Poetic Lucubrations :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poetic Lucubrations

Containing The Misanthrope and Other Effusions. By T. Gordon Hake

Hake, Thomas Gordon (1809-1895)

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XVII.

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN THE RUINS OF THE PRIORY OF ST. PANCRAS'.

MARIAN.

TO CAPTAIN H. W. G. ROYAL ARTILLERY.

TO ISABELLA.

FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.

JULIAN AND SYRENA, An Eclogue.

ÆNIGMA.

FAREWELL.

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THE MISANTHROPE.

A Poem. IN TWO CANTOS.

CANTO I.

I.

Lo! Caspian slumbers—o'er his weary soul
Lethès dark billows in dull silence roll.
Oblivious umbrage lulls that ebbing glow,
That restless flame, whence all his sorrows flow.

II.

Delightful spell! sleep calms the troubled breast,
And soothes the bosom by wan grief opprest,
And on the heart that apathy engraves
Which rests with moul dring mortals in their graves.

III.

A charm whose sweetness grief alone can tell,
Which thought itself, can from the mind dispel!
Which clothes the soul in fancy's Iris dress,
Or yields ideas of empty nothingness!

IV.

From that dark hour, when Ada's spirit trac'd
Its flight to mansions by God's presence grac'd;
When blind enthusiasts in her guiltless breast
The poniard plung'd, that sunk her e'er to rest;

The period at which the actions of the poem are supposed to have taken place, was when the delusive and subtle philosophy of Aristotle gained so high a dominion over the minds of civilized men; enslaving the noble faculty of reason, and checking all possibility of arriving at truth, by studying nature.

The false shadow of reasou which was cherished in the schools tended to ennarrow the mind, and to raise bigotry and conceit in the place of real wisdom and candour: hence, men deluded into the belief that their philosophical adoptions were the trancript of nature, and the spirit of truth, vigorously opposed, and severely punished those daring and original minds, which occasionally arose from among the thick darkness of prejudice and ignorance, presuming to study, and teach nature in opposition to the visionary principles and hasty conclusions of the S tagyrite.

Amongst those few noble intellects which preferred truth to prejudice, nature to false art, was our hero Caspian, educated in all the sophisms of the day, his penetrating mind pierced their thick veil and discovered their falsehood; ardent, desirous of impressing truth on the minds of his companions, he used every means in endeavouring to open their minds and dislodge their follies, by the force of reasoning, the powers of eloquence, and the stings of contemptuous satire.

Too deeply bound by the gilded fetters of their philosophy, they heard him at first with astonishment, then with pity, and at length with anger: unable to combat the strength of his arguments, envying his superior intellect, and stung with his unceasing reproaches; goaded to the extremity of rage and despair, they determined to rid themselves of his society: but Caspian was ever with them, urging them to thought and reflection, until finding the only being in the world who loved him, basely murdered, he fled in anguish from those who had treated him so unworthily, considering them as the cause of his Ada's death and betook himself, to the woods.

V.

From that dread hour, none Caspian's hand could grasp,
But shunn'd it as the fatal venom'd asp!
As from the tiger of the sylvan plain,
From him all fled, their safety to regain.

VI.

The lurking snake, which hurls at all its dart,
Mark'd his stern eye, then hasten'd to depart:
And at his glance, the hungry bird of prey
With terror scream'd, then trembling flew away!

VII.

His frame seem'd cast in nature's richest mould,
Courage and pow'r, its manly bearing told,
And the fine outlines of his noble face
Were such as seldom mark the human race.

VIII.

To shew a frown, that held dominion there,
Dark, waving ringlets left his forehead bare:
Beneath, that star of life, the sable eye
Encompass'd by a dark, expressive ridge,
By one quick glance could turn a dagger's edge,
When rous'd by ire, with Sol himself might vie!

IX.

Cold, and unmelting as the Alpine snow,
The maiden's heart, that met, nor felt its glow;
For with a smile he stamp'd an am'rous smart,
Or with a sneer confusion, on the heart!

X.

But such is past, all deem his lightest breath
A blast to hurl their coward souls to death,
One mutter'd sound, or one demoniac sneer
Imprints a lasting thrill on ev'ry ear.

XI.

But now the morning light recals his woes,
And melts the feeble pleasures of repose;
In hope's dark mist he vainly tries to find,
A ray to calm his æipathetic mind:
His thoughts at length revolve into despair,
Thus blend their anguish with the empty air.

XII.

“Oh, that high heav'n had doom'd my fate to be,
The verdant breadth of some gigantic tree,
Beneath whose shadow men were wont to rest;
Then would I crush them with my pondrous breast!
Or some sharp rock beneath the ship plough'd wave
That I might wreck, and hear the dastards rave!

XIII.

Ada! thou art unmindful of that hour,
When life's bright sunshine made thine heart so gay:
Oh, how I hate to dream of yonder bow'r,
Where years with thee, like hours have flown away:

Suspicion whisp'ring not within mine ear,
That ecstacy was made, to disappear!
But Summer rills all freeze, when Winter mars the year.

XIV.

Oh, how we lov'd! 'twas not that pow'rful spark
Of transient passion which the mind can sway,
Which like the glow-worm glistens in the dark,
Exists, is yet invisible by day.

XV.

'Twas such as Adam felt, when woman's calm
Luxurious smile first met his lonely heart:
On earth, what deadly soporific charm
Could stanch our grief, with such a gift to part?

XVI.

'Twas such as Enoch felt for Heav'n, when God,
His soul translated to the realms of bliss:
Oh! does that Angel who this earth hath trod,
The peerless Ada, Caspian love like this?

XVII.

'Twas such as Angels feel, when ev'ning cheers,
And gentle shades invite, each lover's eye:
Or when their soft, mellifluous song appears
To captivate the soul of the most High!

XVIII.

Oh! let me rest, beneath this willow's head,
Which sips the tide, and yields a grateful shade:
See how it droops! the murm'ring zephyrs fly,
Betwixt its leaves to greet it with a sigh!

XIX.

O weeping willow, with thee let me mourn,
For thee alas! a tear is seldom drawn,
Save from that kind, that sorrowing stream below,
Which sobs beneath thee, as its wavelets flow.
Oh! droop no more, this shaded brook appears
To be a flood of thine incessant tears.

XX.

There is a melancholy bliss in sadness,
A spell which vainly tries to sink the heart:
Its pow'rs are neutralized by hope, whilst gladness
Bursts forth to greet the tear-drops as they start.

XXI.

There is a melancholy bliss in smiling
O'er pillows where a virgin eye reposes,
The glowing cheek, with hectic flush reviling,
Grim death who hastes to strew her full-blown roses.

XXII.

Where all is silence save her light breath rising,
Like fragrance from a roseate luscious flow'r:
Or like the moon for the last time arising,
From the red wave, o'er thoughtless pleasure's bow'r.

XXIII.

Ah! melancholy are the joys of seeing
Her slumber who will shortly breathe no more:
To watch the immaterial essence fleeing,
Unto a better, from this woe-worn shore!

XXIV.

To share the overwhelming pang of breathing,
Unto a dying friend the last adiou!
And yet, a sigh around the feelings wreathing,
Doth separation's bitter pangs subdue.

XXV.

There is a melancholy bliss in casting
A thought on her departed whom I lov'd,
It breathes affection's pledge, as pure and lasting
As ever Seraph's to the Eternal prov'd!

XXVI.

Thou winding stream, how oft I've known the pleasure
Of seeing thee by moonlight glide away,
Like careless mortals recking not the treasure
Their minds may lose whilst wrapp'd in mould'ring clay.

XXVII.

But ne'er again mine Ada shall we stray
To mark each beauty as its wavelets play,
Dæmons! the only joy that I can know,
Is that of smiling on another's woe!
Or to revile the raving sinner's breath,
Which frames a curse, then yields his soul to death.

XXVIII.

O Sin, thy tainted germs have never fail'd,
Their fruits in show'rs prolific overflow,
Fertility, e'er since thou wast entail'd,
Hath cursed mankind, Cain too can tell thee so!

XXIX.

In soulless brutes we see the passions move,
In that straight course express'd by Him above,

And thus, tho' highest in creation's link,
Their lord mankind doth oft beneath them sink.
The faithful dog, by man so oft ill-us'd,
The trust of man hath never yet abus'd;
Like man it snarls, if by mankind opprest;
But unlike man, loves those who treat it best.

XXX.

When poverty invades the wretched home,
And waves his tatter'd banner o'er the dome,
Or fell disease, or each domestic storm,
Drives from our home each friend in human form:
This friend alone, with heart by grief imbued,
Will lick the hand which cannot find it food:
Without reward its watchful glance will cast,
Around the doorless hut until it breathes its last,

XXXI.

The tawny Lion, who once held his reign,
The bloody tyrant of the Libyan plain:
Altho' subdued by man's fallacious skill,
With fear obeys its dominator's will.
The shaggy Wolf whose nature is to stain,
Her jaws with gore, to rend the panting vein,
Tame as a lamb will sink, with thanks to greet,
The one who casts her offspring at her feet.

An anecdote is related of a traveller who was surprised by the sudden appearance of a she-wolf, apparently entreating him with imploring glances to follow: wondering at the want of ferocity exhibited by the brute, and attracted by the unusual expression of her features, he followed her to a den in which were a Lion and the Wolf's cubs; on firing on the former and leaving the latter free to the delighted Wolf, she sunk at his feet in gratitude!

XXXII.

Blush, mortals blush, or if ye still despise
The path of God, the beast can teach thee how to rise,
Let thy dark mind repent each hidden crime,
Nor deem it faded by the lapse of time,
Tho' since 'twas done whole ages may have roll'd,
Each secret crime at Heav'n's tribunal shall be told.”

CANTO II.

I.

'Neath a near wood where many a lime tree grows,
In vain poor Caspian seeks desir'd repose:
A mighty and a venerable wood,
Which on a hill's steep side, hath frowning stood,
And proudly brav'd thro' many a Winter drear,
The storms and blasts which close the circling year

II.

And now the Sun on its broad mass bestows,
Bright colors, whilst its top with beauty glows,
And minstrel birds in flocks delight to rove
And carol in the coolness of its grove.

III.

'Neath a huge tree and on a grassy bed,
The Misanthrope reclines his haughty head;
The rolling eye, the throbbing, boiling, veins,
Tell how strong passion in his bosom reigns:
In words, and tears fierce fury may have vent,
But madness burns, when mighty rage is pent.

IV.

He thinks upon his Ada's injur'd fate,
The cruelty, and bigotry of man,
His own unhappy, and degraded state,
And life's short, sad, and yet eventful span.

V.

He questions heav'n's own justice as he thinks
How little he deserv'd its heavy ire,
He's half resolv'd to curse, again he sinks,
And smothers in his breast the impious fire.

VI.

Such mighty feelings rend his tortur'd soul,
That reason rushes from her own control:
Wild phrenzy with her fiery septre sways
His mind, yet temper'd by a few light rays,

Which gleam around sufficiently to show,
That madness draws her falchion as his foe.

VII.

Raving, he screams; “hark! hark! the deep floods roaring,
Rise in their rage, relent, then sob for me:
Those wave-worn rocks mine agony deploring,
In pensive sadness speak philanthropy.
Yes! rocks of flint e'en drop a tear to see
A mind so fallen, and a heart so sad,
And tho' congeal'd and cold, in misery
A tear concentrates all that makes us glad,
All that on earth's rough soil, of pleasure can be had.

VIII.

The sun grows dark, the Deity forsakes me,
Grim horror in a whirlwind racks my brain,
And madness in its wild career o'ertakes me,
Clings to my soul, ha! hurls me tow'rds the main!
Farewell! ye rocks we ne'er shall meet again!
Life is departing; yet it seems to be
Renew'd from darkness as its dark clouds wane,
The subtle, burning essence seems to flee,
Into the ocean; now returns again,
As mist ascends in clouds, and then sinks down in rain.

IX.

Mine eyes congeal, my limbs are petrified!
And like a breathing statue, now I sink.

Like polish'd marble gently do I glide,
And ne'er again shall see the ocean's brink,
I hear, nor feel, nor see, but only think;
And yet I seem to hear, to feel, to see?
My thirsty mind from vision cannot drink,
For all the senses have flown inwardly:
Confus'd as dolphins which have left their native sea!

X.

The shell fish of the ocean cling around me,
And with the slimy weeds a cov'ring make
Their tacit, endless slumber doth confound me
And keeps my soul in agony awake:

And if I slumber, they my slumbers break,
Which change to boist'rous billows, calm before:
And when I try my garment off to shake,
I seem more still, they seem to cling the more:
I'm like the bird of Jove, which would, yet cannot soar!

XI.

Again I sink, my breath and strength decreasing,
Until in anguish and despair I weep.
I feel each tear the vital flame releasing,
At length resolve into forgetful sleep.

XII.

Yes, now my soul forgetfulness embraces,
And seems as senseless as the waters round;
Nor are there in my mind the slightest traces,
Of life, or thought or feeling to be found:

A state which doth the very soul astound;
Which from the soul doth tear all soul away,
And leaves behind such feelings as abound
In minds which long have fled from slumb'ring clay:
Strange as would be a pool of ice on summer's day.

XIII.

Mine eyes unclose, with grateful light abound,
And melt in vision: still I cannot hear,
Nor even think, each scene which smiles around,
In placid mildness greet my thoughtless stare!
The Sun I see, but do not feel its glare:
Like me it seems to care not for its ray:
Like me its essence lives, yet knows not where:
I'm like a lake whose waters are astray,
Save just enough to moisten thoughtful, thoughtless clay!

XIV.

And now the massy crags of chalk descending,
The shingles threaten with a thund'ring fall:
And whilst with them their shatter'd fragments blending,
In fear I start, but silence buries all!

XV.

Oh! heav'n! I see mine Ada stalking! why
Turn from my gaze that bosom's gaping wound,
Or try to hide the brightness of that eye,
Which casts on all save me its splendour round?
O lend thine hand to raise me from the ground
To that bright place where now I see thee stand:
Whose million beauties, only to be found
In heav'n, proclaim it heav'n's own happy land:
Canst thou stand there and see me on this wretched strand?

XVI.

Madness, despair and fury roll around me:
I'm like a maniac 'side the ocean's brink,
Whose howling, raging waves attempt to drown me,
Increase my burden, yet I cannot sink!

XVII.

I'm like a reptile hurl'd by heav'n's commands,
Midst dæmons all neglected by their God!
Each transient horror thro' my mind expands,
And now my soul is dragg'd beneath the sod.

XVIII.

And there I see the fiends of hell deriding
My soul as it attempts to rise whilst falling:
I see mine Ada's spirit upwards gliding,
And all save me attend God's universal calling!

XIX.

Help heav'n, I sink! Oh! What a land is here!
What sounds appalling meet my bursting ear!
What horrid forms are ye? Speak! Miscreants tell,
Are ye the phantom habitants of hell?

XX.

Ha! grinning on me? Spectres do ye dare
On me to hurl your dark, demoniac glare?
Hence, wretches! tell your bloody fury-lords
That dauntless Caspian scorns their snaky chords.

XXI.

Ah! do I wake! and were these horrors then
A vision form'd by all-deluding sleep?
They were, I see the waving trees again,
And heav'n's own azure, all so calm and deep.

XXII.

Hail! welcome Sun, thy splendour re-appearing,
Again cheers one who loves to gaze on thee,
Ages thou hast thine heav'nly main been steering,
And now the only friend that's left for me.

XXIII.

In heav'n's calm seas an orient vessel gliding,
Where glory reigns, nor winds, nor waves do roar;
And tho' at times in distant regions hiding,
Thy modest smile enchants each mundane shore.

XXIV.

O man! that humble monarch of the sky,
Breathes forth the essence of humility;
Modest in pow'r and beauty does it roam,
Alike to bless the king and peasant home.

XXV.

Refulgent orb! how bounteously thy pow'rs
Do rule and modify each coming day,
How meekly dost thou regulate the hours,
Which wasted, spurn'd, forsaken glide away!

XXVI.

Time is a bird, the motions of whose wing
Denote the hours of each successive flight:
A fickle elf, which doth at pleasure bring
Long hours of grief, or moments of delight.

XXVII.

Her pow'r is such, each limitaneous day
With some resolves into infinity;
With others years and ages glide away,
As if to war against eternity!

XXVIII.

O Time! why brookest thou men's lethargy,
Who know, yet do not venerate thy worth?
And tho' the shortness of their lot confess,
Yet trifle with thee till they quit the earth.

XXIX.

Or what is worse, instead of following
Nature's pure laws, and making them the guide
To virtue, Oh! thou find'st them wallowing
In learned ignorance or conceited pride.

XXX.

Instead of picking up that solid store,
Thou scatterest before their blinded eyes,
They stand and listen to the ocean's roar,
Or idly chase the painted butterflies.

XXXI.

And if perchance they catch the gaudy spoil.
Their violence tears the pleasing plumage off;
Or they describe each spot with useless toil,
And call it wisdom! to wise men a scoff.

XXXII.

Hence with their follies, let the truly wise,
Their duty to their God and man pursue,
And leave such foolish vain philosophies,
To the half-thinking, and deluded crew.

This is addressed to the followers of the false philosophy of Aristotle, which he had abandoned. Its dogmas are too well known to be commented on, it needs only be said, that they ane now entirely exploded, through the influence of, and mode of study adopted, and recommended by the illustrious Bacon.

XXXIII.

O intellect, in littleness excelling,
Canst thou not claim plain reason as thine own?
There is a grinning urchin in thee dwelling,
Whisp'ring that all thou knowest is unknown!

XXXIV.

Thou art a taper, darkly, dimly burning,
Whose rays scarce glimmer o'er the objects round thee,
Beside a star, whose radiance smiles whilst spurning
Thy feeble light, whose flick'ring beams confound thee.

XXXV.

But what avails it, life is but a flow'r,
Which buds, then op'ning, blooms into decay;
Its blossoms all are scatter'd 'neath a show'r,
And by the gentle zephyrs blown away;
But heav'n's sweet fruit appears, whilst they resolve to clay.

XXXVI.

All, I forgive, but how can I forget,
The fiends who drove me to the gaping tomb?

Yet shall the hour when first, when last we met,
Be shortly fetter'd in oblivion's womb.

XXXVII.

Farewell! Oh, may forgiveness generate,
Within their hearts one sympathetic glow;
Oh, may a knowledge of my hapless state
Tell, how they err'd in wounding Caspian so!

XXXVIII.

Again, farewell! the glorious prize is won,
And life is passing like a storm away:
I thought it transient, and that it begun,
To usher in a more congenial day.”

THE END:

SUMMER'S NIGHT.

I.

The Sun has sunk beneath the west,
And ev'ry bird is in his nest,
Who late upon the liveried tree
Pour'd forth his vesper melody.
Silent is the guarded camp,
Save from the Sentry's measur'd tramp,
A heavy stillness weighs on all,
K eeps the hardiest breast in thrall.
Thick and motionless the air,
A murky gloom o'er all is spread:

No Moon doth thro' the mist appear,
And not a star doth show its head.
Not a single zephyr blows,
Not a single banner flows;
'Tis like what was ere this vast world,
Was round its flaming centre hurl'd,
When Chaos lay, a lightless heap,
The silent throne of senseless sleep.

II.

In such a dark and gloomy hour,
First Satan felt ambition pour
Thro' all his veins her fire:
And round his princely standard drew,
And madly urg'd, the impious crew
To battle with their Sire!

III.

In such still hour his bands he led,
Against that High Eternal Head,
Ten thousand purple banners waving!
In such an hour th' Almighty hurl'd
The traitor from his heav'nly world,
Ten thousand blasting thunders raving!

IV.

In such an hour the rebel fell,
And sank beneath the waves of hell,
An Alien for ever
From heav'n, from happiness and love,
Condemn'd o'er Orcus' plains to rove,
Or man from peace to sever!

V.

In such an hour, the Dæmon came
To sully man's yet spotless name,
To tempt the fool to pry!
In such an hour imprudent Eve,
Taught all her sons to toil, to grieve,
To sin, to curse, and die!

VI.

In such an hour, invidious Cain,
Shudder'd to see a brother slain,
And own'd a murd'rer's dread!
In such an hour God's awful voice,
A curse pronounc'd in thunder's noise
On his devoted head!

VII.

In such an hour the Cherub race,
Rashly left their native place,
The rosy bow'rs of heav'n:
To clasp within their deathless arms,
The ripe, delusive, god-like charms
To mortal women giv'n!

VIII.

At such an hour, when Babel rais'd
Its head sublime, and mortals prais'd
Their wisdom, braving God!
Th' All-pow'rful at their folly smil'd;
Their tiny, puny work revil'd,
Dispers'd them with a nod!

IX.

At such an hour, near Xanthus' flood,
The naked rival Triad stood:
Upon the Shepherd's eyes
The o'erpow'ring flame of beauty flash'd,
And ev'ry tow'r in Ilion crash'd,
As he bestow'd the prize!

X.

At such an hour, young Paris met
The Spartan queen, and at her feet,
Sank the enraptur'd boy!
At such an hour, she press'd his bark,
And rais'd in Greece that mighty spark,
Which fir'd the Halls of Troy!

XI.

The Phrygian prince, at such an hour,
Prov'd his thoughtless mother's pow'r,
Embrac'd the Tyrian dame:
At such an hour he sow'd that feud,
Which delug'd Italy with blood,
Destroy'd the Punic name.

XII.

At such an hour, chaste Dian's fane,
Own'd the resistless might of flame,
Its sculptur'd columns rocking:
And as its pond'rous turrets fell,
The broad-red flame was heard to yell,
Its prostrate foe in triumph mocking!

XIII.

At this dread hour, great Cæsar's ghost,
Vanish'd from Pluto's dreary coast,
And press'd Philippi's plain:
On Brutus fix'd that with'ring look,
Which none but Brutus' soul could brook,
Thrice his airy truncheon shook,
Then sunk to hell again!

XIV.

At such an hour that frantic fool,
Hell's most pliant dastard tool,
Delighted, saw old Roma blaze!
And as the roaring flames arise,
And mingle with the people's cries,
On his polluted harp, the miscreant plays!

XV.

At such an hour, the stern Macbeth,
Consign'd his royal guest to death:
And from his aged head
The murd'rers hand the chaplet tore,
Its envied gems bedimm'd with gore,
Its golden blossoms shed!

XVI.

At this dark hour, the dæmon clans,
Assemble in their dire divans,
Their horrid schemes devise!
While the Tartarean concave swells,
And bursts before a thousand yells,
A thousand victims' cries!

XVII.

At this dread hour, th' infernal crew,
Delight to sip the war-field dew,
T' inhale the tainted air:
To spread before men's troubled sight,
The varying horrors of the night,
And mock their mutter'd pray'r!

Such were the tints of gloomy hue,
That fast inventing fancy drew
On a youthful warrior's mind,
In his darken'd tent reclin'd.
And as their horrors wildly roll,
O'er all his superstitious soul,

A fitful, and unwilling dread,
By ev'ry startled sense is fed.
He hears low undefined sounds,
Now a shaft beside him bounds,
Monstrous forms before him flit,
And slimy toads beside him sit.
In vain he woos oblivious sleep,
The fev'rish blood doth thickly creep:
Half rising from his leafy bed,
He grasps his sword in breathless dread.
Throws his quiv'ring eye around,
Then sinks again: again some sound
Bursts on his wakeful ear: again
He feels the same mysterious pain.

But no, all's silent, all is gloom,
Save at the door of the canvas room:
“But sure some giant form is there,
By heav'n! I see its sockets glare!
That sound, hark! yet, 'tis but the rain,
I hear soft dropping from the tree.
But God! that is a form I see!
Speak! or never breathe again!
What art thou, I charge thee tell,
Or man, or art thou fiend of hell?”
“Henry,” a hollow murmur fell!
Mad from his bed the warrior sprung,
Against his breast his falchion rung,

Fiercely at the shade he flew,
Quickly in his grasping hand
The phantom stood, what meets his view,
Why thus like a statue stand?
Whose round polish'd arm is this?
Whose the lip, imprints the kiss?
Who the warm embrace bestows?
Is this breast an armed foe's?
Is the lip on which he hangs,
Th'icy adder's pois'nous fangs?
Is the cheek which meets his own,
A skeleton's cold, fleshless bone?

Is the waist he closely presses,
Are the glossy, circling tresses,
Are the gentle tones he hears,
Such as raise the deadliest fears?
Forgotten are his late alarms,
For Juliana fills his arms!

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN THE RUINS OF THE PRIORY OF ST. PANCRAS'.

This once magnificent structure, established by William de Warren, first Earl of Surry, was commenced about the year 1072, and completed in 1078. So few and imperfect are its remains, that it is impossible to form any tolerably correct notion of its original state: it is, however, a rich remnant of ancient grandeur.

Hist: and antiq: of Lewes.

I

Here will we rest, where mould'ring tow'rs proclaim
The gloomy remnant of conventual fame:
Where once arose the holy monk's retreat,
Thee, sacred muse, in solemn thought we greet.

II

Where silence slumbers and extends her reign,
Calling departed grandeur her domain:
Where, as the mind some tale forgotten seeks,
The silent dust of by-gone ages speaks.

III

Ye falling stones, religion's former home,
Resolv'd to this, where vermin scarce can roam?
Now grins the dark initials of a name,
Where hallow'd portraits spoke the friar's fame!

IV

How many a man enrich'd with classic lore,
Hath trod with softest touch these sacred aisles:
How oft th' enthusiast was wont to pour,
His lonely pray'r beneath these massy piles.

V

How oft the mitred abbot here hath sat,
And fram'd ambition's wild, delusive schemes,
And visionary, scann'd the laws of fate,
And truth accounted his mad, waking dreams.

VI

And what avails him now, his proudest boast,
The vaunted lore of ancient Greece and Rome?
Did it prevent him treading Stygian coast,
Or save his body from th' o'erwhelming tomb?

VII

And where are now those golden prelacies,
Which danc'd before the Abbot's greedy eyes?
And what avail them now those papacies,
Which haughty Bishops hunted as a prize?

VIII

Their mould'ring dust beneath this nightshade sleeps,
Altho' whose dust, no mould'ring emblems tell,
At such a scene, how wild ambition weeps!
Can man be bound by such a pow'rless spell?

IX

Perhaps is mingled here some humble slave,
Who by his chief's despotic anger fell:
And some proud peer, who once did sternly wave
His red-cross banner o'er the infidel.

X

When time's quick pinion hath a cent'ry ran,
Who can collect the coffin from the man?
'Tis dust alike, whence springs the verdant weeds,
On which the bleating lamb contented feeds.

XI

Here once was rear'd with care the valued rose,
Where now th' uncar'd for, sturdy thistle grows:
Where round the elm the ivy once would coil,
Is left a barren and deserted soil.

XII

Ye slimy walls, the Norman artist's boast!
Now a mere Chaos of neglected state,
The sordid remnant of the Clunic host,
Which now religion scarce can venerate.

XIII

And yet ye once by pompous cpitaph
Would fain perpetuate the abbots' fame!
Oh! as ye fall, how time's derisive scoff
Mocks your enfeebled, green, and tott'ring frame.

XIV

Ah! proud ambition, disappointment's slave
Does death neglect to cool thy hottest vein?
What signifies when slumb'ring in the grave
The noisesome toil, which designates thy reign?

XV

But, thus it is, in vain we seek for joys,
Fell disappointment, all our hopes destroys,
O! who can tell, how oft the destin'd pride
Of kings and kingdoms hath in boyhood died?

XVI

And who can tell how many a destin'd sage,
Hath breath'd no more than childhood's happy age,
Or who, how many a humble hero's fall,
In valor gain'd hath pass'd unknown to all.

XVII

How many an one, with locks of silv'ry gray,
Hath pass'd his life in idleness away:
How many a youth with talents rare and bright,
Hath like a meteor, vanish'd in the night.

XVIII

Ah! who can say how many a virtuous mind
Hath been unjustly censur'd by mankind:
Or who, how many an hypocrite, can say,
Hath unsuspected trod his sinful way.

XIX

Farewell ye walls! adieu thou rolling stream,
Which seems to glide away like childhood's dream,
Which once was flowing in a mighty river,
But now like ye, appears condemn'd for ever!

XX

The time shall be, when not a mossy stone,
Remains to tell where tow'rs once proudly rose:
Time's mighty hand great cities hath o'erthown,
And in their halls the scanty hemlock grows.

MARIAN.

I.

Phœbus is hast'ning to his western bed,
And longs to rest his weary languid head;
A few rich beams are o'er the mountains thrown,
But ev'ning claims the valleys as her own.

There is a spot, beneath a hillock's shade,
That seems for love, and dalliance to be made:
Large walnuts o'er it their rich foliage throw,
And cool the turf, whence purple roses grow,
And Ouse whilst murm'ring o'er his pebbly bed,
Soft music seems througout the bow'r to spread.

II.

Here Marian's raven locks are flowing,
Loosely to the gentle wind:
Her cheek with soft emotion glowing,
Shows that passion rules her mind.

III.

Her pouting, coral lip doth quiver,
Her tearful glance is turn'd on high:
Now seated by the gurgling river,
Murmurs answer to her sigh.

IV.

The marble bosom wildly beating,
Is expos'd to zephyr's gaze:
Who the snowy circlet meeting,
With it's heav'nly beauty plays.

V.

Again she throws her ken to heav'n,
As tho' it were her native place:
Now to the lake her eyes are giv'n,
Which boasts the shadow of her face.

VI.

At length upon the turf reclining,
By the margin of the deep,
Her arms around her neck entwining,
She yields her pensive soul to sleep.

VII.

Now the zephyrs thro' the valley,
Careless, listless, slowly stray,
With the slumb'ring maiden rally,
With her countless beauties play.

VIII.

One flutt'ring soft his airy pinion,
Sports within her ebon hair:
One of the lip claims sole dominion,
Drinks the balmy fragrance there.

IX.

One on her brow, so arch'd, and placid,
Seats his light and tiny weight:
Fans away the pearly acid,
Oozing from the visual gate.

X.

Love, that power, all commanding,
View'd the scene from neighb'ring heights,
And his golden wing expanding,
In the blissful bow'r alights.

XI.

He prob'd her heart and saw with gladness,
Passion in her bosom reign'd,
Passion, which almost to madness,
O'er her senses sway had gain'd

XII.

He took a shaft from out the quiver,
That from his polish'd shoulder hung:
A shaft by Venus shap'd, that never
Miss'd its aim, the bow string wrung.

XIII.

The arrow whistled, and the virgin
Felt the glowing blue stream creep:
The crimson fountain quick emerging,
Show'd the wound was sure and deep.

A River in Sussex.

TO CAPTAIN H. W. G. ROYAL ARTILLERY.

I

My dearest friend, altho' as true,
As truth itself can be,
A tinge of sadness doth imbue,
The love I feel for thee.

II

For I have felt the plentitude,
By which thine heart is sway'd:
My sole return is gratitude,
In emptiness array'd.

III

But Oh, my friend, if thou could'st see,
My heart's most inward core,
Thou then would'st feel sincerity,
Tow'rds thee in torrents pour.

IV

The charms of gold allure the eye,
And quickly disappear:
But friendship always draws a sigh,
For those who are most dear.

V

My friend, I've known thee since my birth,
And whilst below I stroll,
So well I know, and feel thy worth,
I'd trust thee with my soul!

TO ISABELLA.

I

I love to pace the moonlit dell,
When day hath wing'd her flight,
And there to hearken to the knell,
The awful knell of night:
For night confers a chasten'd joy,
Which swells within my breast;
And this is why I love to stray,
Whilst others are at rest.

II

To view the star-deck'd firmanent,
When all is so serene,
When morn arrives, how I repent,
The loss of such a scene!
With ruch a scene, oh, surely none
In brilliancy can vie,
Oh! yes, that bright meridian sun.
Mine Isabella's eye!

III

For I have felt its torrid beams,
Brighter than heav'n's own light,
And seen them grace a smile which seems,
Too pure for human sight.

Yes! many a night I've seen her throw,
Tow'rds heav'n its vivid rays,
The brightest stars confess'd their glow,
By twinkling at her gaze!

FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.

I

I hate the man whose soul contemns
The smile of social bliss:
I loathe that wretch whose heart condemns
The lover's glowing kiss!

II

For friendship weaves those lasting ties,
Which none can e'er unbind,
And like the faithful ivy lies,
Around the heart entwin'd.

III

These fetter'd ties, e'en Time's keen blast
Doth seldom rend in twain,
And if it does, the cloud when past,
Brings heav'n to view again.

IV

But woman's soft, enchanting smile,
With man's ne'er thus can meet:
His lonely hours ne'er thus beguile,
Ne'er thus his pleasures greet.

V

No! woman's smile creates a flow
Of rapture from above,
Which melts into life's sweetest glow,
Then ripens into love!

JULIAN AND SYRENA, An Eclogue.

JULIAN TO THE MORNING.

Awake! sweet morn, thy radiant smile renew,
Again sweet infant breathe thy purest light:
Awake! sweet morn, disperse the sparkling dew,
Disperse the pearly tears of ebon night.

Awake! sweet morn, thy slumb'ring eyes unveil,
And let those lids emit their hidden dawn:
Ye tears depart, forsake the dewy vale,
And with your freshness purify the morn.

Unclose thy lovely eyes dear morn, and smile
Whilst nature's beauties waft a smile to you;
Her universal gloominess beguile
Into a vivid, variegated hue.

To Syrena.

Come dearest come, beside the streams we'll roam,
The gentle shades shall be our only home;
Beside the stream and willow we will stray,
Whilst hour on hour like bliss shall glide away.

Syrena.

Yes! dearest youth mine hand in your's shall lie,
And thus we'll watch the sun beams as they die:
See, I have gathered from the rose's stem
For you to wear, this dewy blushing gem.

Julian.

Around our arms the myrtle I'll entwine,
A kiss shall link your heart and hand to mine:
These wedded berries round your neck shall flow
Like roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow.

Syrena.

And with this flow'r I'll deck your flowing hair,
A flow'r which rose-trees but in summer wear,
And with these lilies will I wreathe a crest,
Which soon will droop—like Julian on my breast!

Julian.

Now let us sit beside this limpid stream,
And with it play as plays the dancing beam,
Into its marble pool I'll bend mine hand,
And cull pure crystals from its beds of sand.

Syrena.

O! whilst you stoop, unto the green grass cling,
The waves arise your shadow's charms to sing.
The zephyrs Julian all around you fly,
And for your safety in soft murmurs sigh.

Julian.

I sink, Syrena! with those rubies sip,
The chilly moisture of this dying lip:
Oh, whilst the cruel waters round me hiss,
Calm all my terrors with a parting kiss!

ÆNIGMA.

I

With me the constellations in the sky
Pursue their courses and direct their flight:
With me the azure canopy on high
Moves quickly on in genial beauty dight:
With me the sparkling purple garb of night
To mortal view extends its vivid glow:
Without me Phœbus yields no more that light,
Which doth around each circling planet flow,
But stagnant, spreads a fearful gloom on all below.

II

The rolling thunder, and the howling wind,
That hurls the green wave to a mountain's height:
The fleet red light'ning frightfully combin'd,
With all the horrors of December's night:
The crashing earthquake dreadful to the sight:
The hail stones hissing, smoking o'er the land:
And red volcanic flames whose blazing light,
Like op'ning Tart'rus, doth afar expand:—
Obey with trembling awe my potentous command.

III

The cascades gentle fall, the gurgling stream:
The silver birch-tree and the waving pine:
And ærial shadow's awfully that seem,
To be of regions and of kind divine:

The bow of God which in the sky doth shine
In heav'n's own colors and such dread array,
Reflected on the torrents of old Rhine,
Which fall from heights where mortals seldom stray:—
By me, in beauty live, or melt into decay.

IV

By me the surgy billows of the deep,
Vain man envelope, with his scatter'd stores:
With me the milder seas unruffled weep,
And shed their tears along the sobbing shores:
With me in war the hollow cannon roars:
With me the victory is won or lost:
With me in despot's chains the slave implores
Aid from his foe, with arms uprais'd and cross'd,
As if poor wretch! midst thieves in lands of plunder toss'd.

V

Yet hills, which never beautified a scene,
But are with gloom and barrenness imbued:
And hidden rocks which light have never seen,
And stagnant pools which grandeur ne'er have view'd
The works of man which o'er the earth are strew'd—
Each molten image, and each massy pile,
And architrave of mechanism rude:
My vaunted pow'r deride with haughty smile,
And oft from age to age its potent spells revile.

FAREWELL.

A Song.

Forget me not when I depart
Beyond the dark blue sea,
For when I'm gone my constant heart
Will e'er remain with thee!
Farewell! oh, weep no more for me,
Tho' parting gives thee pain,
But let us hope, dear girl, that we
Now part to meet again!

The tears which trickle down thy cheek,
Will fade the roses there,
Then let not transient sorrow seek
A friend in dark despair:
O! sigh no more the day will come
When I have plough'd the main,
The day which brings me safely home,
On which we meet again!

But if perchance mine ashes sleep
Beneath th' Atlantic wave,
Where passing billows only weep
Their salt tears o'er my grave:

Forget me not, because I'm gone
Beneath the cruel sea,
But try to cast a thought on one
Who cannot think on thee.

THE END.