The poetical wanderer containing, dissertations On the early poetry of Greece, On tragic poetry, and on the power Of noble actions on the mind. To which are added, several poems |
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Orlando:
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Orlando:
The Melancholy Shepherd.
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene;
In darkness and in storm he found delight,
Nor less than when an ocean wave serene;
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling shene—
Even sad vacissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wish'd not to control.
Beat. Minst. Book I.
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene;
In darkness and in storm he found delight,
Nor less than when an ocean wave serene;
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling shene—
Even sad vacissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wish'd not to control.
Beat. Minst. Book I.
When will this world resume its wonted state?
When will those Grecian days again return?
If ever such there were—when honest worth
And not curs'd gold; alone exalted man.
When love was won by manly form and virtues,
And not corrupted by the proud man's wealth;
When friendship flow'd from the congenial soul,
Nor cringing follow'd splendor's gaudy car.—
Had young Orlando liv'd in such blest times
He had not been the humble wight he was;
Then not dependent for his homely fare
He had not kept a lordly master's sheep;
Then no gay female had despis'd his love,
Or met his modest diffidence with frowns,
His muse would then have won immortal fame,
His sword the conqueror's wreath—his virtue, friendship
—For most those qualities which grace the poet,
The soldier, and the man Orlando had;
But poverty conceal'd them from the world,
Nor culture rear'd the tender plant to bloom.—
When will those Grecian days again return?
If ever such there were—when honest worth
And not curs'd gold; alone exalted man.
When love was won by manly form and virtues,
And not corrupted by the proud man's wealth;
When friendship flow'd from the congenial soul,
82
Had young Orlando liv'd in such blest times
He had not been the humble wight he was;
Then not dependent for his homely fare
He had not kept a lordly master's sheep;
Then no gay female had despis'd his love,
Or met his modest diffidence with frowns,
His muse would then have won immortal fame,
His sword the conqueror's wreath—his virtue, friendship
—For most those qualities which grace the poet,
The soldier, and the man Orlando had;
But poverty conceal'd them from the world,
Nor culture rear'd the tender plant to bloom.—
No pipe so often in the still of eve
Breath'd its soft warbbings o'er the drowsy plain,
As young Orlando's, and none so pleasing
Told its melting tale;
No shepherd lad of brave Orlando's years,
Could with such vigour launch the pond'rous stone,
Or with such skill direct the arrow's point.
No shepherd with such swift and easy grace
Could skim along the plain; or daring leap;
None in the wrestler's hardy skilful art,
Could match the youth, or cast him on the turf.
These rural pastimes once he dearly lov'd,
Once none more eager to bear off the prize
Bestow'd on those who in these arts excell'd—
But soon as nineteen years had told their tale,
Their former pleasure and their relish vanish'd,
Nor more ambition led him to the contest;
For then the youth more keenly knew dependence,
Then first fair Anna drew his eye of love.—
Breath'd its soft warbbings o'er the drowsy plain,
As young Orlando's, and none so pleasing
Told its melting tale;
No shepherd lad of brave Orlando's years,
Could with such vigour launch the pond'rous stone,
Or with such skill direct the arrow's point.
No shepherd with such swift and easy grace
Could skim along the plain; or daring leap;
None in the wrestler's hardy skilful art,
Could match the youth, or cast him on the turf.
These rural pastimes once he dearly lov'd,
Once none more eager to bear off the prize
Bestow'd on those who in these arts excell'd—
But soon as nineteen years had told their tale,
83
Nor more ambition led him to the contest;
For then the youth more keenly knew dependence,
Then first fair Anna drew his eye of love.—
The village youth had met upon the plain,
(As often was their fond and rural custom)
To imitate the ancient Grecian games.
All ranks that dwelt within the little township
With joy conven'd to see the shepherd's strife.
Among the maids the smiling Anna came
Inspiring love; rich Alner's only child:
Hung careless on her back her darkish hair;
And floated o'er her half-seen lovely limbs
Her robe of snowy hue—Upon her cheek
Shaded with artless curls, health blushing sat;
Her bright blue eye rov'd transient o'er the lawn,
Oft tow'rds the shepherds bent a melting glance.
She shone supreme the beauty of the plain,
Like a rich flower unrival'd by its fellows.
(As often was their fond and rural custom)
To imitate the ancient Grecian games.
All ranks that dwelt within the little township
With joy conven'd to see the shepherd's strife.
Among the maids the smiling Anna came
Inspiring love; rich Alner's only child:
Hung careless on her back her darkish hair;
And floated o'er her half-seen lovely limbs
Her robe of snowy hue—Upon her cheek
Shaded with artless curls, health blushing sat;
Her bright blue eye rov'd transient o'er the lawn,
Oft tow'rds the shepherds bent a melting glance.
She shone supreme the beauty of the plain,
Like a rich flower unrival'd by its fellows.
The bold Orlando with his comrade swains,
In hop'd suspence stood ready for the race;
His pleasing thoughts then no fond female drew.
Tall and erect he waited the command,
To cleave the air and dart across the green;
The flush of manly beauty ting'd his cheek,
And animation sparkled from his eye:
His sprightly limbs in strict proportion form'd
His easy movement and engaging air,
Drew every eye among the female train.—
Then Anna first beheld him and admir'd,
And often on the shepherd fix'd her eye;
He casting heedless his dark eyes around
Met her sweet killing look; and felt his breast
With soft and unknown palpitation heave.
Then first the flame of tyrant love was kindled,
Then first Orlando's sorrows took their date.
Unhappy swain recal thy heart again!
No flock is thine that crops the verdant field,
Thou only art a poor dependent lad!
And Anna's rich and cannot count her wealth;
Her only admiration was thy form—
He must be wealthy who would seek her hand.
The word is given—and swift as eagle's wings,
Start the young swains, and scarcely seem to press
Or touch the verdure with their fleeting feet;
But far before the rest Orlando flies,
(His loose locks waving on the passing wind)
And gains the goal—and claims his easy prize.
But small the joy and pleasure to the victor,
He does not triumph as he did before;
For lovely Anna most attracts his thoughts.
But ah! what torment pierc'd his gentle feelings,
When first he learnt her parent's wealth and pow'r,
And still more keenly Anna's pride and scorn.
Then vanish'd from his breast the cheerful glow,
Content and peace, untouch'd by envy's sting,
The love of pleasure and of rural sports
In solitudes alone he found delight!
Where banish'd from all human observation,
He might bemoan his sad unpitied lot,
And trace those scenes congenial to his soul.
In hop'd suspence stood ready for the race;
His pleasing thoughts then no fond female drew.
Tall and erect he waited the command,
To cleave the air and dart across the green;
The flush of manly beauty ting'd his cheek,
And animation sparkled from his eye:
His sprightly limbs in strict proportion form'd
His easy movement and engaging air,
84
Then Anna first beheld him and admir'd,
And often on the shepherd fix'd her eye;
He casting heedless his dark eyes around
Met her sweet killing look; and felt his breast
With soft and unknown palpitation heave.
Then first the flame of tyrant love was kindled,
Then first Orlando's sorrows took their date.
Unhappy swain recal thy heart again!
No flock is thine that crops the verdant field,
Thou only art a poor dependent lad!
And Anna's rich and cannot count her wealth;
Her only admiration was thy form—
He must be wealthy who would seek her hand.
The word is given—and swift as eagle's wings,
Start the young swains, and scarcely seem to press
Or touch the verdure with their fleeting feet;
But far before the rest Orlando flies,
(His loose locks waving on the passing wind)
And gains the goal—and claims his easy prize.
But small the joy and pleasure to the victor,
He does not triumph as he did before;
For lovely Anna most attracts his thoughts.
But ah! what torment pierc'd his gentle feelings,
When first he learnt her parent's wealth and pow'r,
And still more keenly Anna's pride and scorn.
Then vanish'd from his breast the cheerful glow,
Content and peace, untouch'd by envy's sting,
85
In solitudes alone he found delight!
Where banish'd from all human observation,
He might bemoan his sad unpitied lot,
And trace those scenes congenial to his soul.
How oft ye streams unconscious of his woe,
Has his lone music stole across your bosom,
And mingled with the murmur of your wave!
How oft ye groves surrounded in your shades
When twilight spread its gradual dusky veil,
Has the fond shepherd pour'd his unheard song,
And trac'd the moon, pale rising thro' your trees;
How oft your brows ye lofty rising mounts
Which frown with sullen pride upon the vale!
Has he with wandering devious footstep climb'd,
Call'd lonesome echo from its distant haunt;
And view'd the landscape spread beneath his eye,
But now no more ye solitary scenes!
Will ye behold your hapless youth return,
No more his pipe shall wake your stilly gloom,
And of proud Anna's cruelty complain—
Beneath yon willow bending o'er the brook,
And kissing with its weeping boughs the stream;
Cover'd with earth and with the grassy sod,
The youthful shepherd rests his humble head;
A feeling lad—a victim of disdain.
Unknown to many, few lament his fate,
Few moisten with their tears his early tomb
Or spread Orlando's genius and his worth:
For he was poor—and who that's poor has friend,
In these cold days of selfishness and wealth
Has his lone music stole across your bosom,
And mingled with the murmur of your wave!
How oft ye groves surrounded in your shades
When twilight spread its gradual dusky veil,
Has the fond shepherd pour'd his unheard song,
And trac'd the moon, pale rising thro' your trees;
How oft your brows ye lofty rising mounts
Which frown with sullen pride upon the vale!
Has he with wandering devious footstep climb'd,
Call'd lonesome echo from its distant haunt;
And view'd the landscape spread beneath his eye,
But now no more ye solitary scenes!
Will ye behold your hapless youth return,
No more his pipe shall wake your stilly gloom,
And of proud Anna's cruelty complain—
Beneath yon willow bending o'er the brook,
And kissing with its weeping boughs the stream;
Cover'd with earth and with the grassy sod,
The youthful shepherd rests his humble head;
A feeling lad—a victim of disdain.
Unknown to many, few lament his fate,
86
Or spread Orlando's genius and his worth:
For he was poor—and who that's poor has friend,
In these cold days of selfishness and wealth
Orlando was a sad romantic youth,
His bosom glow'd with every generous warmth:
Enraptur'd with the muse, he often told
His simple pastoral lay, but it ran not
In lively numbers but in pensive sweetness.
Nature he lov'd, for who that has the soul
Of poesy, of tenderness and virtue,
Can view with cold indifference her charms?
If any can, not such this feeling swain;
His greatest joy was tracing her fair scenes.
Oft when the morn first trembled in the east,
And banish'd darkness from the slumbering earth,
Orlando left his bed, and little cot,
Clamber'd the hillock's height to mark the sun
First tinge the sky with blushing streaks of gold,
And gradual burst with his whole pomp and splendor;
The tow'ring mountains all are tipt with red—
The lake slow winding thro' its sedgy bed,
Reflects the radiance trembling o'er its wave.
The plains with gladness meet the god of day
And echo to the bleatings of the flock.—
Forth from the grove the joyful music wakes,
Varying and wild; sweet nature's tuneful band,
The shepherd calling to his straying flock,
Is distant heard amidst the thankful strain;
And now and then is wasted to the ear,
The music of the mountain goatherd pipe.
At noon when panting with the scorching heat,
Orlando drove his flock to cooling shades,
Where soft and bubbling from the sloping hill,
The limpid rill in easy windings stole;
There while his sheep lay basking on the grass
Or lave their snowy fleeces in the stream;
He on the mossy bank at length reclin'd
Would view the peaceful scene; and pensive muse,
And to his flock attentive tune his pipe;
Tho' dull misfortune's son, he lov'd to look
On happiness, nor sullen envy'd bliss.
But most when evening silent in her steps,
Threw o'er the landscape her dim misty shade,
And nature mourning wept the close of day;
The shepherd lov'd to take his lonely walk:—
His favorite songstress then resum'd her tale,
And every sadness hung upon the breeze;
All that was cheerful faded from the view,
And melancholy held alone her reign.
Then while the little families of peasants
Gather together on the level turf:
Orlando slowly bent his heedless way,
Along the wood which skirts the river's bank
With downcast, thoughtful eye, and folded arms.
When the far distant curfew with drear toll,
Struck superstitious dread in fearful minds;
Not so it met Orlando's listening ear,
It was a solemn music to his care,
And gave a deeper mourning to the scene.
The river washing with its waves its bank,
And now and then the boatman's dashing oar,
Are sounds which ever pleas'd his brooding soul.
But Philomela's warbling most he lov'd,
When from the branches of some spreading tree,
She fill'd the thickets with her love-sick tale:
Busy remembrance when she sweetly sung,
Would trace past scenes and dwell on Anna's charms:
The moralizing swain would speak of man,
How soon his pleasures pass in haste away,
And morning find him in a chilly grave.
The muse records these feeling lines he wrote
With pencil—lighted by the full orb'd moon,
When the sad songstress had her sorrows told,
And all was hush'd to stillness in the grove.
His bosom glow'd with every generous warmth:
Enraptur'd with the muse, he often told
His simple pastoral lay, but it ran not
In lively numbers but in pensive sweetness.
Nature he lov'd, for who that has the soul
Of poesy, of tenderness and virtue,
Can view with cold indifference her charms?
If any can, not such this feeling swain;
His greatest joy was tracing her fair scenes.
Oft when the morn first trembled in the east,
And banish'd darkness from the slumbering earth,
Orlando left his bed, and little cot,
Clamber'd the hillock's height to mark the sun
First tinge the sky with blushing streaks of gold,
And gradual burst with his whole pomp and splendor;
The tow'ring mountains all are tipt with red—
The lake slow winding thro' its sedgy bed,
Reflects the radiance trembling o'er its wave.
The plains with gladness meet the god of day
And echo to the bleatings of the flock.—
Forth from the grove the joyful music wakes,
Varying and wild; sweet nature's tuneful band,
The shepherd calling to his straying flock,
87
And now and then is wasted to the ear,
The music of the mountain goatherd pipe.
At noon when panting with the scorching heat,
Orlando drove his flock to cooling shades,
Where soft and bubbling from the sloping hill,
The limpid rill in easy windings stole;
There while his sheep lay basking on the grass
Or lave their snowy fleeces in the stream;
He on the mossy bank at length reclin'd
Would view the peaceful scene; and pensive muse,
And to his flock attentive tune his pipe;
Tho' dull misfortune's son, he lov'd to look
On happiness, nor sullen envy'd bliss.
But most when evening silent in her steps,
Threw o'er the landscape her dim misty shade,
And nature mourning wept the close of day;
The shepherd lov'd to take his lonely walk:—
His favorite songstress then resum'd her tale,
And every sadness hung upon the breeze;
All that was cheerful faded from the view,
And melancholy held alone her reign.
Then while the little families of peasants
Gather together on the level turf:
Orlando slowly bent his heedless way,
Along the wood which skirts the river's bank
With downcast, thoughtful eye, and folded arms.
When the far distant curfew with drear toll,
88
Not so it met Orlando's listening ear,
It was a solemn music to his care,
And gave a deeper mourning to the scene.
The river washing with its waves its bank,
And now and then the boatman's dashing oar,
Are sounds which ever pleas'd his brooding soul.
But Philomela's warbling most he lov'd,
When from the branches of some spreading tree,
She fill'd the thickets with her love-sick tale:
Busy remembrance when she sweetly sung,
Would trace past scenes and dwell on Anna's charms:
The moralizing swain would speak of man,
How soon his pleasures pass in haste away,
And morning find him in a chilly grave.
The muse records these feeling lines he wrote
With pencil—lighted by the full orb'd moon,
When the sad songstress had her sorrows told,
And all was hush'd to stillness in the grove.
“Thou sweet companion of my lonely hours,
“Who like Orlando shun'st thy fellow tribes
“To pour thy sorrows to the listening night!—
“Not like the world thou giv'st thy little favors
“To those who most are blest with fortune's smiles,
“But to the vassal equal with his Lord.
“A youth unfortunate, a prey to love,
“Unknown to any tenderness but thine;
“Who lost his parents in his infant years,
“And ever since has been a shepherd boy,
“(Attendant on a haughty master's flock)
“Repays thy gently soothing strain with tears;
“When few his favors most he feels those few.
“Say songstress, dost thou mourn unhappy love?
“Thou sure must mourn it—for thou sing'st so sad!
“But ah! thou are not like Orlando scorn'd,
“For all among thy feather'd race are equal;
“The passion is not sway'd by rank, but instinct:
“But poor Orlando's spurn'd because he's poor;
“Anna disdains him—for she's rich and fair,
“Bright as yon moon—but even more deceitful.
“But soon sweet bird, and all thy songs shall end,
“That little throat be clos'd which pours such warblings,
“And he who mourns with thee amid this bower
“Soon to this world of care shall bid adieu,
“Nor longer buffet poverty and woe.
“Perhaps then Anna may bedew his turf,
“With one kind tear—and say the swain had virtues!
“But ah! deceiving dream—she who has heard
“So many ardent vows—with killing scorn,
“Because her pleading swain was poor and humble,
“Will never think with pity on his death;
“But all is one—what she, or what the world
“Think of Orlando when he's in his grave,
“For scorn or pity cannot reach him there.
“Who like Orlando shun'st thy fellow tribes
“To pour thy sorrows to the listening night!—
“Not like the world thou giv'st thy little favors
“To those who most are blest with fortune's smiles,
“But to the vassal equal with his Lord.
“A youth unfortunate, a prey to love,
“Unknown to any tenderness but thine;
“Who lost his parents in his infant years,
89
“(Attendant on a haughty master's flock)
“Repays thy gently soothing strain with tears;
“When few his favors most he feels those few.
“Say songstress, dost thou mourn unhappy love?
“Thou sure must mourn it—for thou sing'st so sad!
“But ah! thou are not like Orlando scorn'd,
“For all among thy feather'd race are equal;
“The passion is not sway'd by rank, but instinct:
“But poor Orlando's spurn'd because he's poor;
“Anna disdains him—for she's rich and fair,
“Bright as yon moon—but even more deceitful.
“But soon sweet bird, and all thy songs shall end,
“That little throat be clos'd which pours such warblings,
“And he who mourns with thee amid this bower
“Soon to this world of care shall bid adieu,
“Nor longer buffet poverty and woe.
“Perhaps then Anna may bedew his turf,
“With one kind tear—and say the swain had virtues!
“But ah! deceiving dream—she who has heard
“So many ardent vows—with killing scorn,
“Because her pleading swain was poor and humble,
“Will never think with pity on his death;
“But all is one—what she, or what the world
“Think of Orlando when he's in his grave,
“For scorn or pity cannot reach him there.
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