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SUPPLEMENTARY GLEANINGS. HAMPSHIRE STATION.


59

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF JOSEPH WARTON, D. D. LATE HEAD MASTER OF WINCHESTER-COLLEGE.

BY RICHARD MANT, A. B. FELLOW OF ORIEL-COLLEGE, OXFORD.
'TIS sweet, when freshly breathes the vernal morn,
To hear the solemn rook, that clam'rous wheels
Round some elm-circled mansion; sweet to lie
Beneath the canopy of spreading groves,
When ceaseless hums the summer air; or rove
At evening still, when the lone nightingale
Sings wakeful her thick-warbled song; 'tis sweet
To catch by fits the melancholy sound,
While through the ruins of th'autumnal wood
Sighs the sad gale, or the loud wintery wind
Blows hollow o'er the bleak and blasted heath;—
But sweeter still the meek and plaintive tones
Of heav'nly poetry, which lulls the heart
With grateful sorrow mild; which speaks of worth

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Departed, speaks of those whom never more
Our eyes shall view, our arms shall clasp; then tells
In louder strains of the eternal rest,
The blissful mansions of unfading heav'n.
And such delightful pleasure, innocent,
Delightful to the sense, and to the mind
Minist'ring calm and holy pensiveness,
Who shall forbid to seize? Who shall forbid,
If I, unus'd to woo th'Aonian choir,
And all unskilful, yet aspire to seek
Their hallow'd temple; and with pious zeal
And grateful duty weave an humble crown,
“To deck the laureate herse where Warton lies?”
O tow'rs of Venta, and thou gentle stream,
Itchin, ye bending vales, and breezy downs,
You best his praise can witness;—oft he climb'd
In morn of life your fir-crown'd hill, and roam'd
Your osier'd meads, and pac'd your cloisters dim;
You to meridian fame beheld him rise
Circled with Wykeham's sons; and you beheld
How Wykeham's grateful sons the tribute paid
Of filial love, and cheer'd his closing day.
For well was Warton lov'd, and well deserv'd!

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Whether he led the fault'ring step of youth
To offer incense at the Muse's shrine;
Or, justly stern, check'd with forbidding frown
Impetuous vice; or with approving smile
Cherish'd the hope of virtue's modest bud;
Strong to convince, and gentle to persuade,
“His tongue dropt manna,” and his ardent eye
Sparkled with temper'd rage, or beam'd with joy
Boundless: nor wonder; for within his heart
Dwelt pure affection, and the liberal glow
Of charity; join'd to each native grace,
Which the sweet Muse imparts to those she loves.
His was the tear of pity, soft as show'rs
That fall on April meadows; his the rapt
Impassion'd thought, quick as the lightning's glance,
And warm as summer suns: and every flow'r
Of Poesy, which by the laurell'd spring
Of Aganippe, or that Roman stream
Tiber, or Tuscan Arno, breath'd of old
Its fragrance sweet; and ev'ry flow'r, which since
Hath drunk the dew beside the banks of Thames,
Met in his genial breast, and blossom'd there.
Happy old man! for therefore didst thou seek
Extatic vision by the haunted stream

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Or grove of fairy: then thy nightly ear
(As from the wild notes of some airy harp)
Thrill'd with strange music; if the tragic plaints
And sounding lyre of those Athenians old,
Rich-minded poets, fathers of the stage,
Rous'd thee enraptur'd; or the pastoral reed
Of Mantuan Tityrus charm'd; or Dante fierce,
Or more majestic Homer swell'd thy soul,
Or Milton's muse of fire. Nor seldom came
Wild fancy's priests, with masked pageantry,
And harpings more than mortal: he, whose praise
Is heard by Mulla; and that untaught bard
Of Avon, child of nature; nor less lov'd,

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Though later, he, who rais'd with mystic hand
The fancy-hollow'd pile of chivalry,
Throng'd with bold knights; while Chaucer smil'd to see
From his rich mine of English, undefil'd,
Though all by time obscured, a gorgeous dome
On marble pillars reared, and golden valves
Majestic, fashion'd by his genuine son.
And O! hadst thou to our fond vows appear'd
Assistant, whilst unrivall'd Dryden sang
Ammon's high pomp, and Sigismonda's tears
For lost Guiscardo; how on coal-black steed
“The horse-man ghost came thund'ring for his prey;”
Or how amid the waste of nature stood
Thy temple, God of Slaughter!—O! hadst thou
With kindred flame, and such a flame was thine,
Call'd up that elder bard, who left half-sung

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The wondrous tale of Tartar Càmbuscàn;
So had the muse a brighter chaplet twin'd
To grace thy brow; nor tuneful Dryden hung
A statelier trophy on the shrine of fame.
Happy old man! Yet not in vain to thee
Was Fancy's wand committed: not in vain
Did Science fill thee with her sacred lore:—
But if of fair and lovely aught, if aught
Of good and virtuous in her hallow'd walls,
Through the long space of thrice twelve glorious years,
Thy Venta nurtur'd; if transplanted thence
To the fair banks of Isis and of Cam,
It brighter shone; and haply thence again,
Thence haply spread its influence through the land,
That be thy praise. Be it thy praise, that thou
Didst bathe the youthful lip in the fresh spring,
“The pure well-head of Poesy,” didst point,
Like thine own lov'd Longinus, to the steep
Parnassian crag, and led'st thyself the way;—
Be it thy praise, that thou didst clear the path,
Which leads to Virtue's fane; not her of stern
And Stoic aspect dark, till Virtue wears
The gloom of Vice; but such as warms the heart

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To acts of love, and peace, and gentleness,
And tend'rest charity; such as around
Thy earthly passage shed her cheerful light,
And such as Wykeham best might love to view.
So thine allotted station didst thou fill,
And now art passed to thy peaceful grave,
In age and honours ripe. Then not for thee
Pour we the tear of sorrow; not with strains
Like those despondent, which the Doric bard
Wept for his Bion, do we tend on thee:
For other hopes are ours, and other views,
Brighter and happier scenes! No earthly chains
Shall in this dreary prison-house confine
Spirits of light; nor shall the heav'n-born mind

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Oblivious linger in the silent cave
Of endless hopeless sleep. But as the Sun,
Who drove his fierce and fiery-tressed steeds
Glorious along the vault of heav'n, at length
Sinks in the bosom of the western wave;
Anon from forth the chambers of the east
To run his giant course; so didst thou set,
So mayst thou rise to glory!
But the high
And secret counsels of th'Eternal Name
Who may presume to scan!
Enough for me
That thus with pious zeal I pour the verse
Of love to Warton, from that seat which nurst
His youth in classic lore. Here blest with all,
That social worth can yield, and minds refin'd
By Attic taste, and gentlest manners bland,
My duteous homage chief to thee I pay,
O dome of Edward! nor meanwhile forget
The earlier hopes that charm'd, the earlier friends
That still, entwin'd around my heart, endear
My hours of childhood; whilst I sojourn'd blithe
In those lov'd walls, which Wykeham nobly plann'd
And Warton, favourite of the Muses, grac'd.
 

Some notes are added to illustrate the poem.

To strew the laureate herse, where Lycid lies. MILTON'S LYCIDAS.

The ingenious author asserts, that there never was a man in his situation more universally beloved than the last Head-Master of Winchester. In addition to that general tribute of gratitude paid him at all times, the particular testimony which he received from the Scholars of the College, at the time of his quitting them in 1793, cannot but be considered as highly honourable to him and them. It was a testimony, which no doubt was the source of gratification to him till the day of his death.

Paradise Lost, book 2.

Warton might have described his own mingled fondness for the Greek, Latin, and Italian poets, in the words which he has quoted from Milton. Nec me tam ipsæ Athenæ Atticæ cum illo suo pellucido Ilisso, nec illa vetus Roma sua Tiberis ripa retinere valuerunt, quin sæpe Arnum vestrum et Fæsulanos illos colles invisere amem. —Essay on Pope, i. 265.

Fortunate senex. Virg. E. 1.

Each evening ------
------ lay me by the haunted stream
Rapt in some wild poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spencer through a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
By the sweetly-soothing sound.
DR. WANTON'S ODE TO FANCY. Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew
Himself to sing and build the lofty rhime.

Warton's enthusiastic admiration of the poets specified above is well known; and the mention of them in this place is not foreign from the purpose, as they are not only the subjects of those elegant critical papers, with which he enriched the Adventurer, but are frequently brought forward by him, with all the warmth of an ardent lover, in his Essay on Pope.

This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes.

TEMPEST.

Chaucer is obscure to those persons only who neglect him; the difficulty, which attends the first reading of him, soon vanishes; and surely the conquest must be worth the trouble, when we consider the advantages to be derived from it. Whoever can be satisfied with masculine and simple poetry; whoever can be amused with humour, too often through the nature of the times in which he wrote alloyed with ribaldry, but frequently pure and sterling; whoever thinks it desirable to become acquainted with the manners of his ancestors, and (I may add) to gain a more distinct view of his own language, will be amply rewarded by the repeated perusal of Chaucer. —I consider his Knightes Tale, which Dryden has so nobly modernised, as the poem of Chivalry: the names, indeed, are clasical; but the images, the sentiments, the characters, the very action of the poem itself, are all wild, and fanciful, and chivalrous. But all this is fully illustrated, and powerfully confirmed by a writer, who has devoted much time and talent, and no less zeal to this our first poetic parent. Mr. Godwin has afforded “ample room and verge enough” to this great poet, who is certainly entitled to the best attentions of his historian.

Mr. Mant says, I have taken the liberty of adopting this pronunciation, notwithstanding Milton's authority to the contrary. The word as it frequently occurs in the Squieres Tale, is necessarily and uniformly Càmbuscàn: e. g.

This noble king, this Tartre Cambuscan.

(C. T. 10343.) Milton was, in all probability, not aware of the title of Khan of Tartary.

Wharton was remarkably partial to Longinus's treatise on the Sublime, and in his choice of that interesting writer he seems to have been directed by a congeniality of sentiment. He was, indeed, the critic of taste and feeling.

Mr. Mant alludes to a part of Moschus's Elegy on Bion, which he transcribes. Any one, who may have happened not to have read it, will thank him for introducing him to one of the most beautiful and pathetic poems of antiquity; and those who have read it, can never think the reperusal of it to be tedious.

Αι, αι, ται μαλαχαι μεν επαν κατα καπον ολωνται,
Η τα χλωρα σελινα, το τ' ευθαλες ουλον ανηθον,
Υστερον αυ ζωοντι, και εις ετος αλλο φυοντι.
Αμμες δ' οι μεγαλοι, και καρτεροι η σοφοι ανδρες,
Οπποτε πρωτα θανωμες, ανακοοι εν χθονε κοιλα
Ειδομες ευ μαλα μακρον, ατερμονα, νηγρετον υπνον.
Και συ μεν εν σιγα πιπυκασμενος εσσεαι εν γα.
κ. τ. λ.

He then mentions a resemblance between these verses and some lines in Dr. Beattie's “Hermit:” it appears more striking from the consideration, that the earliest copies of that poem contained only the first four stanzas. And the two concluding stanzas seem to have been added by the elegant and amiable author, or (as has been stated) by Johnson, with a view of correcting the false sentiment conveyed in the preceding.


233

On a distant View of the English Convents of Nuns, at Winchester. Written on the Day of the Hill-Fair, September 12, 1804.

Ye self-devoted! if ye live
Far from whate'er the world can give;
The social joys that youth engage,
Enchant the gay, seduce the sage;
If far from scenes where passions range
In wild and never-ending change;
Love, hate, indiff'rence, grief, and bliss—
Ye sisters pale, if these you miss,
And these escsping, if you shun
The scenes in which such miriads run

234

With head-long speed, or progress slow,
Alike the cause of human woe;
Ne'er can the Muse your lot deplore,
But hail the convent's sheltering door.
Far from that convent's sacred walls,
In lofty domes and stately halls,
Where Grandeur, Luxury, and Pride,
In pomp and pageantry reside;
From Glory's crimson path as far,
And all the scenes of ruthless war,
Where madd'ning Vict'ry's chariots roll,
Or Mirth, more frantic, drains the bowl;
If e'en that transport of the heart,
O Love, which thou can best impart;
If the sweet tie of offspring dear,
If bliss, that rises to a tear,
And aches with tender happiness,
Frail man, thou canst not bear excess.—
—Yes,—if all these,—and thousands more,
From the world's never-failing store,
Too various for the Muse to tell,
Fly,—when you bid the world farewell;
Ne'er can the Muse your lot deplore,
But hail the convent's shelt'ring door.
If, above all, from guests more rude,
From the foul fiend, Ingratitude,
You shut the everlasting door,
How can the Muse your lot deplore?
If this be true, ye sisters pale,
The muse shall ne'er your lot bewail;
No more shall deem the nunnery's gloom
Worse than the darkness of the tomb,

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But hail the hour that sets you free,
O world! from thy iniquity.
But if, when from that world you run,
You meet more evils than you shun;
If, closed within your convent walls,
You ne'er can hear when Sorrow calls,
Or miss the good you might dispense,
To objects of benevolence;
The orphan's sigh, the widow's moan,
The mother's tear, the father's groan,
The smile of joy, when help is near,
The love, which well repays the tear:
If far removed from these you dwell,
Soon as you bid the world farewell;
Still must the Muse the fate deplore,
That shuts upon the world the door.

239

TO Mr. and Mrs. MORREL, WITH FAIRINGS.

Accept the trifling gifts I bring—
—A fair itself's a trifling thing—
Yet smallest gifts, if kind and free,
No less than splendid presents, prove
Tokens of friendship and of love,
And gems of sweet SINCERITY!
Yet, could I choose what might express,
In mind, in manners, and in dress,
What we in life so seldom see,
From youth to age a pair like you;
Then, in my fairings should you view,
That gem of gems, SIMPLICITY!
My ribands should nor fly, nor fade,
But stand the sunshine and the shade,
Like leaves of some immortal tree;
Their colours too, a heavenly hue,
Should shine in Nature's lustre true,
To grace the gem, SINCERITY!
Yet not the Quaker's formal brown,
Nor coxcomb colour of the town,

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For these with you but ill agree;
Nor yet, affecting to be neat,
The studied, flaunting tints we meet,
Mocking the gem, SIMPLICITY!
O no! my Present should display
Something so just 'twixt grave and gay,
Yet good, that it should seem to be
A Present meet for such a pair,
And all who know you should declare,
'Twas the pure gem, SIMPLICITY!