 | Poems |  |
108
TO MY FATHER.
“At tibi, chare pater, postquam non æqua merenti
Posse referre datur, nec dona rependere factis,
Sit memorâsse satis, repetitaque munera grato
Percensere animo, fidæque reponere menti.”
Milton ad Patrem.
Posse referre datur, nec dona rependere factis,
Sit memorâsse satis, repetitaque munera grato
Percensere animo, fidæque reponere menti.”
Milton ad Patrem.
As pensive o'er my tuneful page I bend,
Grac'd with the name of many a valued friend,
Can I behold, nor blush with filial shame,
No verse that bears my Father's honour'd name?
Grac'd with the name of many a valued friend,
Can I behold, nor blush with filial shame,
No verse that bears my Father's honour'd name?
Yet, O my Father, I can ne'er forget,
Nor e'er, rememb'ring, cease to feel the debt,
To thee I owe; nor e'er that debt repay,
To the late evening of my mortal day.
Nor e'er, rememb'ring, cease to feel the debt,
To thee I owe; nor e'er that debt repay,
To the late evening of my mortal day.
Thou gav'st me being; sweeter far than this,
Thou gav'st me that, which makes my being bliss.
Thou didst to holy thoughts my bosom warm,
Thou didst my tongue to holy accents form,
And teach, in dawning reason's infant days,
To lisp the voice of pray'r and thanks and praise.
Thou gav'st me that, which makes my being bliss.
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Thou didst my tongue to holy accents form,
And teach, in dawning reason's infant days,
To lisp the voice of pray'r and thanks and praise.
Taught by thy care my childish lip to lave
In the clear stream of Cirrha's living cave,
With thee I tasted first the honey'd page
Of him, the chaste Athenian warrior-sage,
And caught the sound of Mincius' whispering reeds,
And gaz'd on Simois' bank heroic deeds.
In the clear stream of Cirrha's living cave,
With thee I tasted first the honey'd page
Of him, the chaste Athenian warrior-sage,
And caught the sound of Mincius' whispering reeds,
And gaz'd on Simois' bank heroic deeds.
To thee I owe, in Wykeham's fost'ring shade
That in life's morn with stripling step I stray'd:—
To thee I owe that youth's delightful hours
I pass'd in peaceful academic bow'rs,
And roaming gaz'd on fancy's airy dreams,
What time the orient sun on Cherwell beams,
Or o'er thy moonlight wave, O Isis, swells
The mellow music of the distant bells.
To thee I owe, in letter'd quiet laid
Mid lonely Buriton's romantic shade,
That now no vulgar care, no vulgar joy
My riper manhood's vigorous prime employ;
While pleas'd I turn the page of truth divine,
And serve with pious awe the hallow'd shrine;
Or roam o'er breezy hill, and lowly dell,
And touch the woodland Muse's simple shell.
That in life's morn with stripling step I stray'd:—
To thee I owe that youth's delightful hours
I pass'd in peaceful academic bow'rs,
And roaming gaz'd on fancy's airy dreams,
What time the orient sun on Cherwell beams,
Or o'er thy moonlight wave, O Isis, swells
The mellow music of the distant bells.
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Mid lonely Buriton's romantic shade,
That now no vulgar care, no vulgar joy
My riper manhood's vigorous prime employ;
While pleas'd I turn the page of truth divine,
And serve with pious awe the hallow'd shrine;
Or roam o'er breezy hill, and lowly dell,
And touch the woodland Muse's simple shell.
And blame not thou, to soothe my pensive heart
If the dear Muse her gentle aid impart.
O, sweet as April fragrance to the sense
Her voice, attun'd to themes of innocence!
She flings a cheering ray on winter's gloom,
She heightens golden summer's roseate bloom;
And by the meed of her melodious rhime
Lifts the rapt soul to virtuous deeds sublime.
If the dear Muse her gentle aid impart.
O, sweet as April fragrance to the sense
Her voice, attun'd to themes of innocence!
She flings a cheering ray on winter's gloom,
She heightens golden summer's roseate bloom;
And by the meed of her melodious rhime
Lifts the rapt soul to virtuous deeds sublime.
The icy flood when dark December binds,
Or March unchains his equinoctial winds,
For brilliant scenes secluded females sigh;
But if the Muse her magic voice apply,
With lovelier transports and more pure they glow,
Than sport and feast and brilliant dance bestow:
As wing'd with sober joy the moments fly,
Their cheerful toil with nimbler hands they ply;
Nor heed how quickly wane the hours of even,
Nor hear the storm, that rends the face of heaven.
Or March unchains his equinoctial winds,
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But if the Muse her magic voice apply,
With lovelier transports and more pure they glow,
Than sport and feast and brilliant dance bestow:
As wing'd with sober joy the moments fly,
Their cheerful toil with nimbler hands they ply;
Nor heed how quickly wane the hours of even,
Nor hear the storm, that rends the face of heaven.
Warm'd by the touch of her creative wand,
Behold, what charms invest the smiling land!
A richer gleam the wood-crown'd mountain gilds,
More soft the south-wind blows o'er greener fields;
In smoother waves the river glides along;
The mounting sky-lark trills a livelier song;
And as to view of charmed knight of old,
(So elfin bards in mystic rhimes have told)
O'er all the scene a fairy light is thrown,
And Nature smiles with beauty not her own.
Behold, what charms invest the smiling land!
A richer gleam the wood-crown'd mountain gilds,
More soft the south-wind blows o'er greener fields;
In smoother waves the river glides along;
The mounting sky-lark trills a livelier song;
And as to view of charmed knight of old,
(So elfin bards in mystic rhimes have told)
O'er all the scene a fairy light is thrown,
And Nature smiles with beauty not her own.
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Meantime with nobler aims and wider views
Pants the high bosom of the generous Muse.
Pants the high bosom of the generous Muse.
Not pleas'd with conquest, yet if glorious war
Her country's arm for righteous vengeance bare,
She dares the loud and thrilling clarion blow,
And onward bid the patriot champion go:
But her glad voice with prompter zeal she rears,
In sounds, that match the music of the spheres,
To bid the clang of jarring nations cease,
And hymn the pæan of victorious peace.
Her country's arm for righteous vengeance bare,
She dares the loud and thrilling clarion blow,
And onward bid the patriot champion go:
But her glad voice with prompter zeal she rears,
In sounds, that match the music of the spheres,
To bid the clang of jarring nations cease,
And hymn the pæan of victorious peace.
To Nature's charms and Nature's feelings true,
'Tis her's to paint, with tints of softest hue,
How sweet to dwell with rural peace, and shed
The dew of comfort on the throbbing head;
How fair the eye, that melts with transport meek,
And smile, that plays o'er fond affection's cheek.
'Tis her's to point where honour's turrets shine;
'Tis her's the wreath for virtue's brow to twine;
And while her hymns of holy strain she sings,
And while she strikes her heav'n-attemper'd strings,
'Tis her's a soft and bright'ning gleam to throw
Around the drooping child of pain and woe,
To wing on high his visionary flight,
And lap his soul in day-dreams of delight;
And her's perchance, when time shall be no more,
Her's it may be to purer climes to soar,
To sweep with holy hand her echoing wires,
And swell the concert of cherubic lyres.
'Tis her's to paint, with tints of softest hue,
How sweet to dwell with rural peace, and shed
The dew of comfort on the throbbing head;
How fair the eye, that melts with transport meek,
And smile, that plays o'er fond affection's cheek.
'Tis her's to point where honour's turrets shine;
'Tis her's the wreath for virtue's brow to twine;
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And while she strikes her heav'n-attemper'd strings,
'Tis her's a soft and bright'ning gleam to throw
Around the drooping child of pain and woe,
To wing on high his visionary flight,
And lap his soul in day-dreams of delight;
And her's perchance, when time shall be no more,
Her's it may be to purer climes to soar,
To sweep with holy hand her echoing wires,
And swell the concert of cherubic lyres.
Spirit of Milton! thou, whose arduous way
Awestruck at humble distance I survey,
I dare not hope thy eagle plume to try,
And drink the sun-beam with undazzled eye;
But if one ray from thy ethereal fire,
If one faint ray my glowing soul inspire,
No base alloy, no speck of earthly mould
Shall taint the temper of the heav'nly gold;
Pure as thy own, my blameless verse shall flow,
Pure as on Alpine rocks the virgin snow.
Awestruck at humble distance I survey,
I dare not hope thy eagle plume to try,
And drink the sun-beam with undazzled eye;
But if one ray from thy ethereal fire,
If one faint ray my glowing soul inspire,
No base alloy, no speck of earthly mould
Shall taint the temper of the heav'nly gold;
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Pure as on Alpine rocks the virgin snow.
So tho' I fail 'mong glory's sons to shine,
The nobler praise of virtue shall be mine;
The moral boast, that ne'er I durst abuse
To rites profane the heav'n-descended Muse.
While, O my Father, thou, to whom I pay
With filial love this tributary lay,
Shalt hear with placid smile, nor blush to own
The tuneful off'ring of a grateful son.
The nobler praise of virtue shall be mine;
The moral boast, that ne'er I durst abuse
To rites profane the heav'n-descended Muse.
While, O my Father, thou, to whom I pay
With filial love this tributary lay,
Shalt hear with placid smile, nor blush to own
The tuneful off'ring of a grateful son.
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