The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle :: :: University of Virginia Library

“The best of parents blest my younger days;
“What others teach with frowns, they taught with praise.
“They held, to praise one virtue would inspire
“A gen'rous manly soul to aim at higher.
“While he, whose rising talents were represt,
“With a great genius never will be blest.
“Thus plant a vine on Nor'way's rocky coast,
“Soon will it die, nipt by the chilling frost:
“But in a warmer sun, and kindlier soil
“Will spread amain, and big with clusters smile.
“Yet some are like the fir, by kindness lost,
“Which thrives but on a rough and barren coast.

“My father joy'd to shew the pleasant road,
“That leads thro' nature, up to nature's God.
“While others teach their sons the love of gold,
“He to my opening judgment would unfold
“The classic page.—My mother would inspire
“And fan the sallies of the muse's fire:
“She taught me to be great, was to be good;
“That goodness far excell'd the noblest blood.”

“Ere scarce seven years past o'er my infant head,
“To hear at school some parts of Ovid read,—
“Strange raptures set my panting breast on fire;
“And my soul languish'd with unknown desire.
“Then would I wish, alas, had I been he,
“Who wrote that book, how happy should I be!

“Oft to the banks of Esk would I retire,
“And, all alone, great nature's charms admire,

“How has my soul been rapt with solemn joy,
“Far, far estrang'd from every childish toy,
“While the christalline river roll'd along
“In concert murmurs to the sylvan song;
“The voice of nature thrilling from each spray,
“While soft ideas melt my soul away!
“Now, seated on the rocky cliff, look o'er
“The swelling flood, that roar'd from shore to shore:
“Then wild grand thoughts would all my bosom fill;
“My hair would bristle, and my head would thrill!

“I lisp'd no numbers, for no numbers came;
“But the poetic thought, th'Aonian flame
“Would kindle in my breast strange extasy,
“And lead my passive fancy on with joy.”

xxxvii

[Hence, ye vain nymphs, that in th'Aonian shade]

Hence, ye vain nymphs, that in th'Aonian shade
Boast to inspire the fancy's raptur'd dream,
Far other powers my wounded soul invade,
And lead me by the banks of other stream.
Ye, that beheld when Salem's bard divine
On Chebar's willows hung his silent lyre,
While Judah's yoke and Zion's ruin'd shrine
Did every thought with bleeding woe inspire,
From Siloe's banks or Carmel's lonely dells,
O come, ye Angels of the melting heart;
O come, with every generous pang that dwells
In friendship's bitterest tender bleeding smart!
Still to my eyes the dear lov'd form appears,
But ah! how chang'd; the prey of fell disease!
Cold gleams the eye, the cheek pale langour wears,
And weakness trembles in the wasted knees.
Ah! what dear plans with future action fraught,
With beauteous prospect rose in friendship's eye:
And must, oh heaven, can nature bear the thought?
Must these dear views like morning shadows fly?
Yes, nature weeps, and virtue joins her flame,
And mourning o'er the woes herself inspir'd,
Repeats the friend's, the brother's, sacred name,
And fondly views each scene herself desir'd.
Yes, friendship cannot quit her darling field,
Still bids each hope display its fairest bloom,
Then sickning sees each promis'd joy withheld,
And sink with Cassio to the dreary tomb.

xlviii

[Plato was clos'd; mine eyes no more awake]

Plato was clos'd; mine eyes no more awake;
But Plato's lore still vision'd round my head:
Meseem'd th'Elysian dales around me spread,
Where spirits chuse what mortal forms to take;
“Mine be the Poet's eye; I crowns forsake.”
Sudden before me stood an awful shade;
On his firm mien simplicity array'd
In majesty, the Grecian bard bespake:
He thus: “Bright shines the Poet's lot untry'd;
“Canst thou than mine to brighter fame aspire!
“High o'er th'Olympian height my raptures tower'd,
“Each Muse the fleet-wing'd handmaid of mine ire;
“Yet o'er their generous flight what sorrows ply'd,
“While freezing every joy dependence lower'd.”