Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By George Dyer

Dyer, George (1755-1841)

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

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125

II. VOL. II.

BOOK THE THIRD.

THE LOVE-POET.

Oh! Love, fair Nature's child, undeck'd by art,
Whom should I call, but thee, in every clime,
The poet's mighty god?
Harmonious power! To whom all beings raise
Gay songs, and gratulations meet,
For thine it is thro' air, earth, sea to range,
Wing'd with desire, and warm with life;
Thine the perennial fires, that renovate the world!

Have I not on thy altars duly pour'd
The pure libation, following it with sighs,
And resignation meet?
To thee have I not paid, at morn and eve,
The pray'r too big for words, a priest,
That greatly felt, and silently ador'd?
Oh! then thy vot'ry's trembling heart
Touch with the living coals, that on thine altar burn.

But spare, oh! spare me now: assume no more
The form terrific, fire-red eyes and darts,
Thy darts of living steel;
Nor bring with thee thy train of thousand ills,
The sleepless night, the day of care,
Follies, and wanderings, griefs, and fear and smarts,
Pale melancholy, pining shame,
That lead the vagrant heart to lab'rinths of despair.

Be but my muse,—what other shall I need?
Give me but that sweet music of the soul,
Can I then want a lyre?
Oh! tune my heart-strings;—so the passions all
Shall to my song sing jubilant:
So shall the seasons, in alternate dance,
Pass smiling by, each herb, fruit, flow'r,
Be redolent of sweets, and every gale inspire!

True to thy name, now wear thy loveliest form,
Dimples and smiles, and pity-beaming eyes,
And soul-enliven'd mirths.
And bring the flower of bliss without the thorn;
Delights that last, and cares that please,
With meek benevolence, but taught by thee:
So from my heart, by thee attun'd,
Sweet melodies shall rise, and dignify my song.

THE MUSES' WEDDING-DAY.

Let doctors prattle what they will;—
I laugh at what they say;—
Muse, 'tis our wedding day;
We will be merry; so a bumper fill.
Yes! let the glass
Now freely pass;
We have had ills enough, now is our time for play.

Here's to the bards of earliest times,
And may the laurel bough
Still flourish on their brow,
As still they lift our souls with loftiest rhymes.
So let the glass
Now freely pass;
Still be their mem'ries green as thousand years ago.

Here's to the bard of modern days,
May duns ne'er vex his door,
As they have bards' before;
Health to his Love, and lucky be his lays!
So let the glass
Now freely pass;
May he have wit at will, of money too good store!

Here's to the bards of years to come,
And when they feel within
The tuneful fit begin,
And Wit grow warm, may Prudence not leave home!
So let the glass,
Now freely pass,
Lest Poverty should come, that beldame lank and thin.

Here's to the muses, more than nine,
For know, that Ladies fair
The best of muses are,
And can do more, than e'en the god of wine.
So let the glass
Now freely pass,
Love is the poet's friend, and love is most divine.

Here's to all patrons good and kind,
I mean not every sinner,
Who gives the bard a dinner,
And who with dirty work would clog his mind.
But let the glass
Now freely pass,
To him, who loves the Muse, and can by goodness bind.

Here's to the souls, that I love most,
I mean to each bookseller,
Who is a right good fellow,
Who need not tremble at an author's ghost;
So lift the glass
And let it pass,
Muse, I could drink their healths, till I grew warm and mellow.

But we must raise us to the nonce:
Shall I be now the tool
Of old Sir William's school?
No—no—we surely may get drunk for once.
So move the glass
And let it pass:
Who on their wedding-day would ever drink by rule?

Thus, Muse, with us the matter stands;—
Tho' we are wedded,
And we have bedded,
Yet never priest did join the holy bands.
But move the glass
And let it pass;—
So may our freaks and loves still live in fairy lands!

BÜRGER,

OR, WINTER DEFEATED.

See! where stern Winter's icy hand
Disrobes the poplar tree!
The fields, their May-clothes lost, all naked stand.
Their forms of red, white, blue, no more I see,
Buried in snows they sleep, and live no more for me.

Yet flowrets sweet, shall I for you
The song of grief indite,
When I my lovely loving charmer view,
In more than all your vernal beauty bright,
With forehead white, red lip, and eyes of azure light?

Ye blackbirds, that once cheer'd the vale,
Ye nightingales, that charm'd the grove,
How vainly should your notes my ear assail,
For silver-voic'd is she, the girl I love,
And sweet her breath, as gales o'er hyacinth bed that rove.

When of her lips I taste the bliss,
Full happiness I seem to meet;
More dear to me the honey-breathing kiss,
Than mulberry fragrant, or than cherry sweet:
What more then can I ask, in her fair spring I greet?

KING WILLIAM'S MAN,

OR, THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE REVOLUTION.

As when the sun's bright beams appear,
And lowering tempests steal away,
So midst a dark revolving year,
Returns this bright auspicious day.
Britons, revive, lift high the glee,
And hail the day with three times three.

Three cheers, our sacred country's due,
We raise for popish plots reveal'd.
Thus perish Superstition's crew,
Tho' deep as hell, they lie conceal'd!
Britons, &c.

Three more to Freedom's name we give,
And shout to see a tyrant fly;
Long may Britannia's saviours live,
Her tyrants all inglorious die!
Britons, &c.

Three times we shout for equal laws,
And in a virtuous jury boast;
May justice and the people's cause,
Reign ev'ry loyal Briton's toast!
Britons, &c.

Roll on, ye years, and days succeed,
That shall to tyrants ruin bring!
Europe shall ratify the deed,
And joyful nations shout and sing,
And Britons wake their gayest glee,
And hail that day with three times three.

DEMOCRITUS JUNIOR;

OR, THE LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.

Tho' life declines, and time the thief,
Has stol'n my bloom away;
I charge thee, fly these cheerful haunts, dull grief,
Nor, think tho' shine my locks all silver-grey,
That I, like dotard old, will fall thy sickly prey.

Light was my heart, when life was young,
As kid o'er verdant plain,
I laugh'd, and danc'd, I snigger'd, toy'd and sung:
The lads and lasses join'd my gamesome strain;
And age stood smirking by us growing young again.

Where are those hours? They are not fled;
My comrades live, and still
Old bald-pates oft we meet, by custom led;
We call up school-boy days with wizard skill,
Repeat our merry pranks, and then a bumper fill.

Why startle at the sparkling glass?
Quaff'd not old Noah wine?
Wise Solomon—did he not toast his lass?
Nor did, tho' grey their beards, their joys decline;
But Laughter was their god, and Laughter shall be mine.

Ye men, who worship hoards of gold,
Yet pleasure dare not taste,
Can I but laugh such men-moles to behold,
Or such as riches only know to waste,
Mere squirrels cracking nuts, and squandering them in haste?

Philosophers, who wink and blink
With close-glass'd peeping eyes,
Can I but laugh, profoundest sirs, to think,
What pride mid those meek looks in ambush lies?
How Folly screens her face mid Wisdom's fair disguise?

Ye magpie poets, chattering rhymes,
And ye, who strains of woe,
Like whining ring-doves, eke against the times,
Magging your saucy clack at all ye know,
Or soothing poor dear selves in numbers sadly slow?

Whether, good sirs, ye rail or pine,
What boots it all to me?
To sit, and prate, like mock-bird, shall be mine,
To chatter, 'plain like you, then off I'll flee;
And jeer you all at once, in one high laughing glee.

Ye patriot souls, so wond'rous grave,
So loving, good, and wise,
Boasting your country ye but wish to save,—
Ye lanky spiders, snaring silly flies;—
Oh! how I sit and laugh, to trace your silken lies.

But queens, and kings, and such like things,
I rev'rence much; and never,
No, never will I laugh at queens or kings;
But crowns from red caps, faith, I cannot sever;
And I could laugh at both, for ever and for ever.

And while I laugh, good Joan, my wife,
Shall sport like damsel gay;
For Joan, kind soul, has laugh'd with me thro' life;
And still, like two old lutes, in tune we play;
And while our hearts are blithe, ne'er dream of life's decay.

Thus, Falstaff-like, I'll live and die,
Laugh long as I can see;
And, when Death's busy hand shall close my eyes,
This bag of jokes I leave-the doctor's fee.
Then, Doctor, when I'm dead, laugh thou, and think of me.

TIMON;

OR, THE MAN-HATER.

Ye comrades, who, when life was young,
When Hope was warm, and Fancy gay,
How are ye fled, ye fluttering throng,
Mere insects of a summer's day!

False world, I now defy thy frown;
Friendship, I court no more thy smile!
This heart, now dead, or senseless grown,
Where could ye torture, how beguile?

Ye books, that cheer'd my lonesome hours,
Ye songs, that charm'd a lover's breast,
Fled, fled is all your boasted power—
Talk ye,—ye once could talk,—of rest?

Deceitful books, that preach of truth,
Your folemn lectures all are lies:
Ye songs, that could beguile my youth,
Can ye relieve a heart, that sighs?

Oh! sun, why sparkle bright thy beams?
Thy marching, why so stately-slow?
Quick-fly, as glides the mountain-stream;—
Why linger thus o'er tents of woe?

Ye lightnings, flash your sires along;
Ye heav'ns, assume your deadliest form;

Ye thunders, mutter deep, and strong,
And let me perish in the storm.

Or, if some gods preside above,
Oh! bear me far from human race;
Wild 'mid some desart let me rove,
And view no smiling fellow face.

Or, on some mountain's side of rock,
Where stray the wild sheep, whistling near,
I'll sit like straggler from the flock,
And surly view the prospect drear.

And, when grey ev'ning's mists arise,
Some lonely ghost shall be my guest,
Whose body now unburied lies,
Who sighs, like me, in vain for rest.

Oh! Nature, by what art combin'd,
Didst thou contrive thy monstrous plan?
I loathe my fellows of mankind;
I hate myself for being man.

THE VOLUNTEER TO THE TRUE PATRIOT.

While venal bards attempt to sound
Thro' years remote the trump of fame,
And call the wondering nations round,
To learn some haughty conqu'ror's name,
Justice demands a purer song,
Let Freedom's sons the strain prolong.

Let such receive their country's praise,
Who Virtue's cause undaunted plead;
And such the Poet's unbought lays,
Who dare in Freedom's cause to bleed.
Justice, &c.

And live there in degenerate times
Men still to public virtue true,
Who, blushing for a nation's crimes,
Still fearless give the honour due?
Justice, &c.

Yes: should a nation prove unjust,
Nor laurels deck the patriot's head;
Genius shall shape the living bust,
And future bards his glory spread.
Justice, &c.

Justice shall far extend her reign,
And Freedom wave her banners wide;
And those immortal honours gain,
Who nobly liv'd, or nobly died.
Justice, &c.

THE SYMPATHIST;

WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE, AT NOON, ON A VERY SULTRY DAY.

Oh! Thou, whose early-beaming smile,
Whose parting blushes gild the sky,
And warm with purest fires the tuneful tribes!
As glows that flower of stately form,
Whose hue of gold to thee unfolds;
So at the tender smile of morn,
So 'mid the sober blush of Eve,
To thee, fair sun, I turn, and bless thy cheering beam.

But now no more—the noontide ray
Has taught the herd to court the shade—

And cheat in social crowds the sullen hours.
Now labour seeks a short repose;
And Love, that oft, at evening mild,
Soft-whispers in the virgin's ear
His tender tale, with many a sigh,
Flags his young wing, and feverish drops his dart.

Me too, this shady, cool alcove,
Me this embowering oak invites,
To sit at ease, and sing the hours away.
Here let me woo the moral muse:
Her voice may suit the noon of life,
Which nor the virgin eye of morn,
Shall cheer again, nor the soft hand
Of matron eve may lead to peaceful bowers.

Ah! now I feel the blaze of day,
That scorches, while it shines; I hear

Life's busy hum, rude war and party rage;
The sun darts downward on this head,
His course direct, nor mild his beams.
The world moves restless, and, at home,
Folly has gorg'd herself with crimes,
And I was born to see, to feel, to mourn.

But, let not private malice boast;—
This breast heeds not her little sting;
Her little sting wounds not the generous breast:
But there's a public monster, gorg'd
With blood of virtuous men, and her sting
Knows where to pierce a nation; her
I dread, her barbed dart I dread,
That, thro' a thousand victims, pierces me.

Here, then, I hail retreat, and shade:
Here taste the sweets of blest repose;

Tho', as yon silent songstress hangs the wing,
And seems to grudge th' autumnal year
Her song of mellowed harmonies;
So droops my voice, and sleeps my song;
So nursing fear, and sympathies of soul,
Sorrowing I sit, and languish at the sun.

Anno 1794.

THE PLAINTIVE MAN'S ADDRESS TO MELANCHOLY.

I

Oh! nymph of pallid hue, and raven hair,
That in sequester'd scenes art wont to rest,
Deep-nurturing some grief within thy breast,
Some weight of grief, that none with thee may share;
Whose eye, whence tears have long forgot to flow,
To Heaven directed looks, of earth afraid:
How dear to me thy form of speechless woe!
And sacred are thy haunts, thou solitary maid!

II

Oft art thou seen beside the willowy stream;
And, though no youthful smile adorns thy face,
Though on thy cheek no roses we may trace,
Yet dost thou, in thy spring of life, some virgin seem.
Thy vesture careless hangs, as snowdrop white;
Loose-floating fall thy locks, unbound thy zone;
Thine eye now softly sad, now wildly bright,
Bespeaks a lover dead, and thou wilt love but one.

III

Now art thou seen slow-lingering in the wood,
Where pours the nightingale her liquid throat,
And varies through the night her love-lorn note,
As tho' her mate were fled, or tender brood.—
To thee more pleasing then the vestment grey,
Pale mourner! saddest of the widow-train,

Doom'd to lament, at thy dark close of day,
Some aged Priam dead—some youthful Hector slain.

IV

Thee, Fancy, sometimes hails the Muse of Woe,
Whom fabled wrongs can wake to real smart;
Ovid's soft fictions make thee melt at heart;
And suffering ghosts instruct the tear to flow.
Does tender sorrow Pity's Bard inspire?
Thy lute responsive breathes the tragic moan:
But, does Orestes curse the God of fire?
Quick dost thou leave thy lute, to listen to his groan.

V

Say, can that pensive look thy mind reveal,
While from thy lips th' unfinished accents fall,

As tho' the forward tongue would utter all,
Which yet thy secret bosom would conceal?
Witness to wrongs, no pity can relieve,
To joys, which flatter, but must shortly flee;
E'en fancied Misery wakes the cause to grieve:
Thou haft a sigh for all; none heaves a sigh for thee!

VI

Then haste thee, Queen of Woe, from mortal eye;
Thy mansion fix within some lonely cell,
Where pale-ey'd Superstition loves to dwell,
Wearied of life, and lingers but to die:
As the sand streams to mark the fleeting hour;
As the death's-head reminds thee of thy doom;
As the spade sinks thy future grave bed lower,
I, too, will learn to die, sad pilgrim at thy tomb!

VII

For, oh! whatever form I see thee wear,
If yet soft Mercy dwell within thy breast;
Thyself so sad, yet anxious to make blest,
For others woe, if thou the sigh wilt spare;
Tho' like the sage that only liv'd to weep;
Tho' all the load of human ills were thine,
For thee will I forego the balmy sleep,
Or, wandering wild like thee, will make thy sorrows mine.

THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.

When long thick tempests waste the plains,
And lightnings cleave an angry sky,
Sorrow invades each anxious swain,
And trembling nymphs to shelter fly.
But should the sun's bright beams appear,
Hush'd are their sighs, and calm'd their fear.

So, when fierce zeal a nation rends,
And dark injustice veils the throne,
Beneath the storm meek virtue bends,
And modest truth is heard to groan:
But let the star of Freedom rise,
They hail the beams with grateful eyes.

Who, then, when patriots long oppress'd,
Decree to curb a tyrant's pride,

And justice fires a nation's breast,
Who shall the gen'rous ardour chide?
What shall withstand the great decree,
When a brave nation will be free?

Thus Greece repell'd her num'rous foes
Thus Britain curb'd a Stuart's race;
Thus Gallia's sons to glory rose,
Heralds of Peace to future days:
And thus may all the nations rise,
And shout their triumphs to the skies!

The wars of ages thus decided,
Commerce shall bless each smiling land;
And man from man no more divided,
In peace shall live, a friendly band.
But, tyrants with their glare of pow'r,
Like meteors fall, to rise no more.

Then blooming youths, and sages hoary,
Shall sing the deeds of ancient days,
And tender virgins learn the story,
And children lisp their grandsires praise.
The heavens shall smile, and earth be gay,
When Peace with Freedom rules the day.

THE SAILOR

THE SCENE, SCOTLAND.

My dame, behold a sailor brave!
And he must quickly plough the sea;
Must leave, for ocean's boist'rous wave,
The rippling brook, and whispering tree.
The blackbird calls; the skylarks ring
Shrill carols thro' the welkin clear;
Nature's full chorus seems to sing,
“Still, happy sailor, linger here.”

But, Dame, you view a sailor brave;
And he must plough the boist'rous wave.

Yon dainty palace charms my eye,
And Avon's waters sweetly glide,

Fair Bircleugh's flowery terrace nigh,
Hast'ning to meet the bonny Clyde:
Ah! pleasing scene!—in rapt'rous mood,
How near thy braes I still could stray!
How range yon deep romantic wood,
And talk of love the live-long day!

But, Dame, &c.

As dew-drop Peggy's eye is bright,
Your Peggy's cheek as lily fair,
Her feet, as hare's, move soft and light,
Her voice like blackbird's loud and clear.
And she can soften every heart,
When fond she sings her “Highland Laddie;”
So quickly, Dame, must I depart,
And keep my heart still tight and steady.

But, Dame, &c.

But, when on ocean's restless bed,
The ship rolls rocking to the wind,
When shores and cliffs, and hills are fled,
Thy kindness will I call to mind.
When dowie droops my head with grief,
And from my eye-lid steals a tear,
In grateful thoughts I'll find relief,
And Peggy's song my heart shall cheer.

But, Dame, you view a sailor brave,
And now he hastes to plough the wave.

HORACE.

Why, when I view those cherry lips,
That breast of sweets, those eyes of fire,
While Fancy from thy mouth rich nectar sips,
And round thy neck entwines each young desire?

Why should I ask, if twenty years,
Or twenty more matur'd those charms,
Thy breath, more soft than spring, thy lover cheers,
And more than summer lingers in thy arms.

The Muse for thee is proud to sing,
The Graces lead the dance to thee,
The Nymphs to thee their sweetest flowrets bring:
Oh! then it surely cannot winter be.

What tho' the bloom of years were fled,
The heats of love all pass'd away?
Yet wisdom could on age new lustre shed,
As a sweet glory gilds the parting day.

THE ADDRESS

OF A POOR PRIVATE, WITH HIS FAMILY, WHILE PUBLIC MEN WERE ENGAGED IN A FAST.

Great Framer of unnumber'd worlds,
And whom unnumber'd worlds adore;
Whose goodness all thy creatures share,
While Nature trembles at thy power:

Thine is the hand that moves the spheres,
That wakes the winds, and lifts the sea,
And man, who moves the lord of earth,
Acts but the part assign'd by thee.

Kings, at whose will a nation bends,
Bow at thy throne, and own thy sway,

And, tho' like gods they tread on earth,
To thee the duteous service pay.

Chiefs, tho' with numerous hosts combin'd,
They fellow-blood in torrents spill,
Eager for conquest and for fame,
Do but thy great designs fulfill.

While suppliant crowds implore thy aid,
To thee we raise the humble cry,
Thine altar is the contrite heart,
Thine incense a repentant sigh.

But, if injustice grind the poor,
Or avarice stain the sordid hand;
Or fierce ambition thirst for blood,
Or rude oppression waste the land;

The God, who hears the orphan's cry,
The widow's pray'r, the prisoner's groan,

Still list'ning to the poor opprest,
Shall spurn th' oppressor from his throne.

Nor will he heed the lifted eye,
The suppliant hand, the bending knee,
Nor altars grac'd with splendid rites,
The forms of public mockery.

Oh! Britain, in thy sober hour,
Learn justice, nor contemn the rod!
So will he love to be thy friend,
If thus thou own him, as thy God.

SIMONIDES.

[_]

A TRANSLATION FROM THE GREEK.

When on the motley-painted chest the wind
Blew boistrous, and by dire commotions stirr'd,
The rising surges roar'd,
Fair Danae, while trickled down her cheek
The frequent tear, felt all a mother's pangs;
Round her young Perseus, round her dearest babe,
She threw, resign'd to fate, her lovely arm,
And breath'd, thus softly breath'd, the sorrows of her soul.

Ah! me, my child, what griefs do I endure!
Whilst thou, dear suckling babe, ill-omen'd child,
Sleepest, with heart at rest;
Sleepest in joyless, brass-encircled house;

And dark the night, tho' gleams the moon serene.
The wave, that passes thy unmoisten'd locks,
Thou heedest not; thou hearest not the winds;
For calm is thy lov'd face, in purple vestment veil'd.

Ills now press on; and, didst thou know those ills,
How wouldst thou to my words, my words of woe,
Lend me thy little ear!
Sleep, then, my babe, thy mother bids thee sleep;
And sleep the waves, and sleep my sea of cares.
Yet, oh! my father Jove, confound their schemes!
Bold now the prayer—oh! may my Perseus live!
Still may he live, and still revenge his mother's wrongs.

SAPPHO;

OR, THE RESOLVE.

Yes, I have lov'd: yet often have I said,
Love in this breast shall never revel more;
But I will listen to wild ocean's roar,
Or, like some out-cast solitary shade,
Will cling upon the howlings of the wind,
Till I grow deaf and lifeless, cold and blind.
But, ah! enchantress, cease the tender lay,
Nor tune thy lyre to notes, thus softly slow;
Those eyes—oh take those melting eyes away!
Nor let those lips with honey'd sweets o'erflow;—
Nor let meek Pity pale that lovely cheek,
Nor weep, as wretches their long-sufferings speak.

With forms so fair endued, oh! Venus, why
Are Lesbian maids, or with such weakness I?
Do Lesbian damsels touch the melting lyre?
My lyre is mute; and I in silence gaze;
As tho' the muse did not this breast inspire,
I lose in tenderer loves the love of praise.
Oh! Sappho, how art thou imprisoned round,
Beauty's weak captive, fast-enchain'd with sound!
Frail, frail resolve! vain promise of a day!
I see, I hear, I feel, and die away.

ANACREON

TO A CAT.

Prince of cats, with skin so sleek,
Sharpen'd mouth, and jetty cheek,
And tail, as coral shining-bright,
And eyes, that can defy the night:
With whiskers, claws, and scenting nose,
For ever mousing, as it goes—
All these proclaim as mere a cat,
As ever tuzzled mouse, or rat.
But when I mark, thy mistress nigh,
—And I have look'd with searching eye,—
The purring soft, the tender gaze,
And all thy little fondling ways,
The playful tail, the touch so bland,
When stroking Sappho's lovely hand,

And when on Sappho's bosom spread,
I see thee nestle close thy head,
—And this, and more than this I see,
Till, happy puss, I envy thee:—
Oh! then, methinks, time was, that thou
Wast not, what thou appearest now:
While drinking thus of love thy fill,
Thou seemest but a lover still;—
Yes, prince of cats, if right I scan,
The time has been, when thou wast, man.

THE APOLOGIST.

[_]

FROM THE FRENCH OF DE SEGUR.

Think not, tho' gaily flows the lay,
Too meanly of the tuneful art:
Song claims the right to flirt and play,
Nor less can act the moral part.
Mirth, while it lightly trips along,
The weightier Truth shall lift to light;
And hence I learn to rev'rence song,
While still its milder charms delight.

The Samian prince, that prince severe,
His people rul'd with iron hand:
Great was his power, and great their fear;
None durst resist the dread command.

Anacreon charm'd the tyrant down,
Assuag'd his wrath, and wak'd desire,
Such force have tender numbers shewn!
And hence I love the tender lyre.

The rose, ere yet its leaves unfold,
Requires the sun's enlivening ray;
And, would you warm the heart, when cold?
Go, try the love-inspiring lay.
Ah! little aids the prose-told tale,
Dress'd in no charms, nor wing'd with fire:
But love, in verse, shall seldom fail;
And therefore will I bless the lyre.

Behold the man of dauntless brow,
Who knows no measure in his crimes!
To stoic rules he scorns to bow;
He dreads no censor of the times.

But ridicule, if it reprove,
Shall leave the long-remember'd smart;
And hence I love the shafts of song,
For they can reach the guilty heart.

When griefs and cares perplex'd my breast,
To books I ran, to seek relief:
But Plato could not yield me rest,
And Seneca brought no relief.
Anacreon, more one verse of thine,
Than seven old sages, me shall please:
Still, then, shall playful song be mine;
For song the troubled heart shall ease!

161

The DREAMS of PINDUS.

In that blithe season, when, on every spray,
Love lifts the fluttering wing, and warms each flow'r,
In muse-frequented, fancy-colour'd bower,
Sleep's pris'ner, lock'd in vision deep, I lay:
Isis, fair river, flows the bower beside,
Moist'ning the bank, as wont, with kisses sweet;
While Cherwell pours along his silver tide,
The kindred-stream in kind embrace to meet:—
“Ah! thus I cried, as now these streams combine,
“Might man with fellow-man in friendly union join.”

The stately sun had left his mid-day throne;
And on the waters play'd his sloping beam;

162

Silent awhile the feather'd warblers seem;
And faint with heat, the daisied meadows shone.
Soon as soft slumbers have ensnar'd my eyes,
I hear a voice, that speaks in accent strong;
“Bright scenes shall rise successive: man, be wise,
“And mark each shadowy form, that glides along.”
Now all is still: a fairer landscape shines,
Of Nature's liveliest green, of Beauty's boldest lines.

One vision soon is past;—when I behold
A Form descend, whom nine fair virgins led;
A glory beams from his ambrosial head:
Bright are his eyes: his locks all-shining gold:
A golden chaplet binds his comely brows;
His golden lyre with art is aptly strung:
And now, with musings deep his visage glows,

163

While nature rapt in mute attention hung.
But when th' immortal minstrel strikes the lyre,
What high-born raptures seize that blest enthusiast choir?

What pencil may describe those virgins fair,
Their mystic forms, their eyes of heav'nly light?
Where poesy and music's powers unite,
Who may their many-mingling charms declare?
These damsels sing in turn, then sweep the string
Of loftier harp, or breathe the melting lute;
Now clang the citterns, now the cymbals ring,
As different sounds the different genius suit.
Thus Fancy, ever various, loves to please;
Thus from light discord calls the sweeter harmonies.

164

Proud was their song; of gods, and heroes brave,
Of Jove loud-thundering, and his awful queen,
And her, the virgin rare, of Sylvan mien,
And Beauty's goddess, sprung from ocean wave:
Nor less of her, the warrior, from whose eye
Beam'd wisdom, gorgon-terror from whose breast;
And him, that god, who lifts the tempest high,
Or calms at will the raging sea to rest:
All to whose power immortal heights belong;
All, whom the muse has deign'd to raise in deathless song.

But quickly now successive to my view,
Far different forms, and different scenes arise,
Suns dazzling-bright, and ever-purpling skies,
Ambrosial streams, and fields of heavenly hue:

165

And far away a wide-extended stream,
Sacred the name, and dear in Eastern lore,
(More stately lives not in the poet's dream)
Rolls its proud wave beside the silent shore.
And hark! a thousand songs to Mithra rise,
Luxuriant as the fields, and glowing as the skies.

The rapt'rous notes fill every sacred bower,
Till now, as slumb'ring, clos'd the eye of day;
Then pour'd the nightingale his liquid lay,
Perch'd on a branch beside a favourite flower:
And near the flower his eyes are glittering-bright;
And near the flower his notes so wildly rove,
As though his little breast with fond delight
Would break, for blooming Rosa was his love.

166

“Sweetest of flowers, oh! still thy stay prolong:
“Oh! sweetest bird, still pour thy soothing melting song.”

The scene is chang'd—now towering forms I view,
With limbs of giant-size, and yellow hair;
And loud to heaven they lift the warlike air;
Bold is their front: their eyes of heavenly blue.
Louder and louder still resounds the strain;
Wild clash the shields, responsive to the sound;
While warriors, mail'd in horror, scour the plain,
And griesly foemen, groaning, bite the ground!
“Joy to the brave!” I hear the bardic cry;
“Lift high (the day is won) the song of victory!

167

And now fantastic forms around are seen,
Goblins and griffins, sprites, a motley band,
And he, who whilom rul'd in fairy-land,
That merry, pranking king, and elfin queen.
“Oh! stay thee, Oberon—lo! a gentle knight
“Implores thy aid, on val'rous deeds intent;
“True to his love, and panting for the fight,
“On great emprize in distant regions bent.”
Oberon is stay'd; “and take that horn, he cries,
“And take that sacred ring, and every danger flies.”

And lo! a castle rears its lofty wall,
And fiery dragons guard the building round;
Ah! who would dare to tread infernal ground?
The knight has dared: no terrors may appal:
Though hell were near the place, he must advance:
Deep-foams his fiery steed, and prances high,

168

Till, by the terror of his flaming lance,
Close-lock'd in death those raving monsters lie.
Loud-blows his horn: the gates wide open spread:
And proud he enters in, and towers his crested head.

And, oh! what freezing scenes to view unfold!
How stare, with horror wild, his stony eyes!
What piteous howlings, and what frantic cries!
Stound are his ears! his blood runs shivering—cold!
Here deep enthrall'd lies many a lady bright,
Ah! doom'd by giant curs'd to writhe in pain,
Or yield, vile service! to his damn'd delight,
Who, deep retir'd, here holds his dev'lish reign:—
But by the knight's stout arm that monster fell
Has felt the stroke of death, and hastens down to hell.

169

“Now, ladies, take heav'n's fairest, richest boon,
“Freedom is yours; God speed you on your way:”
And now the knight shall hail the happy day;
High the desert, and he shall triumph soon:
A princess bright (such honours crown the brave)
In pride of youth awaits thy wish'd return;
Full many a fair, sir knight, 'twas thine to save;
Nor vainly could that breast with glory burn.
—And now the fairy scene eludes my sight;
Fled is the princess fair, and fled the valorous knight.

But hark! the master of the Runic rhime,
Strikes the hoarse shell, and wakes the rumbling lay;
And lo! the sire of men pursues his way,
To try Vastrudnis' skill in truth sublime.
Now Gothic wisdom beams upon my sight;

170

Now mystic truth enchains my wond'ring mind;
Whence earth and heav'n, and all those worlds of light,
The mighty gods, and heroes of mankind;
The Morning's virgin eye, Eve's purple glow,
And all the flowers that bloom, and all the herbs that grow.

But thick now hurtling in the murky air,
See glittering helms, and many a quivering lance!
And, lo! the fatal sisters now advance,
Orkney, for woe! Erin for woe prepare!
Lo! north and south the griesly spectres fly:
Grim-visag'd Terror scowls on all the plain;
And, hark! the pond'rous groan, the frantic cry,
The cry, the groan of many a hero slain.
—Close, scene of horror, on my aching eyes!
The fatal dames are sped;—and lo! the vision flies.

171

But mighty squadrons now embattle round,
And guilty conquest has distain'd the field:
Heralds of peace—must they to fury yield?
Shall unarm'd victims feel the deadly wound?
Yes! they have fall'n, the bards, fair Cambria's pride,
Truth's tuneful priests, to heav'n they lift the prayer.
Yet not unmourn'd the blameless victims died;
See distant harpers hov'ring in the air!
While brave Aneurin mourns his Hoel slain;
And Pity droops the head at soft Llewellyn's strain.

Thus do these visionary pageants gleam;
Some quick retire, while others glittering rise;
As once those angel-shapes from opening skies,
Passing, repassing, liv'd in Jacob's dream.
Ah! scenes that live in Fancy's fruitful eye!
Ah! forms that can beguile a life of woe!

172

Who, proud in truth, would ev'ry day-dream fly?
Who, rob'd in wisdom, Fancy's charm forego?
Return! unreal forms, if ye can please;
Oh! take my sober thoughts, and wrap my soul in ease.

Last in the train I hear a tuneful band,
—Still vibrates on my ear the various song,—
To whom the potent charms of verse belong;
Mortals they seem, and seem of diff'rent land;
Their voices diff'rent, loud, soft, shrill, and clear:
How drinks my ear each bold and liquid lay!
How thrills my heart with pity, love, and fear,
As pierc'd with horror wild, or transport gay!
Trembling, I cry, oh! might I aid that choir!
But fruitless all the pray'r—the shadowy groups retire.

173

Now all is past, and not a form is seen;
While silence reigns—(as when a vernal shower
Sheds on the meadows round a fruitful store,
And leaves the grateful landscape all serene)
But soon,—thus changeful is the life of man—
Some genius leads me to a secret cave,
Form'd by proportion's nicest, truest plan,
And Ocean rolls beside the placid wave.
Straight as I enter, oh! what sweet surprise
Has seiz'd my raptur'd heart, and fill'd my ravish'd eyes!

There art had cull'd from nature stores divine;
There plac'd in brilliant rows with studious care,
Whatever boasts the sea of treasures rare;
Whate'er of sparkling ore conceals the mine;
The branching coral, red, and white, and blue,
The silvery pearl, the crystal bright and clear,

174

Em'ralds of green, the ruby's scarlet hue,
The pride of climes, and blossoms of the year;
All, that could please and charm a gazer's eyes;
For here, though small the spot, did seem a paradise.

By nymphs attended, here a Sylvan maid,
(Cities she fled, and spurn'd the chain of Love;
Her love, to range the mountain, stream, and grove)
Finds rest and coolness in the quiet shade.
And near, an aged dame, of power supreme,—
Prolific parent she, the sov'reign high
Of nature's boundless realms—yet fond did seem
Of simplest chaplet, cull'd from meadows nigh.
How mild her eye!—Thus beams the morning light—
How all the Goddess Form now swells upon my sight!

175

“Be thine,” she said, and gaz'd upon the flowers,
With looks of melting sweetness and delight,
“With many a dazzling scene to feast thy sight;
“To follow Fiction through her magic bowers;
“To trip with Fancy in her airy dance,
“With tiptoe revelries, and wild surprize:
“To mark each pageant in its proud advance
“From shadowy deeps, and visionary skies:
“Sweet are the haunts, wherever genius roves,
“Through fields of vision'd bliss, or academic groves.

“Sooth'd into softness by the melting song,
“Charm'd into reverence by the mighty theme,
“Be thine to kindle at each muse's dream,
“To hail with reverence all the tuneful throng.
“Theirs be the praise—nor slender be the praise,—
“To make new worlds, to burst the bounds of time,

176

“Their stately monument of fame to raise,
“And on the heart to bind the magic rhyme:
“Bold their design, each daring charm to seize,
“And rouse to wonder, where they mean to please.

“Thine be the warblings of the humbler lyre,
“Humble, but not inglorious: thine to sing
“The Morning's glittering eye, the virgin Spring,
“The power of Beauty, Freedom's holy fire;
“To guide the youthful poet on his way;
“To rouse the virtues, soothe the soul of pain.
Enough: if Genius may but feel the lay;
Enough: if Friendship but approve the strain:
And if, for life's short day-dream soon shall fly,
The muse may charm a pang, or check a rising sigh.

177

THE PADLOCKED LADY.

A VISION.

Hence the world!—and sleep my muse!
So will I stroll, where'er I choose;
Roll in my chariot o'er the seas;
Or ride a broomstick, if I please;
Breakfast with gods, and take my dinner
With any saint, or any sinner;
And sup at eve, to kill the spleen,
With Mab, my little fairy-queen.

'Tis done;—and sleep has bound my eyes;
—'Tis done; and now the vision flies:
For, 'tis not given me to be long,
To speak the myst'ries of my song.
Listen ye young, and listen old,
And try the vision to unfold.

178

Far I travelled to the East,
And far I travelled to the West;
I pinch'd the North-Bear's frozen tail;
And Southward, Southward, now I sail.
As late I wander far, and far,
To watch the rising ev'ning-star;
And, heedless of the lapse of time,
Muse, as I go, the mystic rhyme,
From human footsteps far I stray,
Thro' deep long labyrinths of way;
Till now, from mazes round and round,
My feet have reach'd their utmost bound:
For, on the lonely rocky shore,
I hear the ocean's thund'ring roar.

Above my head huge mountains rise,
That seem to lift a weight of skies
Where, lost in the mysterious height,
The garish eagle wires his flight.

179

Ah! vain it were to track the wind,
As, backward now the path to find!
And forward nothing can I view,
But boundless seas, and skies of blue.
And who will guide my doubtful feet?
Oh! might I some kind genius meet!
For lonely, ah! lonely, here I stray,
Pilgrim benighted on my way.

“Behold me, on your call attend—
“Pilgrim! Behold your guide and friend.”

I look—and, wondering, I behold
Near me a Form erect, but old.
White was his beard, as virgin-snows,
And a white garment downward flows.
Still on his cheek the rose was spread;
And his blue eyes a lustre shed.

180

For, though in years he seem'd a Sage,
His was the reverend charm of age.
“Pilgrim bewildered, I would know,
“What is the course thy feet would go?
“But, ere my hand direct the way,
“Say, pilgrim, whence thy footsteps stray?”

As late enwrapt in sleep I lay,
While still smil'd out the face of day,
I saw a Form, as seraph bright,
Descend from realms of heavenly light.
Her wings, wide-waving, brightly shone,
Resplendent as an eastern sun.
Her locks of gold stream loose behind,
Disporting in the frolic wind.
The rosy cheek, the eye of fire,
The gay luxuriance of attire,
Her movements, negligently gay,
Distinctly to my gaze display,

181

Far, far beyond the reach of art,
All, that can win upon the heart.
My heart is won, and now I rove,
If I may see the form I love.
My heart is won, and yet my heart
Feels nought of love, except the smart.
For ne'er, methought, these eyes shall see,
A being heavenly-fair as she.
Still while I press, her image flies,
And in my void embraces dies;
A restless lover, still I stray,
Flitting, and urging life away.
I seek what never may be found;
And I have sought the world around.

Swift as the wing of morning-light,
Downward I first direct my flight.

182

Nile, Egypt's pride, in current strong,
Rolls the salubrious stream along.
And now, I range at large the shores
Thro' all the motley tribes of Moors;
Nations and kingdoms far and wide,
As still my strong affections guide;
This all my wish, and all my prayer,
“Oh! might I find this heavenly fair!”

Lo! backward then I urge my course,
And track the Nile's prolific source.
Till, quick as thought, I traverse o'er
The desert plain, the mountain hoar;
Tracts immense of blasted land,
Boggy wastes, and scorching sand,
Where never rain descends in showers,
Nor zephyr lingers in the bowers:
No fruit, no herb, no flowers appear;—
One burning summer binds the year.

183

I hear the Lybian lion roar;
I pass the tiger, gorg'd with gore.
The sullen bear beside me prowls,
And the grim wolf, as famish'd, howls.
—Bold is my heart, my spirits gay,
I heed no troublers of the way.
Thus thro' all Afric's realms I go,
Still anxious thro' those realms to know,
—'Tis all my wish, 'tis all my pray'r,—
If here might dwell this heav'nly fair.

They bring a dame, “and this is she,
“Beauteous and wife, and great and free.”
“Azza her name, I wear her chain,
“And far and wide is Azza's reign.”

My heavenly fair! it was not she:—
Azza was neither fair, nor free.

184

Her visage dark, but told within
Some hidden mystery of stn.
Darkly her savage eyeballs roll,
But darker, ah! darker was her soul.
Vers'd in the depth of female wiles,
Death, slav'ry, hell, were in her smiles.
Hence in disdain I took my flight,
Who shall mislead a lover's sight?

Lo! now I face the eastern sun!
And quick as light my course is run.
Bright upon my ravish'd eyes,
All Asia's golden glories rise.
Full in my sight, before me go,
In all the pomp and pride of show,
Kings, princes, emperors, sages grave,
Warrior-chiefs, and heroes brave.
And many a female form is seen,

185

And each might pass for Beauty's queen:
Still all my wish and all my prayer,
“Oh! could I meet my heavenly fair!”

They bring a dame, “and this is she;—
“Leila is beauteous, great and free.”
Not the crystal, clear and bright,
Shone like her eyes' ætherial light;
Not the pearl, however fair,
Could with her snowy skin compare;
Her cheek a colour did disclose,
Beyond the ruby, or the rose;
Her locks in easy ringlets play'd,
Darker than night's mysterious shade:
Her lovely lips were blushing-red,
Like coral in its native bed;
Her breath than violet more sweet;
Her teeth like iv'ry white and neat.

186

And to what Nature could impart,
Leila had ev'ry charm of Art.

Realms were subject to her sway,
And hosts of slaves her call obey.
Merchants and nobles do but roam,
To bring for Leila treasures home.
Heziaz' nards, and Mecca's flowers,
And all the soul of Tuda's bowers;
Each perfume, that its sweets distills,
From Naged's groves, or Naidis' hills;
All that in Golconda shines
Of glittering rock, or golden mines;
All on the lovely Leila wait,
For not more beauteous she than great.

But what is beauty, what is power?
Fleeting like the passing hour.

187

Beauty, scarce beauty seems to be,
That spurns the glory to be free.
Riches are poor, and power is weak,
Unless they nobler triumphs seek.
Leila would every thought control,
For she was tyrant in the soul.
My heavenly fair!—It was not she—
I scorn the dame, that is not free.
Hence in disdain I take my flight:
Who shall mislead a lover's sight?

But loftier now I soar in soul,
Uprising towards the northern pole:
O'er woods, and rocks, and hills of snow,
Swift as the whirlwind's speed I go.
Now on the ocean vast I roam,
And see the Norway monster foam,
Floating along for many a mile,
As some proud sea encircled isle;

188

While, like tall masts, sea serpents rise,
With sinuous motions to the skies:
Till backward now I gain the strand,
And traverse thro' each distant land.
Swift thro' Lapland's frosts I haste;
Swift thro' Siberia's trackless waste;
See people fierce, and people strong,
In hardy squadrons wheel along;
See princes in long order go,
With royal port and martial brow;
See many a smiling royal dame,
With eye of fire, and stately frame;
Still all my wish, and all my prayer,
“Where shall I find my heavenly fair?”

“Behold your dame! and this is she;
“Skada is beauteous, fair, and free.”

189

My heavenly fair! It was not she:—
Skada was neither fair nor free.
Wild was her look, and stern her air,
Fierce as a northern meteor's glare.
Skada, tho' practis'd long in art,
Ne'er felt the softness of the heart.
Her will was law; her word was fate:
Her only glory to be great.
Hence in disdain I take my flight;
Who shall mislead a lover's fight?

Now like a spirit airy-free,
Soon have I pass'd th' Atlantic sea;
And I have reach'd Columbia's shore,
And travell'd motley nations o'er.
Rapt in my strange mysterious love,
Northward many a league I rove.

190

Still anxious, restless still I go,
O'er seas of ice, and hills of snow;
Valleys, that shew no verdure's pride,
And lakes, that spread like ocean wide;
Till pinnacling a neck of land,
Between two boundless seas I stand.
Then downward far I take my flight,
O'er sunny plains, o'er many an height.
Peruvian mines, and Chili's shades
Soon my restless soul pervades;
Rivers, that teem with golden ore,
And rocks, that gild the southern shore.
And many a youth, and many a dame,
Of lofty port, and royal name,
Pass and repass before my sight,
All in glittering robes bedight.
Yet none of all the dames I see,
Is like my charmer fair and free.

191

Again, as quick as lightning fleets,
I pass the equinoctial heats.
And now I wander every plain,
Wide-stretching towards th' Atlantic main.
Here many a distant state I see
All by one settled league agree;
(As still around a glorious sun,
The planets far-encircling run;)
Each people differing much in name,
But still in arts and laws the same.
Here Love was gay, and honest Toil
Had labour'd long the happy soil:
And Plenty well rewards the pain,
For every field wide-waves with grain.;
With sail outstretch'd, while Commerce stands,
Prepar'd to visit distant lands;
Tho' Want compells no swain to roam,
For Peace endears a native home.

192

Ah! happy, happy people tell,
Does here my lovely charmer dwell?
Still all my wish and all my prayer,
That I might meet my heavenly fair.

They bring a dame—“and this is she—
“Lo! Eleutheria! great and free.”

The dame was free, the dame was bright,
Glittering her eye, like heaven's own light.
Her locks of gold stream loose behind,
Disporting as the frolic wind.
The rosy cheek, the soul of fire,
The gay luxuriance of attire;
Her movements, negligently gay,
Distinctly to my gaze display,
Far, far beyond the reach of art,
All, that can win upon the heart.

193

Warm glows my breast; my spirits rise;—
And rapture kindles in my eyes!
Till shivering cold, at length, prevails
Thro' all my limbs—and language fails.
Then accents faint my soul declare,
“Yes! thou art she! my heavenly fair.”

With virgin blush and smiling eyes
Fair Eleutheria straight replies—
Pilgrim, not yet thy course is run,
Pilgrim, not yet thy labour done.
Tho' mild my form, tho' free my air,
Yet am I not thy noble fair;
Tho' still with her I kindred claim,
And from her I derive my name.
In a gay isle, beyond the main,
My mother holds her golden reign.
The fairest she the fair among,
For ever fair, for ever young.

194

And she hath many ages told;
But seems in wisdom only old.
Tho' small the native realms she owns,
Yet does she govern distant thrones.
Her empire reaches far and wide;
Thro' every sea her navies ride:
The treasures rare of every soil
She brings, to bless her fav'rite isle.
And, while she boasts the treasures rare,
Still her own fields are fresh and fair.
This said, fair Eleutheria flies,
Quick-glancing from my longing eyes.

High-beats my lofty soul again;
I skim across th' Atlantic main:
This isle I see—my hopes expand;
And quick I traverse all the land.
But tho' I travel round and round,
Yet no where is my charmer found:

195

Tho' still my wish, and still my prayer,
Oh! could I meet my heavenly fair!
And here at length my course I stay,
From many a labyrinth wild of way.
What fate, oh Sage! remains for me?
Say, canst thou read Heaven's high decree?

The Sage replies—Yes! son, I know,
Whence thou dost come, and where wouldst go.
Pilgrim, not yet thy course is run,
Pilgrim, not yet thy labour done.
Heav'n's ways I read—and well attend;
In me behold a guide and friend.

In vain thy wanderings far and near,
Thy lovely mistress dwells not here.
The isle, for which thy spirit sighs,
Still many a league in distance lies.

196

Nor let these words thy soul affright,
Lo! once for all I set thee right.

He said—and high he rais'd his hand;
And wide he wav'd his magic wand;
When thus: “To man 'tis giv'n to know
“His share of bliss, and share of woe.
“Soon shalt thou view the wish'd-for isle,
“Towards which thou long wast doom'd to toil;
“Soon shalt behold the matchless dame,
“Whom thou dost ‘heavenly fair’ proclaim.
“And thou shalt view her passing-great,
“Rob'd in full majesty of state;
“But still, with soul of anguish too,
“That heav'nly Fair degraded view.
“My mission past, lo! I retire,
“Thy guide is near—no more inquire.”

197

Soft-glides a vessel now to shore,
And, lo! the Sage is seen no more.

I enter—softly blows the breeze;
Mild is the sun, and smooth the seas.
With swelling sail, and streamers gay,
The vessel cuts the watry way.
Soft Lydian measures lull to rest
The rising cares, that swell my breast.
No adverse winds obstruct our course;
No marshall'd billows urge their force.
In quiet state and gilded pride,
Quick o'er the ocean-stream we glide.
Till soon, in skies of lightest blue,
Glittering cliffs ascend to view;
And now behold the wish'd-for land!
And now we wander o'er the strand.
Nor doubts, nor fears, my course impede,
I follow on, as Heav'n may lead.

198

In a long deep recess there lies
A cave unseen by mortal eyes.
High on each side huge rocks arise,
And proudly seem to scale the skies.
The jetting sides compose a bay,
Where Ocean lingers long his way:
For here the silent waters sleep,
As broken from the parent deep.
Woods grace the rocks, and from their brow
On the dark waters frown below.

See now before my ravished eyes
A mighty scene of wonders rise!
The waters near the cave are fled,
And mingle with their native bed.
Then soon I view the sacred cave,
Clos'd in, till now, beneath the wave.

199

And wide the massy gates unfold,
Massy gates of glittering gold.
Thro' all my limbs what trembling reigns!
What freezing runs thro' all my veins!—
Spring in alarm my hopes and fears;
With sounds unusual ring my ears.
And from my cheek the colour flies;
And all of sight has left my eyes.
My voice is gone,—and swims my head,—
I seem, as life itself were fled.
When, lo! the Sage who set aright
My course, appears again in sight.
And high aloft he lifts his hand,
And wide he waves his magic wand.
I glow again—my fears are borne
Swift, as retreat the dreams of morn:
I enter, gazing round and round,
As treading consecrated ground.

200

Here I behold each emblem fair
Of every art and science rare.
There a gay vessel charms my sight,
In pearls, and glittering diamonds bright,
A ship's fair model, emblem made
Of commerce, far and wide display'd;
And relicks rare of ancient times,
And stones and gems of distant climes,
And silks of more than Tyrian dies,
And flow'rs, and fruits of warmest skies.
Now gazing on from side to side,
I pierce a forest's branching pride.
And every tree of living hue
Spreads its full honours to the view.
Here rise the poplar's silvery lines,
And ash with scarlet berries shines;
The cypress walk, for lovers made,
And cedar's deep religious shade.

201

The chesnut's dark umbrageous green,
With many a flowery gem between,
Doth each its daintiest verdure spread,
Lifting aloft the towering head.
But above all conspicuous stands,
And wide its reverend arms expands,
As it a thousand years had stood,
The oak, great monarch of the wood.
And many a youth, and many a maid,
Were dancing in the chequer'd shade.
While by woodside, on mountain steep,
Wander'd a flock of snow-white sheep;
And sidelong stretch'd a shepherd gay,
Piping his sweetest pastoral lay.
Still I advance—till soon I gain,
In musing lost, a spacious plain.
When thus my old magician-friend,
Pilgrim, lo! here thy wanderings end.

202

I look, and full before my eyes,
A thousand thousand glories rise.
High seated on a stately throne,
That form divinely glorious shone;
Shone out that form transcendent-bright,
That whilom charm'd my ravish'd sight;
Which I had sought, but never found,
Tho' wandering wild the world around;
Which still could every care beguile;—
And she was goddess of the isle.
On either side a brilliant band
In silent adoration stand,
The highborn natives of the isle,
And strangers, from a distant soil;
—For far and wide was spread her fame,
And all who knew, rever'd the name.—
And here of every land and tongue,
Were masters of the mighty song;

203

All proud to lift their loftiest lays,
And sound this heavenly Lady's praise.
I hear the warblings of the lyre,
As teeming with Apollo's fire.
The deep mouth'd organ's peal I hear,
As tho' Cecilia's soul were near.
I hear the trumpet's martial sound,
As warrior-souls were thronging round.
And the drum's longest, loudest beat,
As when two hostile armies meet.
I hear the melting lute complain,
As telling Love's delicious pain.
And thousand voices too I hear,
Loud and strong, and soft and clear,
All in one mighty theme combine,
All in symphonious chorus join.
Deep rolls the stream of sound along,
In the full majesty of song.

204

And still the descant's boldest lays
Clos'd with the burden of her praise.

But, ah! not splendid scenes alone,
And Peace's milder lustre shone;
Nor only Plenty's form appears;
Nor only Music charms the ears.
Hark! I hear—not distant far
March'd the Giant Fiend of war.
Yonder roll'd the kindled storms,
Yonder strode the warrior forms.
Arms against arms embattled clang,
And with wild shouts the mountain rang.
Who may the warrior's pride control?—
Lavish, too lavish of the soul,
Lo! many a gallant hero slain,
And blood empurples all the slain.

205

Faint, and more faint they draw their breath,
And, hark! the mighty groan in death.
While famish'd eagles hovering round
Drink life-blood from each gasping wound.
In vain for sires the children mourn,
And wives expect their lords return.
Quick thro' their veins the spirits flee,
Nor wife, nor child, they more shall see.

New horrors rise!—Behold a throng
Of hapless negroes trail along;
From native lands the sufferers go,
To nurse their long, long tale of woe;
In distant realms, to toil unknown;
To pour unheard the secret groan;
To wear the vile tremendous chain;
And linger life away in pain.

206

Rest of the dear delights of life,
Friend, parent, husband, child, and wife;
Like the poor refuse of their race,
Labour their all, and long disgrace.
And e'en where splendid scenes arise,
While Peace looks on with smiling eyes,
Where Plenty's cheerful form appears,
And sweetest music charms the ears,
Many a feeble form I view,
And many a cheek of pallid hue.
Want was there, and trembling Age
Pining in life's last lingering stage.
And, e'en amid the tuneful throng
Was many a son of rapturous song,
But mute as tho' the Muses' fires
Ne'er warm'd their hearts, or rous'd their lyres.
In vain sweet measures thrill around;
In vain the swell and pomp of sound;

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What shall the soul all-hopeless cheer?
The numbers die upon their ear.
Silent they sat, while thro' their souls
A tide of mighty sorrows rolls.

I now, with slow and awful pace,
Approach the Lady of the place:
When, sudden on my wondering eyes,
I see a curious structure rise:
A high triumphant arch, that wears
The beauteous reverend pomp of years:
—As when, in Grecia's happier days,
The conqu'ror claim'd his wreathe of praise,
And, in gay triumphs, proud to ride,
With vanquish'd warriors by his side—
High o'er the arch distinctly shone,
An emblem of the glorious sun:

208

Six wandering stars, with motion slow,
All in different orbits go.
Above, another errant light,
Holds on its course, all paly-bright:
With orbit wide, and vast his size,
He looks the monarch of the skies.
Soon o'er the plain, through all the rows,
A busy bustling tumult glows:
And soon again, with martial grace,
Each closes in his destin'd place.
And two and two, and hand in hand,
In grand procession moves the band.
And trophies proud they bear along,
Rousing the clash of martial song.
And as with stately tread they march,
Ere yet they pass the solemn arch,
Each bow'd before that seventh light,
That held from far his paly light.

209

Of orbit wide, and largest size,
That look'd the monarch of the skies.

Lo! past is all the crowd along,
And sunk the swell of martial song.
And now alone upon the plain
I with that awful queen remain,
The goddess fair, so heav'nly bright,
That first in vision met my sight.
What shall the generous soul affray?
I tread resolv'd the arduous way.
Love can doubts and fears control;
And give new vigour to the soul.

Nearer and nearer still I drew,
To yield this goddess homage due;
To tell her how in toil and pain,
I sought her true, tho' sought in vain,

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Now gently urg'd, now wildly hurld,
Had travell'd restless round the world,
Her vision'd form my only rest,
And she the fire, that warm'd my breast.
—But, oh! what tortures rack my soul!
How wild and wild my eyeballs roll!
I view her near,—and still more near;—
Then stand a statue, chill'd with fear.
Clos'd were her eyes to all around,
And in a golden bandage bound;
Nor could she voice of mortal hear;
A death-like deafness bound her ear.
While from her lips, to seal her tongue,
A vile inglorious Padlock hung.
I struggle,—but in vain,—for breath,—
I seem as in the grasp of death.
To Heav'n I lift my burning eyes;—
I start!—and lo! the vision flies.

211

ALFRED.

I

Ah! why should Song, enchanting Song,
Her vot'ries lead thro' Error's maze?
Why Flattery, poisoning future days,
Give pride those laurels that to truth belong?
Avaunt, thou bard of ancient time!
I hate the base insidious Lyre,
That bids the dazzled crowds retire,
While tyrants sit as gods sublime.

II

I love the man of generous frame,
Who teems with love of human kind,
Who leaves the vulgar great behind,
And scorns the splendid treach'ries of a name.

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Heroes have bask'd, a serpent-brood,
Hatch'd by Ambition's baneful ray;
Conqu'rors, high-mail'd in war array,
Have reel'd, mere dæmons, drunk with blood.

III

Where Discord holds her torch on high,
Recount the warrior Romans dead,
The blood of generous Britons shed,
O'er vassal sons hear humbled Gallia sigh:
How streams the Rhine with German gore!
Let Cæsar mount the victor's car;—
And Rome, amid the spoils of war,
Her conqu'ror, and the world's, adore.

IV

Ah! vain the pomp, th' imperial sway!
When Justice takes her watchful stand,

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Actions she weighs with patient hand,
Nor will she rashly throw her palms away.
She spurns the mad heroic race!—
And oft, while pæans rend the skies,
While altars breathing incense rise,
The conqu'ror marks for long disgrace.

V

Yet, Fame, thy fair Elysium raise,
And Genius, cull thy wreathe of flowers,
And, seated in unfading bowers,
Alfred, ennobled shine through endless days!
I see, I scale the mount sublime!
Lost in the beams of heavenly light,
I see 'mid streams, as crystal bright,
The bards, who rais'd the lofty rhyme.

214

VI

“Blest, Alfred, be thy honour'd name,
“(A people's voice of praise is sweet)
“And sweet the songs, his ear that greet,
“The Prince, whose bosom glows with Freedom's flame.
“Still blossom, 'mid the lapse of years,
“The laurels wreath'd on Virtue's brow;
“In richer pride her honours blow,
“And age her memory but endears.

VII

“See Britain rising from her seat,
“Proud of her rights, and equal laws,
“Ardent in Freedom's sacred cause:—
She found thee wise, and has proclaim'd thee great.

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“'Twas thine each citizen to fire;
“They pant the thirsty lance to wield:
“They rush impetuous to the field;
“And Freedom sees her foes expire.”

VIII

They ceas'd—and cease the lyric strain:—
For Alfred lives to bless no more;
Though still, its day of splendor o'er,
Downward the sun but sinks to rise again.
Thus Alfred shines in deathless fame,
And darting golden glories high,
Still marches stately through the sky,
While gazing nations bless his name.

216

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION OF POLLY WHITEHEAD.

As lately I slept, ere yet approach'd the night,
Not one lively dream would my slumbers delight,
But screams rend my ears, and horrors fill my sight,
For ghosts, furies, devils, around seem'd to fight.
So I startled and groan'd,
And I sigh'd, and I moan'd,
Then round about I tumbled,
And I rumbled, and jumbled;—
But, I was all alone, and so no one could I fright.

Then I wake and get up, and my pillow duly spread,
Till furies and devils are all fairly fled;
When a funeral procession succeeds in their stead;
So now solemn fancies get into my head.

217

And thus straight I began;
“What, alas! is poor man,
“Or what woman, who shares
“All his griefs, and his cares?”
And a sad flood of tears, I in sympathy shed.

Methought I was walking, as poets oft do,
Of sweet country air to drink one gale or two,
On the city new road, 'mid folks not a few,
Husbands, wives with their bantlings, and sweet hearts so true.
And when now I look back,
What a crowd all in black!
And from Moorfields they pad,
Silent, solemn, and sad,
For Bunhill-field's burying-ground they have in view.

So curious and thoughtful, I now take my stand,
With a troop of old gossips, a newsmongering band.

218

Who, without much ado make me soon understand,
What a terrible ill has befallen the land;
An ill, that rich and poor
Would have reason to deplore,
That to dames of each degree
Would be cause of misery.
And we alike had cause to fear, lest we should be trepann'd;—

And all London they knew, and all London's wife,
Who liv'd happy couples, and who liv'd in strife,
What wives were a-breeding, where cuckolds were rife,
Rogues soon to be hung, saints departing this life:
So all at once they tell
How a lily-white belle,
Oh! the dearest dear creature,
And so lamb-like in feature,
Had just been cut up by death's murd'rous knife.

219

To thousands and thousands this Polly was dear,
And thousands for Polly will now shed the tear,
As soon, if you look, will be now made appear,
For the groaners and mourners will all soon be here.
And so by me they move,
All lamenting their love;
And they seem'd to abound,
As ants cover the ground,
Sad black-tufted knights, whom, ah! nothing will cheer.

First the stationers come, and with great cause to mourn,
For since Polly travels to that dismal bourne
From which mortals more, ah! never shall return,
Alas! they are not able a penny more to earn.
They must now shut up their hall,
Or on some new scheme must fall,

220

And never more look gay,
On a lord-mayor's merry day,
So their ink they throw away, and their pens all they will burn.

And now come of authors a tribe great and small,
With great sense, and little sense, and no sense at all;
They must now give o'er writing, or get themselves in thrall;
So all the land will now in Egypt's darkness crawl.
For no more will they write,
Nor give a wink of light;
Henceforth they must turn ushers,
Or stoop to be bumbrushers,
Apothecaries, priests, or clerks, as it may fall.

The printers now succeed all in lamentable taking,
For since Polly Whitehead this world is now forsaking,

221

All their presses must stand still, every soul will soon be breaking,
Since printing first began, there was never such heart-aching.
See compositors all go,
With their heads quite crack'd with woe;
And the pressmen, saucy race,
Who oft smack'd Polly's face,
But now, for all their airs, they are awkward faces making.

Next their journeymen, their 'prentices, and devils follow all,
And, ah! where shall they fly? to whom for succour call?
Ev'ry shop is now shut up, there's not left a single stall,
And when masters thus all fail, soon their servants too must fall.

222

Tears, like show'rs trickling flow,
Wild and wild is their woe,
Who for poor men will feel?
They must dig, beg, or steal:
In limbo when they get, who will take them from their thrall?

Next a troop of bookbinders appear full in view,
And as sorrowful as any, to give them all their due:
For as husbands, who oft make their wives black and blue,
When their dearies once are dead, then their follies quickly rue.
Thus the book-binding trade,
Did lament the dear maid;
For, alas! they had lump'd her,
They had pinch'd her, and thump'd her;
And so to all comfort they now bid adieu.

223

The booksellers next follow, and a comely-looking band,
From the Row, Paul's Church-yard, Cheapside and the Strand;
How deep, alas! their woe! all their trade's now at a stand—
For she is now no more, who their every hope once fann'd.
For, ah! not, as heretofore,
Can they feast their authors more;
For since Polly dear is dead,
All their profits now are fled;
So Old England they will leave, to seek some other land.

Newspaper-folks now follow to see poor Polly's end,
Who, when the mourning's over, their course away will bend:

224

Their presses all are still, and the times will never mend;
And not a newsman more their bloody news will vend.
Hush'd now is all their fun,
Clos'd their bag of Helicon;
They care not now a pin,
Who's out, or who is in;
And their columns now no more they with ladies routs distend.

Now come Old England's friends, who, while Polly was alive,
Hop'd that Alfred's laws and England together would revive.
To spread the people's rights they did boldly once contrive;
But now 'tis o'er, the die is cast, and they no more will strive.

225

Old Nick may have the law,
That but crams a premier's maw;
For, since Polly dear is dead,
Every hope of Freedom's fled;
And the bees will now leave England, where none but drones will hive.

And, lo! the last in order I behold the poet-train;
Some who work'd about the drama, some who plied the epic strain;
Some who heroes lov'd to tickle, some who sooth'd the lover's pain;
And some, who wrote for glory, and some who wrote for gain.
Had fate but left to choose,
They had rather lost the Muse,

226

Or for Phœbus, god of song,
Padded, moping thus along;
Their hearts will all be broken, and turn'd be every brain.

So ready now I stand, with my sympathetic tear,
Having just ek'd out an ode, to welcome the new year;
And, as an undertaker's shop to me was very near,
I got a gown and hatband, and jostled in the rear.
“So poets, with your leave,
“I come with you to grieve:
“The humblest of your train,
“Greatest cause has to complain;
“For Polly I could die, she was my dearest dear.”

So now all pale and sad we approach the burying-ground,
And sighings sad, and groanings deep, and wailings wild abound,

227

For stout and brawny Irishmen were howling all around;
And they, dear hearts, for Polly fair will raise their country's sound.
The priest begins to read,
But, good soul, cannot proceed;
And to heav'n he casts a look,
And then down he drops his book;
For he can't pray, nor read, nor yet his text expound.

So now we waddle back, a woe-bewilder'd throng,
Heads drooping, hands wringing, ah! how we creep along.
And I tried my skill in elegiac song,
For sad strains suit weak souls, as lofty do the strong.
For most woeful bard am I,
Who by instinct seem to cry.

228

—So to soothe my secret pain,
I penn'd down a mournful strain,
Which did of right, thro' Britain wide, to mourners all belong.

229

A MONODY.

ON THE DEATH OF PENELOPE TROTTER.

Right well have learned doctors shewn
That one grief never comes alone;
But, as the rain comes pattering down,
Stream after stream upon your crown,
So man no sooner one gripe feels,
Than t'other nips him by the heels;
Till we scarce know, tho' grieve we must,
Where to begin our tale of sorrow first.

Ah! lack and a-well-a-day!
I erst who wet poor Polly Whitehead's clay
With tears so hot, must now, alas! shed hotter;
For Death has tripp'd the heels of Peny Trotter.

230

Nor I alone—all London, sad at heart,
Doffs the gay robe, and takes the garb of woe,
And tears, as from their springs the waters start,
From East, West, North, and South, are seen to flow.

For ten miles London round was Peny known,
No dame East, West, North, South, so bright in fame:
To young and old alike her love was shewn,
And all expectant stood at Peny's name.

She was not young, yet mov'd with nimble feet;
Aged she was not, though in mind a sage:
Her youth retain'd whate'er of youth is sweet,
As erst her youth what gains respect in age.

She frisk'd not, while a girl, in girlish mood,
Nor kiss'd and toy'd, as maids are wont to do;

231

Nor on the road e'er lingerd to be woo'd,
And knew her duty better than to woo.

Her errand done, she had no gossip's tale;
But would with maiden modesty retire;
And tho' perchance she took a cup of ale,
Stopt not, to slumber near the kitchen fire.

This bustling life for many a year she led,
True as the needle thus her duty plied;
And thousand, thousand masters droop the head,
For ne'er than Pen a trustier servant died.

Oh! calmer dear of Grief,
Sweet Melancholy, come;
What now may yield relief,
While Pen lies in the tomb?
What but thy pensive air,
Meek eye, and brow of care,

232

Thy liquid eye, thy melting strain,
And the light visions of thy brain,
The forms, that to thy midnight-musings throng,
And fill with unpremeditated song?

But how shall I relate
The wayward cruelties of fate?
How in indignant verse
Pen's hapless end rehearse?
For not, as gentle dames should die, she died,
Peaceful, upon her bed;
But while on duty bent she hied,
Behold her dead!
Her snow-white flesh by hands most cruel whipt,
Till of her very skin the maid is stript!

But who were they, what tyger men,
That laid their fangs on honest Pen?

233

No vulgar ruffians they,
Who prowl on the highway,
Or clap, amid your midnight rest,
The felon-pistol to your breast.
No, it was none of these,
Nor was it dire disease,
Fever, catarrh, or spasm, or cholic,
Nor any young and wanton frolic;
Nor did intemp'rance ply the venom'd cup,
—Pen there would never take above a sup,
Satan could not have made her drink it up.—
No—surer, quicker than all these,
Than pistol, dagger, or than tyger-claw,
Than foul intemp'rance, or than rank disease,
The wretch, that murder'd Pen, was—Law.

Oh! Law, tho' sages are so fond to prove,
That thou in nature's bosom hast thy seat,

234

And that thy voice, inspiring awe and love,
Preserves the world in harmony complete;
That heav'n and earth to thee their homage pay,
That great and small alike thy care employ,
That ev'ry being gladly owns thy sway,
And hails thee mother of their peace and joy;

Yet art not thou too often made,
By man, that debauchee, a jade,
Quite marr'd and jarr'd in ev'ry feature,
The veriest, foulest, most discordant creature,
Whirling the world about in strife,
Bursting the dearest bonds of life;
Lumping, and thumping each rebellious elf,
A bolder rebel still thyself?—
—If, when my eyes are lock d in sleep,
Thou near me dost thy vigils keep,

235

Why, then I prize thee more than all my wealth,
And am content to drink thy health;
But, if thou canst embastille honest men,
And kill so good a soul as honest Pen;
Then, to be plain, I'll make no fuss about you;
Ma'am, I had rather live without you.

THE END.