, or laughing plain?
Be mine with thee up mountain-heights to go,
Or wake by river's brink the pastoral strain;
Or tripping-light the flowery meads along,
A simple swain, 'mid hinds and virgins gay,
Pour forth to thee my merry evening song,
Unwearied with the raptures of the day;
And, when close-lock'd in Sleep's soft arms I lie,
Still flattering dreams shall wake the midnight ecstasy.
Or haunt meandring stream, or laughing plain?
Be mine with thee up mountain-heights to go,
Or wake by river's brink the pastoral strain;
Or tripping-light the flowery meads along,
A simple swain, 'mid hinds and virgins gay,
Pour forth to thee my merry evening song,
Unwearied with the raptures of the day;
And, when close-lock'd in Sleep's soft arms I lie,
Still flattering dreams shall wake the midnight ecstasy.
Or dost thou rather chuse to wear the veil
Of mild Philosophy, and walk unseen,
Serenely grave, along the cloister pale,
Or in the grove, or glen, or shaven green?
Oh! still be mine to tend thee on thy way;—
Like thee to feel,—to glow with all thy flame,
Gentle and clear, as the sun's smiling ray
At dawn, yet warm, as his meridian beam,
When wondering nations feel the piercing rays,
And think they view their god, and kindle into praise.
Of mild Philosophy, and walk unseen,
Serenely grave, along the cloister pale,
Or in the grove, or glen, or shaven green?
Oh! still be mine to tend thee on thy way;—
Like thee to feel,—to glow with all thy flame,
46
At dawn, yet warm, as his meridian beam,
When wondering nations feel the piercing rays,
And think they view their god, and kindle into praise.
Such wast thou seen by Isis' silver flood,
In converse sweet with Locke, immortal sage;
Such too by Cam with him, whose bosom glow'd
With thy pure raptures, and the Muse's rage;
Nor less with him, who bore to distant climes
His country's love, and o'er her miseries sigh'd;
Brave injur'd patriot he, in evil times
Who nobly liv'd, and not ignobly died:
Who nobly liv'd, whose name shall ever live,
While zeal in Britain glows, while freedom shall survive.
In converse sweet with Locke, immortal sage;
Such too by Cam with him, whose bosom glow'd
With thy pure raptures, and the Muse's rage;
Nor less with him, who bore to distant climes
His country's love, and o'er her miseries sigh'd;
Brave injur'd patriot he, in evil times
Who nobly liv'd, and not ignobly died:
Who nobly liv'd, whose name shall ever live,
While zeal in Britain glows, while freedom shall survive.
47
But shouldst thou e'er from Britain speed thy way,
On happier plains still linger with delight;
And, while her patriots hail this sacred day,
Oh! aid their counsels, and their battles fight:
May tyrants ne'er, those murd'rers of the world,
Austria's proud lord, and Prussia's faithless king,
Their blood-stain'd banners to the air unfurl'd,
O'er Freedom's sons the note of triumph sing:
Still with the great resolve the Poles inspire,
To live in thy embrace, or at thy feet expire.
On happier plains still linger with delight;
And, while her patriots hail this sacred day,
Oh! aid their counsels, and their battles fight:
May tyrants ne'er, those murd'rers of the world,
Austria's proud lord, and Prussia's faithless king,
Their blood-stain'd banners to the air unfurl'd,
O'er Freedom's sons the note of triumph sing:
Still with the great resolve the Poles inspire,
To live in thy embrace, or at thy feet expire.
For me, should I grow thoughtless, and thy name
Forget; should I wax cold, nor feel thy power;
Then, too, may Fancy sleep, nor love of fame
Uplift my soul beyond the passing hour.
May beauty never smile upon my strain;
May I be curs'd to live, some tyrant's tool,
Whistle to his mean likings, and my gain
Be this, to hear Ambition call me fool;
Begin, and end, at Folly's call my lays,
Dread the world's sneer, and truckle for it's praise.
Forget; should I wax cold, nor feel thy power;
Then, too, may Fancy sleep, nor love of fame
Uplift my soul beyond the passing hour.
48
May I be curs'd to live, some tyrant's tool,
Whistle to his mean likings, and my gain
Be this, to hear Ambition call me fool;
Begin, and end, at Folly's call my lays,
Dread the world's sneer, and truckle for it's praise.
49
ODE ON SCIENCE.
I—1.
There are, who skim the stream of life,Who catch delight from every passing gale;
Their ear no sounds of grief assail,
They heed not nature's strife:
Bright skies illume their dawn of day,
While music wakes her magic powers;
No clouds obstruct their noon-tide ray,
And to soft measures move their evening hours:
Gaily, Love's idle rovers, on they glide,
And Pleasure, laughing Fair, the vessel deigns to guide.
I—2.
Their destin'd course some lonely bend,Where no propitious gales attend;
50
The frantic scream, the din of war:
Struggling with storms, their mornings doubtful rise:
Sullen and slow proceed their hours along:
'Mid scowling tempests close their evening skies,
Nor soothes their ear the cheerful voice of song.
I—3.
But, lo! the sons of genius stand,And Science open spreads the volume fair;
And Friendship waves her hand,
To check the child of Mirth, to soothe the child of Care.
Nature assumes her smiling form,
Like Ocean resting from a storm:
From distant India's pearly shores,
From mystic Egypt's latent stores,
To where in Grecia's tuneful groves
The Graces wanton'd with the Loves,
51
And savage nature smiles, and rises into day.
II—1.
Deep in a vale, remote from noise,Long bloom'd the lovely Stranger, fond to trace
The starry spheres, the world of soul, the grace
Of mystic truth; her joys,
And garment, simple: sages came;—
They mark her eye, her even soul,
The modest blush, the living flame,
From inward light, that o'er her visage stole.
—To them 'twas given to deck the lovely Dame,
In robes by Beauty wove, and lift her into fame.
II—2.
Saw you the sun dispensing light?Clouds soon have veil'd the glory bright.
52
Beneath the misty frown of power,
Science lay hid;—then Goths and priests arose,
And scatter blasts and mildews wide around;
Till in the vale, where fruitful Arno flows,
Fair Science smil'd again, as on Parnassian ground.
II—3.
Now see her rise serenely great,Dispensing golden blessings from on high,
A sun, in more than royal state,
Supreme she rules, amidst a cloudless sky:
See Dulness close her eye of lead!
See Superstition's reptiles dead!
Sloth drag along her slimy way,
And Ignorance retire from day!
While Genius lifts his eye of fire,
Beholds the light, and strikes his lyre:
53
Fields of perennial green, and fairer brighter skies.
III—1.
The blooming wreath of rapturous praiseNow weave with varied skill, and conscious pride,
As when, near Pisa's laurell'd side,
The Theban wove the bays.
Of soul serene, and eye sublime,
Immortal Science, hail! to thee,
Bright with the precious spoils of time,
We yield the crown, we bend the willing knee;
To thee the Virtues all obedient rise,
And Truth unveils her face, and looks with smiling eyes.
III—2.
“Ye sons of Mirth, and sons of Care,“See me the bower of bliss prepare:
54
“Near me shall bloom immortal flowers;
“Oh! hither, then, your erring courses bend;
“Soon near my side shall Care forget to grieve;
“Here Mirth's wild crew may haply find a friend;
“And pining Melancholy dare to live!”
III—3.
Thus Science spoke aloud—when, lo!By Fancy's eye was seen the sacred choir,
That taught with vivid glow
The canvas first to shine, that waked the melting lyre.
And round and round their Queen they move,
Symphonious to the voice of Love.
Nor did in vain the thrilling dart
Of Music pierce the captiv'd heart,
Till every discord died away,
As clouds before the solar ray.
Thro' the wide earth th' harmonic chords resound;
While Rapture lifts her voice, and Goodness smiles around.
77
BOOK THE SECOND.
TO AN EMINENT PAINTER.
When the fond mother with a silent joy
Surveys her lovely girl, or rosy boy;
When the kind husband with soft-gazing eye,
The face, that first awak'd the lover's sigh;
When gentle friends, who feel the mutual flame,
Dwell in warm transport on each other's name;
Or nations hail the hero brave and just,
And bless the statesman faithful to his trust;
Say,—what the wish?—ah wish how vain!
That what once charm'd their eye, might charm again;
The smile, the bloom, the rose's blushing dye,
The awe-inspiring front, and dauntless eye,
The nameless charm, that wak'd the young desire,
Stirr'd the bold thought, or rous'd the soul of fire;
That all might ever live, nor time derange
Nature's fair workings with eternal change.
Surveys her lovely girl, or rosy boy;
When the kind husband with soft-gazing eye,
The face, that first awak'd the lover's sigh;
When gentle friends, who feel the mutual flame,
Dwell in warm transport on each other's name;
Or nations hail the hero brave and just,
And bless the statesman faithful to his trust;
78
That what once charm'd their eye, might charm again;
The smile, the bloom, the rose's blushing dye,
The awe-inspiring front, and dauntless eye,
The nameless charm, that wak'd the young desire,
Stirr'd the bold thought, or rous'd the soul of fire;
That all might ever live, nor time derange
Nature's fair workings with eternal change.
Yes!—fondness hop'd in vain to trace
The youthful lustre in a wrinkled face;
And what the patriot's, hero's, statesman's lot?
—Their deeds recorded, but the face forgot.
The youthful lustre in a wrinkled face;
And what the patriot's, hero's, statesman's lot?
—Their deeds recorded, but the face forgot.
For, see! how Spring and Summer lead the year,
And Autumn follows close, and Winter drear!
How round the dial shadows steal away,
For ever changing with the changing day!
How on rude ocean, into tempest tost,
Wave follows wave, and is for ever lost!
So pass the years of man; thus swiftly fly
The cheek light-smiling, and the sparkling eye,
The blush of health, and Love's ætherial light,
With all the magic beamings of delight.
The heats of manhood, foul Ambition's rage,
And thirsty Grief, and slow-consuming Age;
All something of the sap of life consume,
Weaken the strength, and wither all the bloom:
Hence sombre tints obscure, what smil'd before,
Till love, and health, and beauty bloom no more.
Till, as the rolling Ganges spreading wide,
Buries the feeble Indian in his tide;
Thus Death, in pity to the driv'ller's pains,
Sweeps to th' oblivious grave his poor remains.
And Autumn follows close, and Winter drear!
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For ever changing with the changing day!
How on rude ocean, into tempest tost,
Wave follows wave, and is for ever lost!
So pass the years of man; thus swiftly fly
The cheek light-smiling, and the sparkling eye,
The blush of health, and Love's ætherial light,
With all the magic beamings of delight.
The heats of manhood, foul Ambition's rage,
And thirsty Grief, and slow-consuming Age;
All something of the sap of life consume,
Weaken the strength, and wither all the bloom:
Hence sombre tints obscure, what smil'd before,
Till love, and health, and beauty bloom no more.
Till, as the rolling Ganges spreading wide,
Buries the feeble Indian in his tide;
Thus Death, in pity to the driv'ller's pains,
Sweeps to th' oblivious grave his poor remains.
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Hail! Grecia, skill'd in art, that art divine,
Which bade the human face again to shine;
Made passion speak, and every feature live,
And gave to Beauty all that Art could give;
Say, what thy triumphs, when in living dye,
Fair Helen roll'd again the melting eye!
When Alexander's form again was seen,
His haughty dignity, and royal mien!
And all thy sages, bards, and heroes brave,
Burst into life, as ransom'd from the grave!
Which bade the human face again to shine;
Made passion speak, and every feature live,
And gave to Beauty all that Art could give;
Say, what thy triumphs, when in living dye,
Fair Helen roll'd again the melting eye!
When Alexander's form again was seen,
His haughty dignity, and royal mien!
And all thy sages, bards, and heroes brave,
Burst into life, as ransom'd from the grave!
—, if sav'd at length from Party's rage,
The deeds of heroes grace th' historic page;
If sage Philosophy, and sacred Song,
Plato's deep sense, and Homer's honey'd tongue;
If Sculpture, such as Phidias' hand could raise,
Command our wonder, and ensure our praise;
Say, shall the Painter's art be less endear'd,
Or, as more pleasing, be the less rever'd?
Shall Zeuxis, who full many a glorious name
Fix'd in the temple of ennobling Fame;
Or, 'mid the task of each revolving day,
Apelles living character pourtray,
And yet themselves amid the vulgar throng
Sleep, unrewarded with the wreath of song?
The Muse forbad—she knew the sister's part,
(For colours fade beyond the reach of art),
She saw, how time destroys what genius rears,
Or fire devours at once the toil of years;
Then, warm with zeal, she struck the living lyre,
Nor let the Painter with his works expire.
The deeds of heroes grace th' historic page;
If sage Philosophy, and sacred Song,
Plato's deep sense, and Homer's honey'd tongue;
If Sculpture, such as Phidias' hand could raise,
Command our wonder, and ensure our praise;
Say, shall the Painter's art be less endear'd,
Or, as more pleasing, be the less rever'd?
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Fix'd in the temple of ennobling Fame;
Or, 'mid the task of each revolving day,
Apelles living character pourtray,
And yet themselves amid the vulgar throng
Sleep, unrewarded with the wreath of song?
The Muse forbad—she knew the sister's part,
(For colours fade beyond the reach of art),
She saw, how time destroys what genius rears,
Or fire devours at once the toil of years;
Then, warm with zeal, she struck the living lyre,
Nor let the Painter with his works expire.
For see! the colours change; see time destroy,
Once more, the lovely girl, the rosy boy,
Love's purple light desert the languid eye,
And Beauty's roseat colours quickly fly!
See the stern hero lose his eye of fire,
And all the sages rev'rend form retire!
Though just proportion mark each flowing line,
Though all the graces own the fair design,
Yet from the canvas shall each charm depart:
So strong is genius, and so frail is art!
Where now the fruit, so swelling on the sight,
That stopp'd the winged songster in his flight?
The curtain, that with finish'd grace pourtray'd,
All the rich subtleties of art convey'd?
The trembling virgin, and her breast of snow,
And the wild parent speechless in his woe?
Th' unrivall'd fair, who, as of heavenly name,
Warm'd every heart, and set the world on flame?
The captiv'd maid, who foil'd the Painter's art,
And fix'd her lovely picture on his heart?
All, all, are fled! and as the Painter dies,
So the bright colour from the canvas flies:
Vanish'd each form; and every fair design
Lives but in numbers, or adorns a coin.
Once more, the lovely girl, the rosy boy,
Love's purple light desert the languid eye,
And Beauty's roseat colours quickly fly!
See the stern hero lose his eye of fire,
And all the sages rev'rend form retire!
82
Though all the graces own the fair design,
Yet from the canvas shall each charm depart:
So strong is genius, and so frail is art!
Where now the fruit, so swelling on the sight,
That stopp'd the winged songster in his flight?
The curtain, that with finish'd grace pourtray'd,
All the rich subtleties of art convey'd?
The trembling virgin, and her breast of snow,
And the wild parent speechless in his woe?
Th' unrivall'd fair, who, as of heavenly name,
Warm'd every heart, and set the world on flame?
The captiv'd maid, who foil'd the Painter's art,
And fix'd her lovely picture on his heart?
All, all, are fled! and as the Painter dies,
So the bright colour from the canvas flies:
Vanish'd each form; and every fair design
Lives but in numbers, or adorns a coin.
83
Hence should the sister-arts in union move,
The same their honours, and the same their love;
Each see, and feel, as though the Gods inspire,
And give to mortals their immortal fire;
Through air, and earth, and sea, together range,
Mark Nature's steadiest forms, and wildest change;
Extend to future days each glorious name,
And, giving fame to others, challenge fame.
And, while the Painter gives the feature strong,
The Poet lifts the Painter in his song.
The same their honours, and the same their love;
Each see, and feel, as though the Gods inspire,
And give to mortals their immortal fire;
Through air, and earth, and sea, together range,
Mark Nature's steadiest forms, and wildest change;
Extend to future days each glorious name,
And, giving fame to others, challenge fame.
And, while the Painter gives the feature strong,
The Poet lifts the Painter in his song.
Thus Waller sung in Charles's merry reign,
And Vandyck's name adorn'd the courtly strain,
With ready skill he trac'd the pencil'd face,
And from the Painter stole poetic grace.
And thus, enliven'd by the muse's ray,
The critic-poet pour'd his laureat lay;
And, as the royal hero rose to view,
He sung the hero, and the painter too.
His lyre the tuneful Pope to Jervas strung,
And, as the painter felt, the poet sung.
Each struck the chord, that rul'd the other's heart,
Each seiz'd an image from the sister-art;
Ev'n Dryden's prose shall Fresnoy's art prolong,
And Mason make it live in British song.
And Vandyck's name adorn'd the courtly strain,
With ready skill he trac'd the pencil'd face,
And from the Painter stole poetic grace.
And thus, enliven'd by the muse's ray,
The critic-poet pour'd his laureat lay;
84
He sung the hero, and the painter too.
His lyre the tuneful Pope to Jervas strung,
And, as the painter felt, the poet sung.
Each struck the chord, that rul'd the other's heart,
Each seiz'd an image from the sister-art;
Ev'n Dryden's prose shall Fresnoy's art prolong,
And Mason make it live in British song.
So, when I view beneath thy powerful art
The speaking feature from the canvas start;
When thy bold colouring spreads the shining hue,
And gives some friend, as living, to the view,
How could I hope,—as long shall be imprest
His generous virtues on some kindred breast,
So to his children might thy skill convey,
—Nor dread the silent stealth of slow decay,—
His steady worth—that curious when they scan
The fair resemblance of the living man,
Read in his face, amid the warmth of youth,
The pride of honour, and the glow of truth;
The kindred passion they within might feel,
Glow with his friendship, catch his patriot zeal;
And conscious, whence they caught the potent flame,
Bless with an honest zeal his artist's name!
The speaking feature from the canvas start;
When thy bold colouring spreads the shining hue,
And gives some friend, as living, to the view,
How could I hope,—as long shall be imprest
His generous virtues on some kindred breast,
So to his children might thy skill convey,
—Nor dread the silent stealth of slow decay,—
His steady worth—that curious when they scan
The fair resemblance of the living man,
85
The pride of honour, and the glow of truth;
The kindred passion they within might feel,
Glow with his friendship, catch his patriot zeal;
And conscious, whence they caught the potent flame,
Bless with an honest zeal his artist's name!
For me—well-pleas'd this wreath to thee I twine,
Proud to enroll my humble name with thine.
And should the verse but live beyond a day,
Some youthful genius, kindling at the lay,
Shall feel the proud desire like thee to please,
Catch all thy force, and rival all thy ease,
Ambitious 'mid the formost to excell,
Yet taught, how hard the task, to pencil well.
Proud to enroll my humble name with thine.
And should the verse but live beyond a day,
Some youthful genius, kindling at the lay,
Shall feel the proud desire like thee to please,
Catch all thy force, and rival all thy ease,
Ambitious 'mid the formost to excell,
Yet taught, how hard the task, to pencil well.
86
HOMER'S STATUE.
Homer seem'd living brass, not destituteOf genius, and of mind; scarce unpossess'd
Of voice ambrosial: so divine the skill,
That e'en the brass appear'd a god in form.
For scarcely can I think, that labouring hand
Of mortal artist, station'd at his seat,
Could shape that brass; but rather Pallas' self,
Deep-counsell'd, fashion'd it: for she his form
Well-knew: she the rich song of wisdom breath'd
Through Homer, dwelling in his secret soul,
Apollo's partner: then conspicuous stood
My father, god-like Homer! Much he seem'd
Some aged man; yet was that age most sweet,
87
Venerably sweet, that brighten'd all his form.
Behind his bending neck a time-worn lock
Flow'd from his hair, which from beside each ear
Meandring stray'd: beneath extended wide
His beard, which mellow curl'd, not to a point
Tapering, but sloping broad, reflecting charms
Upon his naked breast, and lovely face.
Bald was his forehead: yet that forehead bald
Shewed wisdom seated, counsellor of youth.
Around his jutting eyebrows wandered art
Considerate, nor in vain: for from his eyes
Fled was the light: yet did he not appear
Like a blind man: for on his sightless orbs
Sat a sweet grace, which viewing, one might think,
Art labour'd much, to make it seem to all,
That from the secret fountain of his heart
The bard sent up a stream of heavenly light.
88
And somewhat hollowed, but upon them fat
The Grace's partner, Modesty innate.
The bee Pierian round his sacred mouth
Stray'd wanton, big with honey-dropping sweets:
In mutual embrace his hands were lock'd,
Which, as when living, rested on a staff.
His right ear list'ning seem'd, as though some muse,
Or Phœbus' lyre, were near; likening him to one
With mind intensely fix'd; while here and there
Genius, from inward light divergent, stray'd,
Various and quick, weaving some war-like theme,
Whose well-proportion'd harmonies might charm,
Like Syren, warbling-soft Pierian airs.
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ON VISITING THE TOMB OF DAVID HUME,
THE HISTORIAN, IN A BURYING GROUND AT EDINBURGH.
There comes a season, when man's eye, disturb'd,
Looks forth for nothing further, but appears
Awhile to close; and, the reflecting mind
Deep pondering on itself, forgets the world.
Fair Spring, with all her pearls, and tints, and flowers,
No longer charms, nor Summer's purple fruits
Distilling nectar'd sweets, nor Autumn's crops
Of glowing gold; nor Winter, with his frosts
Mantling the mountain-tops, and binding, close,
With freezing hand, waters, and glens, and groves.
Beauteously grotesque, or wanton-wild, the scene
Smiles vainly; for th' unconscious eye sees not
In seeing, with no rapture swells the breast:
Morning from saffron wing her airs perfum'd
Scatters in vain, and wakes her minstrel bird,
The tuneful lark, in vain; kind Heaven around
Drops softest influence, and high Noon in vain
Darts down her gaudiest ray: when Night ascends
Her throne imperial, and bright hosts attend
Of myriad constellations, man in vain
Gazes; and walks a stranger through the world.
For what may cheer the sight, when th' heart complains?
He, Moralist, by Sorrow's softest touch
Chastened and mellowed, like the golden ore
In furnace melted, ponders on distress,
Follies, and human frailties; forming thence
The rules of patience, and the laws prescrib'd,
On meek benevolence: manacling strong
The raving passions: till the soul, sublim'd,
And inly strengthen'd, grows serene and good.
Looks forth for nothing further, but appears
Awhile to close; and, the reflecting mind
Deep pondering on itself, forgets the world.
Fair Spring, with all her pearls, and tints, and flowers,
No longer charms, nor Summer's purple fruits
Distilling nectar'd sweets, nor Autumn's crops
Of glowing gold; nor Winter, with his frosts
Mantling the mountain-tops, and binding, close,
90
Beauteously grotesque, or wanton-wild, the scene
Smiles vainly; for th' unconscious eye sees not
In seeing, with no rapture swells the breast:
Morning from saffron wing her airs perfum'd
Scatters in vain, and wakes her minstrel bird,
The tuneful lark, in vain; kind Heaven around
Drops softest influence, and high Noon in vain
Darts down her gaudiest ray: when Night ascends
Her throne imperial, and bright hosts attend
Of myriad constellations, man in vain
Gazes; and walks a stranger through the world.
For what may cheer the sight, when th' heart complains?
He, Moralist, by Sorrow's softest touch
Chastened and mellowed, like the golden ore
In furnace melted, ponders on distress,
Follies, and human frailties; forming thence
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On meek benevolence: manacling strong
The raving passions: till the soul, sublim'd,
And inly strengthen'd, grows serene and good.
Such is the season, when near Avon's banks
Bards weep at Shakspeare's tomb, with inward grief
Sorrowing, that such, whose songs have charm'd the world,
Lie silent down so quickly, like a harp
Old, broken, useless, whence gay melodies
The skilful minstrel never wakes again;
Or like a weapon, by th' encrusted mould
Close over-grown, and faded, till no more
Tapers and shines the time-devoured steel.
Such, too, the season, when from Calton Hill
The travellers with quicken'd steps approach
Death's silent mansion, where in long repose
Together sleep philosopher and fool,
Unenvying, undistinguish'd: there the sage
With reverence pauses; there the silent tear
Of sympathy lets fall, while on thy tomb
Gazing, oh, Hume! laughter, and song, and wit,
And idle babbling absent, much he sighs,
And thinks, I too must die:—Thro' the close breast
A pleasing sadness steals: for, 'mid the crowd
Of mortals dead, to ponder o'er the few
Of frame more durable, who living rais'd
Their fame's more lasting monument, and lest
A legacy of deeds to times remote,
Is sweet, even when the soul is sad, is sweet.
Bards weep at Shakspeare's tomb, with inward grief
Sorrowing, that such, whose songs have charm'd the world,
Lie silent down so quickly, like a harp
Old, broken, useless, whence gay melodies
The skilful minstrel never wakes again;
Or like a weapon, by th' encrusted mould
Close over-grown, and faded, till no more
Tapers and shines the time-devoured steel.
92
The travellers with quicken'd steps approach
Death's silent mansion, where in long repose
Together sleep philosopher and fool,
Unenvying, undistinguish'd: there the sage
With reverence pauses; there the silent tear
Of sympathy lets fall, while on thy tomb
Gazing, oh, Hume! laughter, and song, and wit,
And idle babbling absent, much he sighs,
And thinks, I too must die:—Thro' the close breast
A pleasing sadness steals: for, 'mid the crowd
Of mortals dead, to ponder o'er the few
Of frame more durable, who living rais'd
Their fame's more lasting monument, and lest
93
Is sweet, even when the soul is sad, is sweet.
And, such wast thou, sagacious moralist,
Whose lessons shine not only in thy works,
Thy life was moral: and may I condemn
The man of searching mind, who systems weigh'd
In judgment's nicer scale, and yielded not
His weight of faith, when he durst not believe?
Whose lessons shine not only in thy works,
Thy life was moral: and may I condemn
The man of searching mind, who systems weigh'd
In judgment's nicer scale, and yielded not
His weight of faith, when he durst not believe?
Nor less with grace, and ease, and dignity
Chasten'd, the historian shines, tho' not bestarr'd
With fancies luminous:—yet does the page
Spread a mild lustre round; nor shall the speck
That lightly passes o'er, eclipse its beams.
Chasten'd, the historian shines, tho' not bestarr'd
With fancies luminous:—yet does the page
Spread a mild lustre round; nor shall the speck
That lightly passes o'er, eclipse its beams.
95
TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE MORGAN.
WRITTEN ON THE SEA-COAST.
Thou lonesome shore, I hail thee! Not a starIllumes the skies, and not a sound is heard!
Nature, as tho' to help mankind to think,
Seems a short pause to hold:—no traveller
Paces the beach; the only living thing,
Scarce living, the poor shell-fish, that I tread,
Buried in sand and stone, beneath my feet.
'Tis night—the time when real forms are still;
When superstition walks—when she creates
New eyes, new ears—and sees across the moor,
96
Forms more or less than human, bloody or pale,
Slow-pacing, or quick-flying—she can hear
Foot-steps of terror, the loud clanking chain,
Disturbing the repose, at dead of night,
Of mansion, now untenanted; such forms,
As shake a very hero; sounds that stir,
In a saint's bosom, fear amid his prayers.
And ocean's waves, unruffled by the wind,
Sleep undisturb'd—and Fancy now might hear,
Far, far away, the shriek of mariners,
Faint, hopeless, lost; while the ship round and round
Tost, bulges, and then plunges in the deep.
But superstition here shall have no place,
And fancy none—realities demand
A genuine strain: and could that strain but flow,
As, Morgan, it should flow, not vainly then
Should it return: then recollection strong
Should be rekindled;—what thy brother was;
—The son, that could to age consoling give
The lov'd attentions;—th' husband that outstript
His partner's wishes;—the benignant fire,
His children's joy;—to thee another self,
Kindest of brothers;—and mid friends a friend,
Not of the vulgar and the narrow sort:
Such should he live—the patriot should live;
And, above all, the friend of human kind.
His principle should live; his love of man
Move in some breast, perhaps estrang'd before
To the large passion, bath'd, as it might seem,
Into his very spirit, 'till he rose
A soul baptiz'd, a new created man.
And fancy none—realities demand
A genuine strain: and could that strain but flow,
As, Morgan, it should flow, not vainly then
97
Should be rekindled;—what thy brother was;
—The son, that could to age consoling give
The lov'd attentions;—th' husband that outstript
His partner's wishes;—the benignant fire,
His children's joy;—to thee another self,
Kindest of brothers;—and mid friends a friend,
Not of the vulgar and the narrow sort:
Such should he live—the patriot should live;
And, above all, the friend of human kind.
His principle should live; his love of man
Move in some breast, perhaps estrang'd before
To the large passion, bath'd, as it might seem,
Into his very spirit, 'till he rose
A soul baptiz'd, a new created man.
His was the pastor's lot:—and tho' he doff'd
The shepherd-trim, yet could he not shift off,
—Nature had cloath'd him there,—the pastor's heart.
For social was his soul; and what he gain'd
Of knowledge fair he freely would impart
To all in friendliest converse, but to youth
The most, as to the tenderest of the flock.
The pastor, become tutor, now instill'd
With science, principle, and love of truth,
Ardour for liberty, the proud contempt
Of power, and priest-craft, and the fondling wiles
Links of the chain, that rivets human kind.
The shepherd-trim, yet could he not shift off,
98
For social was his soul; and what he gain'd
Of knowledge fair he freely would impart
To all in friendliest converse, but to youth
The most, as to the tenderest of the flock.
The pastor, become tutor, now instill'd
With science, principle, and love of truth,
Ardour for liberty, the proud contempt
Of power, and priest-craft, and the fondling wiles
Links of the chain, that rivets human kind.
And did he teach in vain? No—Morgan—no—
Love is a stirring principle—a seed,
That silently works upward into life,
Of flower and fruit most fragrant; and a soil,
The breast of youth, where heaven delights to shed
The richest influence, and to th' heart's root strikes.
Love is a stirring principle—a seed,
That silently works upward into life,
Of flower and fruit most fragrant; and a soil,
The breast of youth, where heaven delights to shed
The richest influence, and to th' heart's root strikes.
Oh! ye his children, when in distant years
Ye bustle thro' a world, where slavery, pride,
Avarice, ambition, and the abject routs
Of worse than pagan deities are seen,
Abominations, worshipp'd at highest noon,
On altars deep distain'd with precious gore,
With human victims,—tho' the cries are drown'd
In the loud shouts of victory, and the bray
Of triumph, and the din of midnight riot,
And self admiring soothings; rites more curs'd,
More filthy, hell-born, than were ever paid
On Grecian shrines, or to that tyrant god
Moloch, who erst by Rabba's fruitful vale
Drank of the hell-cup mixt with parents tears;—
Oh! when abominations, such as these,
Crowd on your eyes, and ye may, chance, reflect
On cities pillag'd, and on villages
In flames, lands wide wasted, with the pride
Of arts demolish'd, and of temples raz'd;
Then say, and let self-rev'rence work within,
“Such gods were not the worship of my sire.”
But, when ye see within the peaceful vale
Industry bend, and independence link'd
Closely behind her, Science, and the train
Of smiling virtues, honour and truth, and love,
The love of human kind: Oh! then revolve,
Such was my father; then may move within
The true ambition, the full soul of zeal,
To emulate his worth; and on your breasts
Striking, while sweet remembrance stirs within,
Say, with an honest pride:—“Here sleeps my sire;
“Here unforgotten lies an honest man.”
And, Morgan, in this breast too he shall lie:
Ye bustle thro' a world, where slavery, pride,
99
Of worse than pagan deities are seen,
Abominations, worshipp'd at highest noon,
On altars deep distain'd with precious gore,
With human victims,—tho' the cries are drown'd
In the loud shouts of victory, and the bray
Of triumph, and the din of midnight riot,
And self admiring soothings; rites more curs'd,
More filthy, hell-born, than were ever paid
On Grecian shrines, or to that tyrant god
Moloch, who erst by Rabba's fruitful vale
Drank of the hell-cup mixt with parents tears;—
Oh! when abominations, such as these,
Crowd on your eyes, and ye may, chance, reflect
On cities pillag'd, and on villages
In flames, lands wide wasted, with the pride
Of arts demolish'd, and of temples raz'd;
Then say, and let self-rev'rence work within,
“Such gods were not the worship of my sire.”
100
Industry bend, and independence link'd
Closely behind her, Science, and the train
Of smiling virtues, honour and truth, and love,
The love of human kind: Oh! then revolve,
Such was my father; then may move within
The true ambition, the full soul of zeal,
To emulate his worth; and on your breasts
Striking, while sweet remembrance stirs within,
Say, with an honest pride:—“Here sleeps my sire;
“Here unforgotten lies an honest man.”
And song shall tell his worth:—nor shall that song
Seem mean, except there be who thought him mean.
Verse hath its gaieties: nor think it vain,
If sometimes, to give life to languid hours,
Or a new zest to pleasure, it may choose
101
For verse is often made by skilful hands
The heart's restorative, and often tips
Love with gay wings, and makes him fly at large
Free as the air, and oft on vagrant hearts
Slips the light chain of matrimonial bonds.
Verse hath, too, nobler services; to sound
The triumphs fair of Freedom, to record
The patriot virtues, honour, justice, truth,
Benevolence; nor is less fond to strew,
When worth departs, the flow'ret on its grave,
Blooming, tho' humble, speaking to the world,
“That virtue should not die:” such, Morgan, take
A friend's poor tribute to thy brother's name.
102
ON THE DEATH OF GILBERT WAKEFIELD.
MEDITATED IN A GARDEN, NEAR A CHURCH-YARD, AT THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.
Oh! rural walk! Thy stillness now how sweet,Thy stillness and thy gloom, as erst thy song,
Thy morning-smile, and flower!—from sickness now
I come, to count the sum of human life,
A sum how small! to muse its many ills,
Its frailties, follies, numerous; and I come,
To muse on death;—for Wakefield is no more.
And is he then no more? The man so full
Of schemes, of learn'd resolves, so prompt and quick
To execute, with temperance who had form'd
So close alliance, that, methought, he seem'd
Destin'd to live, the cool grey chronicler
Of years now passing, and of years to pass
Some thirty years to come;—the gen'rous friend,—
Is he no more? Farewell, then, world, awhile;—
And thou shalt be my cloister, rural shade.
No mountain scene is near, to lift the gaze
To gaudy prospects; no resplendent curl
Of falling cataract; no resounding noise
Of ocean, to inspire majestic thought,
Or language deep and strong; no poplar shade,
No myrtle grove, no softly-flowing stream,
With willow crown'd, to sooth a lover's breast.
Time is, such things shall please—sweet rural walk,
Thee now I seek: nor less, tho' church-yard near
Gives the memento, that life's cultur'd walk
Conducts but to the grave; and that I hear
The clock give notice, Time is on the wing,
And the full-tolling bell, that seems to say
“There fled from one the whole of passing time.”
Of schemes, of learn'd resolves, so prompt and quick
To execute, with temperance who had form'd
So close alliance, that, methought, he seem'd
103
Of years now passing, and of years to pass
Some thirty years to come;—the gen'rous friend,—
Is he no more? Farewell, then, world, awhile;—
And thou shalt be my cloister, rural shade.
No mountain scene is near, to lift the gaze
To gaudy prospects; no resplendent curl
Of falling cataract; no resounding noise
Of ocean, to inspire majestic thought,
Or language deep and strong; no poplar shade,
No myrtle grove, no softly-flowing stream,
With willow crown'd, to sooth a lover's breast.
Time is, such things shall please—sweet rural walk,
Thee now I seek: nor less, tho' church-yard near
Gives the memento, that life's cultur'd walk
Conducts but to the grave; and that I hear
The clock give notice, Time is on the wing,
And the full-tolling bell, that seems to say
104
Now closes Autumn—and, oh season calm!
Thou shalt instruct me,—thou to man canst act,
And well canst act, the moralizer's part;—
Thou art a page in nature's volume fair,
And wise thy lesson, and thy language plain,
And well-enforc'd, and strong;—thou art all truth.
Impressive monitor, I bend to thee
Submissive; to thy lesson grave and sage
Will be all eye, all ear;—for tho' I see
No blossom peeping on the smiling year;
Nor flow'r to greet me; nor the melting voice
Of nightingale, nor shining fruit t' allure
My taste; yet, closing Autumn, shall thy leaf
Yellow, and wrinkled, preach close to my heart.
Methinks, it says, ah! what art thou, O man?
A falling withering leaf—and such thy friend.
He had his Spring—his Summer—scarcely he saw
His Autumn—for as yet he had not pass'd
His glowing time of life; unless, perchance,
Our life is Autumn all; for in the midst
Of life we are in death, and while man seems
Smiling in years, falls like yon falling leaf.
Thou shalt instruct me,—thou to man canst act,
And well canst act, the moralizer's part;—
Thou art a page in nature's volume fair,
And wise thy lesson, and thy language plain,
And well-enforc'd, and strong;—thou art all truth.
Impressive monitor, I bend to thee
Submissive; to thy lesson grave and sage
Will be all eye, all ear;—for tho' I see
No blossom peeping on the smiling year;
Nor flow'r to greet me; nor the melting voice
Of nightingale, nor shining fruit t' allure
My taste; yet, closing Autumn, shall thy leaf
Yellow, and wrinkled, preach close to my heart.
Methinks, it says, ah! what art thou, O man?
A falling withering leaf—and such thy friend.
He had his Spring—his Summer—scarcely he saw
105
His glowing time of life; unless, perchance,
Our life is Autumn all; for in the midst
Of life we are in death, and while man seems
Smiling in years, falls like yon falling leaf.
Oh! well do I remember, years ago,
That I did wander, tho' long train'd to thought,
Still too, too thoughtless, near thy stream, oh Cam!
There first I saw the friend that now I mourn.
For near thy stream, he, too, was wont to crop
The flowers of learning—I remember well—
Beneath his garb, the trappings of the schools,
I saw a form erect and slender, like
T' one early form'd to manliness of thought
And rigid duties: o'er his visage pale
Fair Science beam'd; and quick around his eye
A critic archness play'd, that would have seem'd
On sternness bent and querulousness, but that
A gentleness was there, that still appear'd
To check some frowardness, which while it oft
Obtruded its dislikes, yet did not seem
From the pure fountain of his heart to rise.
His gait was steady, firm; for much he seem'd
As he but walk'd, to gather in his mind
Thoughts, that had stray'd, or to digest with care
The feastings of his soul in bookish hours.
I knew him not; at least, I did not know
The friend;—I only knew of worth and wit,
The zeal of industry, the love of fame,
Of virtue, science, and they call'd them, Wakefield.
That I did wander, tho' long train'd to thought,
Still too, too thoughtless, near thy stream, oh Cam!
There first I saw the friend that now I mourn.
For near thy stream, he, too, was wont to crop
The flowers of learning—I remember well—
Beneath his garb, the trappings of the schools,
I saw a form erect and slender, like
T' one early form'd to manliness of thought
And rigid duties: o'er his visage pale
Fair Science beam'd; and quick around his eye
A critic archness play'd, that would have seem'd
106
A gentleness was there, that still appear'd
To check some frowardness, which while it oft
Obtruded its dislikes, yet did not seem
From the pure fountain of his heart to rise.
His gait was steady, firm; for much he seem'd
As he but walk'd, to gather in his mind
Thoughts, that had stray'd, or to digest with care
The feastings of his soul in bookish hours.
I knew him not; at least, I did not know
The friend;—I only knew of worth and wit,
The zeal of industry, the love of fame,
Of virtue, science, and they call'd them, Wakefield.
This was his Spring of life, when hopes were gay,
And wishes blooming, not of honours high,
Or in the world, or in the churches mart,
But to secure the crown of well-earn'd praise,
Of genius, and of learning:—and he did
Obtain the well earn'd wreathe, which well was worn
Thro' life, and with advancing years still grew.
And wishes blooming, not of honours high,
Or in the world, or in the churches mart,
But to secure the crown of well-earn'd praise,
107
Obtain the well earn'd wreathe, which well was worn
Thro' life, and with advancing years still grew.
But, in the Summer of his life I knew him,
And call'd him friend: for in our hearts did dwell
Some kindred likings and some kindred scorns:
The tyrant's state, the pontiff's pomp and pride,
The hireling's meanness; the debasing tricks
Of avarice; the sycophantic airs
Of danglers after wealth: ah! subjects fit
Of generous scorn: together we did hail
The star of Freedom, rising on a world
Of slavery-goaded men: we liv'd to see
France rise to something of the new-born man,
Snapping her fetters off, enlarg'd and free.
Oh! had he liv'd to hail this day of Peace,
It should have wak'd some ardent, generous thoughts,
Some rapturous feelings, some exulting notes,
And he had triumph'd in his prison-house.
His prison-house! He had no prison-house:
Worth, freedom, wisdom, still can walk at large,
Tho' bolts, and bars, and walls of adamant,
May intervene: the sun's æthereal beam,
The lightest breeze, the voice of wife, of child,
And friend, and, chiefest, conscience, light within,
Cheer the brave man retir'd; while mind upsoars
Thro' worlds on worlds, beyond the reach of fear.
And call'd him friend: for in our hearts did dwell
Some kindred likings and some kindred scorns:
The tyrant's state, the pontiff's pomp and pride,
The hireling's meanness; the debasing tricks
Of avarice; the sycophantic airs
Of danglers after wealth: ah! subjects fit
Of generous scorn: together we did hail
The star of Freedom, rising on a world
Of slavery-goaded men: we liv'd to see
France rise to something of the new-born man,
Snapping her fetters off, enlarg'd and free.
108
It should have wak'd some ardent, generous thoughts,
Some rapturous feelings, some exulting notes,
And he had triumph'd in his prison-house.
His prison-house! He had no prison-house:
Worth, freedom, wisdom, still can walk at large,
Tho' bolts, and bars, and walls of adamant,
May intervene: the sun's æthereal beam,
The lightest breeze, the voice of wife, of child,
And friend, and, chiefest, conscience, light within,
Cheer the brave man retir'd; while mind upsoars
Thro' worlds on worlds, beyond the reach of fear.
But I have wander'd: let me then recount
The sum of life, and prosit by th' amount:
A little learning, and a little weakness;
A little pleasure, and enough of pain:
A little freedom, with its tale of slavery;
Passions and reasons struggle; where, tho' oft
Reason claims empire, passion governs still;
Believing much, yet doubting not a little;
Till sickness comes, and with it gloom of thought;—
When man, quite wearied with a world, perhaps,
Not moving to his mind, a foolish world,
Seeks inward stillness, and lies quiet down.
The sum of life, and prosit by th' amount:
109
A little pleasure, and enough of pain:
A little freedom, with its tale of slavery;
Passions and reasons struggle; where, tho' oft
Reason claims empire, passion governs still;
Believing much, yet doubting not a little;
Till sickness comes, and with it gloom of thought;—
When man, quite wearied with a world, perhaps,
Not moving to his mind, a foolish world,
Seeks inward stillness, and lies quiet down.
110
MONODY. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT ROBINSON.
I
“Warm'd by the glowing year,“Awake to life, harmonious strings;
“Still rise, my song, in numbers soft and clear,
“For still the garden smiles, the groves with wild-notes ring.”
In Hammond's bower, at ease reclin'd,
Thus I reliev'd my weary mind;
111
And friendship listen'd to the lay.
But what avail the flowers of song?
Must I thus drop th' unsinish'd wreath?
Or scatter it the tombs among,
To wither near the realms of death?
Ye flowery tribes, and vernal song, adieu;
A mourner sad I go, to court the baleful yew.
II
Again, thou yew tree's shade,Again receive your trembling guest.
Ye regions, where repose the hallow'd dead,
Find me some secret charm, to heal this aching breast.
Thro' garden, skies, and grove,
In vain should Fancy rove,
112
Faint all the myrtle's rich perfume,
And faint thy beams, oh! sacred light!
Ah! dearer now the church yard's gloom,
Where the pale empress of the night
Silvers, serene, the moss-grown tomb.
There fond to muse, in thought I now will stray;
For there my Theron sleeps, and I will bless his clay.
III
As in the lonely valeThe modest primrose droops and dies,
Or near the pathless hedge the violet pale,
So gentle Theron droop'd, so breath'd his dying sighs.
113
No children dropp'd the fervid tear;
No wife receiv'd the last request;
No friend the dying eye-lid press'd.
'Mid the deep silence of the night,
Softly the genial heats retire;
And quickly close his orbs of sight,
Like lamps, that suddenly expire:
Oh! wishes, that but flatter, to deceive:
Ah! prayers, that nourish hope, yet leave but cause to grieve.
IV
High on the topmost boughsOf Virtue's ever-blooming tree,
A flower, of rich ambrosial fragrance, blows,
Ah! never reach'd by Pride, fair Charity.
114
Climb the blest tree, and crop the flower;
And plant it deep within this breast,
To blossom there, a sacred guest:
The simple sweets should cheer me more,
When hopes decline, and grief invades,
Than could Arabia's copious store,
Or rich Italian shades.
If ever mortal cropp'd that hallow'd tree,
My Theron, it was cropp'd, thou kindest friend, by thee.
V
Among the village-youthThe generous Theron lov'd to rove;
To them he strew'd the honey'd gems of truth,
With all the patriot's zeal, with all the pastor's love.
115
Yet could his learning's fruitful stores,
And all his melody of tongue,
Charm wisdom's more enlighten'd throng.
Age ceas'd lost pleasures to bewail;
Contentment smil'd at poverty;
Labour would welcome pain, and hail
The orient sun of liberty:
“Still let me toil, still not inglorious toil,
“In Britain's happy plains, in Freedom's favourite isle.
VI
But, say, has Heaven in vainThe generous breast with freedom fir'd?
Shall friendship hopeless round their tombs complain,
Whom love of honest fame, and virtuous zeal inspir'd?
116
In peace their sacred ashes rest:
And oft the grateful bard shall stray,
To sing their worth, to bless their clay.
For brighter still their names shall rise,
Tho' time a restless course pursue,
Thro' fairer fields and purer skies,
And steady lustre shew.
Still in their works they live, and live to shine,
Like stars of human kind, a long illustrious line.
117
A NIGHT THOUGHT:
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION, IN EMANUEL COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, ON A VISIT, AFTER SOME YEARS ABSENCE.
I
As some lone redbreast, shivering from the storm,Forsakes the precincts of the leafless grove,
And, while bleak winter nature's face deforms,
Still finds a shelter in some neat alcove:
118
II
Thus I, still travelling thro' this vale of tears,And not unoft beset with tempests rude,
Here rest my weary steps, and hush my fears,
Wrapt in thy sacred haunt, blest solitude.
III
Ye walls, (for ye have witness'd oft my prayer)Oh once again receive a transient guest!
A wanderer oft, and now the child of care,
Here let him steal a momentary-rest.
IV
Studious of truth, I sought your mild abode;And wander'd still, tho' studious, far away:
Ah! could I think, as yet untaught, the road
So thorny was, that fancy painted gay?
119
V
Rich as the stream o'er thirsty Egypt pours,Soft as the breeze o'er Libya's parched plain,
To me so rich are memory's fruitful stores,
Thus soft to me the Muse's plaintive strain.
VI
Remembrance brings to view the polish'd friend,My youth's sweet pride, the patron of my song;
With grateful love at Askew's name I bend;
One hallow'd strain to Askew's name prolong.
120
VII
And long as reason holds its faithful seat,Eliza's worth shall dwell within this breast;
Wisdom and beauty in Eliza met;
Deep on this heart her image lies impress'd.
VIIII
At Hope's vain dream how smil'd insidious death!Ah! forms that live in wayward Fancy's eye!
Or hang but on a mortal's fleeting breath,
And with that mortal doom'd, ah! soon to die.
IX
But say, is Hope thus doom'd through life to dream?Is Fancy, though a gay, yet faithless guide?
False as yon orb, reflected from the stream,
Light as the meteors, that thro' æther glide?
121
X
No—let Reflection try her native force;Her aid let sage Experience duly lend;
So shall meek Patience smooth life's downward course,
And stern Affliction prove a faithful friend.
XI
Fair nature's volume, legible and plain,Its ample page unfolds to all mankind;
Read by the sage, though often read in vain,
Read by the savage, deem'd by sages blind.
XII
The breeze, tho' light, that whispers thro' the dale,The flower, tho' mean, that drinks the pearly dew,
The smallest insect, floating on the gale,
Give to their grief-worn cheek a brighter hue.
122
XIII
Yet are there, whom delights not Nature's green,Nor sooths the melting songster's sweetest lay:
Mourners there are, who love the midnight scene,
And, like the night-bird, shun the face of day:
XIV
There are, who love the gothic aisle to tread,The dark grove frowning round the hermit's stall,
The cloister'd pile, where sleep the noble dead,
And heroes bleed upon th' escutcheon'd wall.
XV
Nor dare, ye tribes, that frolic gay at noon,Nor ye, who grieve in state, their woes deride;
E'en the hoarse night-bird screaming to the moon,
More sooths, than Folly's noise, or Folly's pride.
123
XVI
Nor vainly twinkle those fair orbs of light;Nor vainly does yon moon's mild glory shine;
Nor the still waters shew the face of night:
Ah! scene, how well allied to cares like mine!
XVII
And e'en around this solitary room,Kind visitant, to cheer my midnight song,
The same fair moon throws no unpleasing gloom,
Spreading athwart its shadows dark and long.
XVIII
For not alone complaining Love shall findThe magic stillness of the midnight scene;
Sorrows, if such there be, of heavier kind,
Lose their severer form, and grow serene.
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XIX
Ah! think not Fate will only bliss bestow;Pleasure and pain compose the motley plan:
Oh! may I learn to melt at human woe,
By knowing, what it is to feel like man!
XX
“To talk of truth, and miss it: to complain;“To toil and pant for fame; with love to sigh;
“To count that loss, which once was reckon'd gain;—
“Then to grow weary, turn aside, and die.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
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