The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

From mem'ry nought shall force her form away,
For ever sacred and for ever dear:
I'll seek her tomb at morn and closing day,
And wet each flow'r I offer with a tear.

She is dead, who gave life to the groves,
And covers our valley with gloom!
She who led all the Pleasures and Loves,
Now joins the pale band of the tomb.

She whose beauty commanded the heart,
So prais'd, so ador'd, so desir'd;
Sunk, the innocent victim of art,
And the passion her beauty inspir'd,

Yet silent was she on the swain
Whose cruelty doom'd her to mourn;
In secret her soul would complain,
In secret her anguish would burn.

Though faint was the blush on her cheek,
And deep in her bosom the thorn;
A smile 'midst her sorrows would break,
Like a ray through the clouds of the morn.

She would sit near yon willow and sigh,
And pant in the shade of the trees:
‘Sweet Zephyr, bring health,’ she would cry;
But Health never came with the breeze.

And oft she would drink of the brook,
But Health never came with the rill;
Then around on the heights she would look,
But Health never came to the hill.

On her dog she look'd down with a tear,
And sigh'd, as she patted his head,
‘Poor Fidelle! thou wilt suffer, I fear,
When thy mistress, who loves thee is dead.

‘Thou hast ever been constant and kind;
My fondness ne'er met with a slight:
In thee a firm friendship I find;
How unhappy when out of my sight!

‘When with speed I could travel the plain,
With thy mistress to sport was thy pride;
And now I am weak and in pain,
Thou art heartless and dull by my side.

‘When I'm gone, thou, poor fellow, wilt pine,
And seek me, uneasy, around;
Beseeching the swains, with a whine,
To tell where thy friend may be found.

‘Shouldst thou find my cold dwelling at last,
Near my sod thou wilt mope the long day:
Nor the night, nor the rain, nor the blast,
Nay, nor hunger will force thee away.’

Thus she spoke to her fav'rite, whose eye
Was fix'd upon those of the maid:
Then he lick'd her fond hand at her sigh,
As if conscious of all she had said!

Sweet nymph! what a sudden decay!
Now her limbs she could scarcely sustain;

Now her head would sink feebly away,
Like the lily press'd down by the rain.

At length on her pillow she fell;
In silence we watch'd her last breath:
When she bade us for ever farewell,
How divine, though the whisper of Death!

No struggle in dying she knew,
Life pass'd with such sweetness away!
So calm from the world she withdrew,
Her last sigh seem'd the zephyr of May.

Beneath a plain stone she is laid,
For needless of praise is the tale;
Since the virtues that shone in the maid,
May be seen in the tears of the vale.

ELEGY I.

He despairs of obtaining the Smiles of his Mistress.

What are the thunders of the ruthless wind?
And what the billows that tumultuous roll?
Calms to the raging tempest of my mind,—
Rills to the restless surges of my soul.

Intent to please, I vainly urge my toil;
No hopes, alas! the virgin's looks impart:
O tell me, Julia, what can win thy smile?
O speak, and heave the mountain from my heart.

What can I do to win a cruel maid?
The front of Danger willing would I brave:
No coward terror can this heart invade,
Whose chiefest glory is to be thy slave

Fate holds no horror while I please my fair;
Then, Julia, bid me my fond passion prove:
All, all thy rigour can command I dare,
But lose thine image, and forget to love.

ELEGY II.

Instead of composing for Fame, he resolves to write the praises of Julia.

No more I'll idly pour the line for praise:
Far loftier hopes my glowing fancy move
I ask the muses for their sweetest lays,
To tell a beauteous maid how much I love.

Vain are our vows to Fame! alas, how vain!
She waits to see us on the mournful bier
Before she yields of eulogy the strain,
What cruel mockery to the lifeless ear!

To Julia's hand I own my wish aspires:
Mean are my merits—her's how far above
Yet can I boast what only she requires,
A heart to guard her, and a soul to love.

Though courts admir'd, the modest Julia chose
The silent shade, remote from public view:
How like the berry that in secret glows,
And hides beneath a leaf its blushful hue!

Few are the wishes of the constant pair:
What though no gold their humble cot display;
Content, their guest, thus cries with careless air,
‘Go, leave us, Wealth, and palaces emblaze.’

In rural bowers Content delights to dwell;
To cull the sweets of Nature's simple vale;
To join the hermit in the mossy cell,
And join the nymphs and shepherds of the dale.

To Fortune's tinsel shrine let others bow,
And to their wishes rear the golden pile;
To one fair virgin while I breathe my vow,
And let my only treasure be her smile.

ELEGY III.

He complains of Julia's not keeping her Appointment to meet him.

What demons keep my soul's delight away,
And cruel thus my fondest wish invade?
Alas! I tremble at the setting ray!
Pale evening waves around an envious shade!

How expectation loads th' important hour!
Impatience wilder with each moment grows!
Thou loit'ring fair-one, bless th' appointed bow'r,
And snatch thy lover from a thousand woes.

From vale to vale my eager gaze I strain;
From glade to glade with wild emotion move
Now turn and sigh, now move and turn again,
Devour each sound, and chide my ling'ring love

Desponding, now upon the ground I lie,
And, anxious, murmur to the desert air;
Now call on slumber to my closing eye;
But slumber lights not on the lids of care.

Dark as the bosom of the stormy deep,
Wild as its waves my thoughts succeeding roll;
Cool reason vainly soothes the wretch to sleep—
Oh! what is reason to the love-sick soul?

Ye sweet companions of my lonely bow'r,
Whose simple melodies my shades inspire:
Oh, that my bosom felt your happy hour!
Oh, that my voice could join your cheerful choir!

Light as your wing that skims the midway sky,
From joy to joy my heart so lately flew:
With me my moments never left a sigh,
Nor bath'd my lids in sorrow's baleful dew.

Hate to the nymph I vow, and cold disdain:
Yet at each idle sound alarm'd, I start;
To meet her, panting, every nerve I strain,
And show too plain her triumph o'er my heart.

Where is my love? alas! my transports die:
My cheek, that redden'd with despair, turns pale;
With disappointment drops my clouded eye,
Each pining feature tells a mournful tale.

See, see, the sun descends beneath the deep;
Behold the melancholy bird of night!—
In vain along the winding gloom I weep,
And wish in vain to stay the parting light.

ELEGY IV.

Disappointed at not meeting Julia, he accuses her of Inconstancy.

Faint as the lustre of a lonely star,
That sheds through night's abyss his distant fire,
Hope feebly glimmer'd on my heart's despair:
Behold, behold, at length her lamp expire!

Know, lovely virgin, thy deluding art
Hath lodg'd a thousand scorpions in my breast.
Oh, say what happier rival wins thy heart?
Say, am I there no more a welcome guest?

To a false fair-one have I told my tale?
For a false fair-one fondly sigh'd so long?
Why, dear deceiver, did thy charms prevail?
Thy charms the subject of my ev'ry song.

Ye swains who heard so oft my raptur'd lays,
False is the damsel that your wonder drew;
Ye nymphs who listen'd to the lavish'd praise,
My soul's soft idol proves at length untrue.

Nymphs of the vale, for me your pity spare;
Let not my fate, ye swains, your pity draw:
Alas! for faithless beauty drop the tear,
And grieve so fair a diamond holds a flaw.

Can Falsehood's stain that dove-like heart defile?
Ah, see the tear by blushing Honour shed!
Lurks perfidy beneath that heavenly smile?
See Love with horror mark the guilty maid.

Yet, yet the tyrant of my breast she reigns:
Restless for her it heaves with constant sighs;
My wounded heart of cruelty complains,
Yet softly pleads her pardon while it dies.

ELEGY V.

He condemns the Licentiousness of the Age.

To false delights the youth of Britain fly,
Who court for happiness the wanton's arms;
Who darts on all the fond inflaming eye,
And choiceless yields to all, for gold, her charms.

When in the Syren's fond embrace you sigh,
And on her lip impress the burning kiss,
Doth friendship mingle with th' unhallow'd joy,
Or Love's pure spirit swell the surge of bliss?

When droops enjoyment, what is then the fair?
A flow'r that blooms, but quickly doom'd to fade;
A sun that pours a momentary glare,
And 'mid the tempest sinks o'erwhelm'd in shade.

O swains, to Modesty's fair daughters turn:
By mental beauty let your hearts be led:
Bid by your flight the venal fair-one mourn,
And press in tears her solitary bed.

When round your neck her fondling arms she glues,
And, bent to please, exhausts each winning art;
With false delights she shamefully subdues,
And leads the passions captive, not the heart.

Their midnight orgies whilst they madly hold,
I of a tender maid shall be possest:
What bliss her tender beauties to enfold,
And sooth my slumbers on her faithful breast!

Time from her bosom all its snows may steal,
His iron hand her cheeks' pure blush invade,
Still to my Julia will I fondly kneel,
And love her most when all her roses fade.

Who spurns the weeping fair-one from his breast,
Hard is his heart—in ev'ry virtue poor:
Hard is his heart to wound the fair distrest,
Who sighs that she can charm his eye no more.

Cruel to bid with grief her bosom heave,
Because her cheeks no longer glowing warms:
Base, to forget the joys her beauty gave—
And oh, forget it faded in his arms!

SONG.

[From her, whose ev'ry smile is love]

From her, whose ev'ry smile is love,
I haste to some far distant cell:
My sighs too weak the maid to move,
I bid the flatterer Hope farewell.

Yet, as I quit her vale, my sighs
At ev'ry step for Julia mourn;
My anxious heart within me dies,
And, panting, whispers, ‘O return.’

Deluded heart! thy folly know,
Nor fondly nurse a fatal flame:
By absence thou wilt lose thy woe,
And only flutter at her name.

SONG.

[O summer, thy presence gives warmth to the vale]

O summer, thy presence gives warmth to the vale;
The song of the warbler enlivens the grove;
The pipe of the shepherd too gladdens the gale:
Alas! but I hear not the voice of my love.

The lilies appear in their fairest array;
To the valleys the woodbines a fragrance impart;
The roses the pride of their blushes display;
Alas! but I meet not the nymph of my heart.

Go, shepherds, and bring the sweet wanderer here,
The boast of her sex, and delight of the swains;
Go, Zephyr, and whisper this truth in her ear,
That the Pleasures with Julia are fled from the plains.

If thus to the maid thou my wishes declare,
To the cot she has left she will quickly return;
Too soft is her bosom to give us despair,
That sooner would sigh than another's should mourn.

SONG.

ON JULIA.

Ere 'witching Love my heart possest,
And bade my sighs the nymph pursue
Calm as the infant's smiling rest,
No anxious hope nor fear it knew.

But doom'd, ah! doom'd at last to mourn,
What tumults in that heart arose!
An ocean tumbling wild, and torn
By tempests from its deep repose.

Yet let me not the virgin blame,
As though she wish'd my heart despair;
How could the maid suspect a flame,
Who never knew that she was fair?

TO JULIA.

From her whom ev'ry heart must love,
And ev'ry eye with wonder see;
My sad, my lifeless steps remove—
Ah! were she fair alone for me!

In vain to solitudes I fly,
To bid her form from mem'ry part;
That form still dwells on Mem'ry's eye,
And roots its beauties in my heart.

In ev'ry rose that decks the vales,
I see her cheek's pure blush appear:
And when the lark the morning hails,
'Tis Julia's voice salutes my ear.

Thus let me rove the world around,
Whatever Beauty's charm can boast,
Or sooth the soul with sweetest sound,
Must paint the idol I have lost.

SONG.

BY JULIA.

When love hath charm'd the virgin's ear,
She hides the tender thought in vain;
How oft a blush, a sigh, a tear,
Betrays the sweetly-anxious pain!

Dear youth! a mutual flame I own:
The sorrows of thy breast are mine;
Thy virtues all my heart have won,
That boasts a passion pure as thine.

No more shalt thou my coldness mourn—
I trust the drop that dims thine eye;
I see fair Truth thy lips adorn,
And hear her voice in ev'ry sigh.

TO JULIA.

Written near her Grave.

Much-injur'd maid, who liest pale below,
To thee a pilgrim sad I steal away;
In mournful silence steal, o'erpower'd with woe,
To bathe with floods of penitence thy clay.

Oh! can thy gentle ghost the wretch forgive,
Who seeks thy sod at this lone hour of night—
A wretch, whose greatest hardship is to live,
Who, dead to pleasure, sickens at the light?

Oh! if my grief could sooth the sweetest shade,
And pardon gain, which Justice must deny;
Near Julia's ashes should this form be laid;
Its crimes forgotten—then what bliss to die!

Tir'd of the world, my heart no longer prays
(What others covet) for extended years:
For who would madly court a length of days,
To count (alas!) the moments by his tears!

ELEGY.

TO JULIA.

Detained in Italy by contrary Winds, he expresses his Desire for sailing for England.

Far from my Julia's arms I lonely sigh,
And wish to clasp thy beauties, but in vain;
The surly winds my only wish deny,
Yet would I dare the dangers of the main.

Ye winds and waves, how cruel to combine!
O let my pray'rs your rude rude pity prove;
Think of the gloomy moments that are mine!
Alas! ye know not what it is to love!

To stately structures now I urge my way,
And weakly think the minutes to beguile;
But anxious Love will not be led astray:
Love goads my bosom for the virgin's smile.

Now where the painter shows his mimic art,
I strive to free my soul from Love's alarms;
Lo, ev'ry Venus but augments my smart,
And to my view presents thy brighter charms.

To Music now fatigu'd I yield my ear,
But Music cannot the dull hours control;
With cold indifference ev'ry chord I hear,
While not a sound descends into my soul.

Oft as I mark the tribes of air, I cry,
‘How with your pinions would I mount the wind!
Oh! with what rapture lifted, cleave the sky,
And, turn'd to Britain, leave my cares behind!’

In wishes thus, I daily waste my breath,
Chain'd by the tempest to this hated shore;
When shall I leave, alas! this land of death,
For life and thee, to part, my love, no more?

ELEGY.

To a Friend, describing the Horrors of his Situation after the death of Julia.

Friend of my bosom, all my joys are o'er—
Peace, gentle Peace, alas! no longer mine:
Since Julia, once my idol, lives no more,
To gloom and solitude I steal to pine.

There, as I sit upon the sod, and sigh,
I hear reproof from every happy dove;
In Fancy's ear they cooing seem to cry,
‘We know not of inconstancy in love.’

Lo, darkness, tenfold darkness, suits my soul!
The haunts of spectres let me court to weep;
The beach where black with fate the billows roll,
And tempests raise the thunders of the deep.

Thou tellest me that Time a balm will bring,
Sooth ev'ry sigh, and calm my keenest woes:
Go, seek in Winter's wild the blooms of Spring;
Go, whisper to the restless surge, repose!

Love, injur'd Love, a sure revenge can boast;
Love hears my groan, and mocks my soul's despair:
‘Bleed, victim, bleed,’ he cries—‘thy all is lost;
Such be their portion who deceive the fair!’

I thought that Grandeur with a liberal hand
Could strew my path of life with sweetest flow'rs;
That Wealth omnipotent could Time command,
And from his pinions pluck his whitest hours.

Constant in Mem'ry's eye her form appears—
Where'er I tread, a source of woe I find;
In ev'ry rill methinks I see her tears,
And hear her sigh in ev'ry passing wind.

What now remains, my horrors to beguile?
Away, ye dreams of grandeur, wealth, away!
Who cannot give my cheek one little smile,
Nor bribe a single moment to be gay.