The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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THE ISLAND OF INNOCENCE;
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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THE ISLAND OF INNOCENCE;
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
Yes, on thy simple isle, in Fancy's eye,
Envying I often look, and often sigh
In fancy rove thy small domain by day,
And, pleas'd, with thee in nightly visions stray.
Envying I often look, and often sigh
In fancy rove thy small domain by day,
And, pleas'd, with thee in nightly visions stray.
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To thee, my friend
, amid that peaceful Isle,
Where bounteous Nature blooms with sweetest smile;
Where never Winter, on his northern blast,
Howls on the hill, and lays the valley waste;
O'er a pale sun, the cloud of horror throws,
And buries Nature in his vast of snows;
Ah, no! where endless Summer, ever gay,
Opes a pure ether to the orb of day;
That gilds the tree, and flower, and grassy blade,
And works his threads of gold in ev'ry glade;
To thee, my friend, where shrubs of incense rise,
And pour their grateful fragrance to the skies;
Where rills, in wanton mazes, wind away,
Diffusing health and plenty, as they play;
Where the rich treasures of the pine reside,
And orange-branches bend with golden pride;
Where from the boughs of odour, mingled notes
Of rapture warble from a thousand throats;
And blest, from vale to vale the cooing dove
Wings with his mate, and teaches man to love;
To thee, I yield the Muse's artless line,
And envy all the blessings that are thine.
Where bounteous Nature blooms with sweetest smile;
Where never Winter, on his northern blast,
Howls on the hill, and lays the valley waste;
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And buries Nature in his vast of snows;
Ah, no! where endless Summer, ever gay,
Opes a pure ether to the orb of day;
That gilds the tree, and flower, and grassy blade,
And works his threads of gold in ev'ry glade;
To thee, my friend, where shrubs of incense rise,
And pour their grateful fragrance to the skies;
Where rills, in wanton mazes, wind away,
Diffusing health and plenty, as they play;
Where the rich treasures of the pine reside,
And orange-branches bend with golden pride;
Where from the boughs of odour, mingled notes
Of rapture warble from a thousand throats;
And blest, from vale to vale the cooing dove
Wings with his mate, and teaches man to love;
To thee, I yield the Muse's artless line,
And envy all the blessings that are thine.
Yes, on thy simple isle, in fancy's eye,
Envying I often look, and often sigh;
In fancy rove thy small domain by day,
And, pleas'd, with thee in nightly visions stray;
Behold thee happy at thy wonted toil,
And mark the blossoms of a fruitful soil:
While at thy side thy Julia plants the ground,
With all her little progeny around;
Who study shrubs and flow'rs with eager eyes,
And learn of simple Nature to be wise.
Envying I often look, and often sigh;
In fancy rove thy small domain by day,
And, pleas'd, with thee in nightly visions stray;
Behold thee happy at thy wonted toil,
And mark the blossoms of a fruitful soil:
While at thy side thy Julia plants the ground,
With all her little progeny around;
Who study shrubs and flow'rs with eager eyes,
And learn of simple Nature to be wise.
Pleas'd to explore the insect world, they rove,
Tribes of the flood, and minstrels of the grove;
With all the varying species of the field,
Whose forms and lives delight, and wisdom yield;
Display the page of Providence's plan,
That shows his wondrous works to wond'ring man.
Tribes of the flood, and minstrels of the grove;
With all the varying species of the field,
Whose forms and lives delight, and wisdom yield;
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That shows his wondrous works to wond'ring man.
No wish is theirs (forbid it, Heav'n!) to hurt,
To wound, and murder a poor wretch in sport;
To lift the tube of death, with hostile eye,
And dash a fluttering victim from his sky;
To bait with writhing worms the barb'rous hook,
And drag the finny nation from their brook:
Justly forbid the cruelty to know,
And gather pleasure from the pangs of woe!
To wound, and murder a poor wretch in sport;
To lift the tube of death, with hostile eye,
And dash a fluttering victim from his sky;
To bait with writhing worms the barb'rous hook,
And drag the finny nation from their brook:
Justly forbid the cruelty to know,
And gather pleasure from the pangs of woe!
Blest on their boughs, the squirrel tribes they see,
And call the hungry urchins from their tree,
Who, fearless, hast'ning at the kind command,
Fly to their food, and court th' extended hand;
Now scud in playful gambols o'er the plain,
And, fully feasted, seek their groves again.
And now they beckon to the feather'd throng;
Forth fly, in flocks, the little bands of song;
They hop, and chirp, and flutter round each head,
Pleas'd to be call'd, and anxious to be fed.
At length content, they flicker to their spray,
Adjust their plumes, and pour the thankful lay.
And call the hungry urchins from their tree,
Who, fearless, hast'ning at the kind command,
Fly to their food, and court th' extended hand;
Now scud in playful gambols o'er the plain,
And, fully feasted, seek their groves again.
And now they beckon to the feather'd throng;
Forth fly, in flocks, the little bands of song;
They hop, and chirp, and flutter round each head,
Pleas'd to be call'd, and anxious to be fed.
At length content, they flicker to their spray,
Adjust their plumes, and pour the thankful lay.
Now, happy, to the stream they haste to feed,
With liberal hand, the little finny breed:
Fearless of danger, lo, the sportive fry,
Mount to the water's brim with watchful eye,
And leaping oft as urging hunger calls,
Meet the dropp'd crumb, and catch it ere it falls.
Such are the blisses of thy girls and boys,
And such the blisses innocence enjoys.
With liberal hand, the little finny breed:
Fearless of danger, lo, the sportive fry,
Mount to the water's brim with watchful eye,
And leaping oft as urging hunger calls,
Meet the dropp'd crumb, and catch it ere it falls.
Such are the blisses of thy girls and boys,
And such the blisses innocence enjoys.
Oh, when will Britons list to reason's voice,
And, chang'd, no more in cruelty rejoice?
How nobler thus t'address the harmless hare:
‘Child of the field, O come beneath my care;
Safe in thy lonely slumber pass the day,
Along the moonlight hills in safety stray;
No dog is mine, nor engine that destroys;
Peace to thy loves, and all thy nightly joys:
When Heav'n's kind bounty made those valleys mine,
Heav'n made the freedom of those valleys thine.’
How nobler to the winter's bird to say,
‘Poor stranger, welcome from thy stormy way,
Drop in my groves, enjoy the tepid springs,
And lodg'd in peace, repose thy wearied wings;
The food and shelter of my valleys share:
Like me, a child of Providence's care.’
How nobler to the finny tribe to say,
‘Yours be the rills that 'midst my pastures stray;
Enjoy your sports, enjoy the sunny beam;
Health form your food, and wholesome keep your stream;
Torn be the net, and broken be the hook,
That wanton carry death into your brook;
The Pow'r who gave to mortals ev'ry good,
Forgets not yours, his infants of the flood.’
Humanity, how few thy merits see!
How scarce the altars that are rais'd to thee!
Nymph of the tender heart, and melting eye,
Vain o'er the savage Million is the sigh!
O could thy gentle spirit more impart
Of softness, sweetness, to the human heart!
But lo, by cruel Nature led astray,
The ruder passions rule with boisterous sway;
Drown'd is thy voice—a zephyr's sigh—no more!
The murm'ring rill 'midst ocean's mighty roar!
On plumes of down, my friend, thy moments fly,
Peace in thy heart, and pleasure in thine eye!
Thy cot, though humble, all the virtues there,
Forbid an entrance to a sigh or tear.
And, chang'd, no more in cruelty rejoice?
How nobler thus t'address the harmless hare:
‘Child of the field, O come beneath my care;
Safe in thy lonely slumber pass the day,
Along the moonlight hills in safety stray;
No dog is mine, nor engine that destroys;
Peace to thy loves, and all thy nightly joys:
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Heav'n made the freedom of those valleys thine.’
How nobler to the winter's bird to say,
‘Poor stranger, welcome from thy stormy way,
Drop in my groves, enjoy the tepid springs,
And lodg'd in peace, repose thy wearied wings;
The food and shelter of my valleys share:
Like me, a child of Providence's care.’
How nobler to the finny tribe to say,
‘Yours be the rills that 'midst my pastures stray;
Enjoy your sports, enjoy the sunny beam;
Health form your food, and wholesome keep your stream;
Torn be the net, and broken be the hook,
That wanton carry death into your brook;
The Pow'r who gave to mortals ev'ry good,
Forgets not yours, his infants of the flood.’
Humanity, how few thy merits see!
How scarce the altars that are rais'd to thee!
Nymph of the tender heart, and melting eye,
Vain o'er the savage Million is the sigh!
O could thy gentle spirit more impart
Of softness, sweetness, to the human heart!
But lo, by cruel Nature led astray,
The ruder passions rule with boisterous sway;
Drown'd is thy voice—a zephyr's sigh—no more!
The murm'ring rill 'midst ocean's mighty roar!
On plumes of down, my friend, thy moments fly,
Peace in thy heart, and pleasure in thine eye!
Thy cot, though humble, all the virtues there,
Forbid an entrance to a sigh or tear.
Yes! oft in fancy's eye thy cot I view
Enwrapp'd with vines and flow'rs of vivid hue;
The pebbled avenue, the murm'ring spring,
Crowded with fearless birds of various wing,
That sportive flutter, pouring happy lay,
A mingled minstrelsy the live-long day;
And oft, on fancy's ear, thy Julia's lute,
Whose melting sounds the soul of pity suit,
Complaining die; and oft I hear again
A loud, a happy, cheerful grateful strain,
Join'd by a little offspring's throats that raise
The song of wonder in their Maker's praise.
Sweet is the humble pray'r that Heav'n implores!
Divine the voice of mortal that adores
In fancy, too, I see, beneath thy care,
The simple natives at thy stories stare
Of street and churches, palaces and tow'rs,
And busy million that through London pours;
And animals that stately, stout, and strong,
Drag to a rout a golden house along;
Alas! with many a wondrous sight beside,
Begot by luxury, and nurs'd by pride.
Yet fond of these our wonders should they sigh,
And cast to Britain's scenes a wishful eye;
O give the hist'ry of our horrid deeds;
Proclaim how love laments, and friendship bleeds!
How virtue pines, how merit hides the head,
And pity steals to tombs, to mourn the dead:
Paint all the horrors of domestic strife,
And give the gilded snares of polish'd life;
Tell tales of Fortune, at whose tinsel shine,
Fools daily kneel, and for her favour pine;
Who, when she yields, means only to beguile—
Fate in her hand, and ruin in her smile.
Enwrapp'd with vines and flow'rs of vivid hue;
The pebbled avenue, the murm'ring spring,
Crowded with fearless birds of various wing,
That sportive flutter, pouring happy lay,
A mingled minstrelsy the live-long day;
161
Whose melting sounds the soul of pity suit,
Complaining die; and oft I hear again
A loud, a happy, cheerful grateful strain,
Join'd by a little offspring's throats that raise
The song of wonder in their Maker's praise.
Sweet is the humble pray'r that Heav'n implores!
Divine the voice of mortal that adores
In fancy, too, I see, beneath thy care,
The simple natives at thy stories stare
Of street and churches, palaces and tow'rs,
And busy million that through London pours;
And animals that stately, stout, and strong,
Drag to a rout a golden house along;
Alas! with many a wondrous sight beside,
Begot by luxury, and nurs'd by pride.
Yet fond of these our wonders should they sigh,
And cast to Britain's scenes a wishful eye;
O give the hist'ry of our horrid deeds;
Proclaim how love laments, and friendship bleeds!
How virtue pines, how merit hides the head,
And pity steals to tombs, to mourn the dead:
Paint all the horrors of domestic strife,
And give the gilded snares of polish'd life;
Tell tales of Fortune, at whose tinsel shine,
Fools daily kneel, and for her favour pine;
Who, when she yields, means only to beguile—
Fate in her hand, and ruin in her smile.
O paint our dungeons, where, with putrid breath,
The wretch, desponding, pants, and sighs for death:
Paint the poor felon, doom'd, ah! doom'd to die,
Wan the pale cheek, and horror-struck the eye;
With languid limbs that droop to earth in pain,
Press'd, loaded, lab'ring with a clanking chain;
While, on the stillness of the midnight air,
Sad moans the voice of Mis'ry and Despair:
Paint all the horrors of the midnight shade,
Theft's iron crow, and Murder's reeking blade.
Paint the poor objects that we hourly meet,
The wrecks of beauty crowding every street;
Daughters of Innocence, ere Demon Art
Won on the weakness of too soft a heart;
And doom'd to infamy the tender kiss,
Due to pure love alone and wedded bliss.
Paint courts, whose sorceries, too seducing bind,
In chains, in shameful slavish chains, the mind;
Courts, where unblushing Flatt'ry finds the way,
And casts a cloud o'er Truth's eternal ray.
And quote the sage , who courts had serv'd and known:—
‘O Crassus, let me fly, and live alone:
Though much I love thee, let our commerce end,
Nor from his solitude recall thy friend.
Thanks to the gods, my servile hours are o'er,
And, oh, let Mem'ry mention courts no more!’
The wretch, desponding, pants, and sighs for death:
Paint the poor felon, doom'd, ah! doom'd to die,
Wan the pale cheek, and horror-struck the eye;
With languid limbs that droop to earth in pain,
Press'd, loaded, lab'ring with a clanking chain;
While, on the stillness of the midnight air,
Sad moans the voice of Mis'ry and Despair:
Paint all the horrors of the midnight shade,
Theft's iron crow, and Murder's reeking blade.
162
The wrecks of beauty crowding every street;
Daughters of Innocence, ere Demon Art
Won on the weakness of too soft a heart;
And doom'd to infamy the tender kiss,
Due to pure love alone and wedded bliss.
Paint courts, whose sorceries, too seducing bind,
In chains, in shameful slavish chains, the mind;
Courts, where unblushing Flatt'ry finds the way,
And casts a cloud o'er Truth's eternal ray.
And quote the sage , who courts had serv'd and known:—
‘O Crassus, let me fly, and live alone:
Though much I love thee, let our commerce end,
Nor from his solitude recall thy friend.
Thanks to the gods, my servile hours are o'er,
And, oh, let Mem'ry mention courts no more!’
Behold the courtier—there the eye surveys
A willow crawling to each form with ease:
But mark the man in rigid virtue bred,
An oak! in majesty he lifts the head;
Asserts his freedom, base controul defies,
And tow'ring hides his branches in the skies.
Friend of my heart, nor let thy sail unfold,
To court Peru, with all her hills of gold;
Nor court her sister Mexico, whose ore,
Possess'd by demons, curses ev'ry shore!
The splendid mischief usher'd to thy vale,
What but a plague that taints with death the gale?
Too soon the imp would blast the sacred scene,
And damn of innocence the cherub reign!
Fame, Justice, own th' omnipotence of gold;
Nay, blushing modesty herself is sold.
Alas! one virtue more illumes the mind:
Then all its envied wealth illumines Ind.
Own'd be my folly—yes (seduc'd my eye)
I saw the golden mountains with a sigh;
Saw with delight the fatal mischief shine,
And envied ev'n the slave that dug the mine.
How like the foolish insect of the night,
That leaves his cell, to seize the taper's light!
Pleas'd and unconscious of the treach'rous rays,
He hugs his fate, and dies amid the blaze.
A willow crawling to each form with ease:
But mark the man in rigid virtue bred,
An oak! in majesty he lifts the head;
Asserts his freedom, base controul defies,
And tow'ring hides his branches in the skies.
Friend of my heart, nor let thy sail unfold,
To court Peru, with all her hills of gold;
Nor court her sister Mexico, whose ore,
Possess'd by demons, curses ev'ry shore!
The splendid mischief usher'd to thy vale,
What but a plague that taints with death the gale?
Too soon the imp would blast the sacred scene,
And damn of innocence the cherub reign!
Fame, Justice, own th' omnipotence of gold;
Nay, blushing modesty herself is sold.
Alas! one virtue more illumes the mind:
Then all its envied wealth illumines Ind.
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I saw the golden mountains with a sigh;
Saw with delight the fatal mischief shine,
And envied ev'n the slave that dug the mine.
How like the foolish insect of the night,
That leaves his cell, to seize the taper's light!
Pleas'd and unconscious of the treach'rous rays,
He hugs his fate, and dies amid the blaze.
From thine, how diff'rent is my lot!—Alas!
In calms of sunshine while thy moments pass,
Mine, 'midst the murky clouds that life deform,
Unequal rush, and mingle with the storm.
Fir'd with the love of rhime, and, let me say,
Of virtue too, I pour'd the moral lay;
Much like Saint Paul (who solemnly protests
He battled hard at Ephesus with beasts),
I've fought with lions, monkeys, bulls, and bears,
And got half Noah's ark about my ears:
Nay worse! (which all the courts of justice know)
Fought with the brutes of Paternoster-Row.
In calms of sunshine while thy moments pass,
Mine, 'midst the murky clouds that life deform,
Unequal rush, and mingle with the storm.
Fir'd with the love of rhime, and, let me say,
Of virtue too, I pour'd the moral lay;
Much like Saint Paul (who solemnly protests
He battled hard at Ephesus with beasts),
I've fought with lions, monkeys, bulls, and bears,
And got half Noah's ark about my ears:
Nay worse! (which all the courts of justice know)
Fought with the brutes of Paternoster-Row.
A gentleman whom the author of this poem met by the merest accident, on a small island situated near the Gulf of Mexico.—His companions were his wife, a most lovely woman, and four beautiful children, whose history would form an interesting romance:—persecuted by their parents for a mutual love attachment, they forsook their native country (America), to seek some distant asylum. On their voyage they were wrecked; but fortunately escaped with their lives, and preserved their property. Finding the little island on which they were thrown, to be in possession of a few inhabitants of the most perfect simplicity of manners, and the most lively friendship; pleased also with the salubrity as well as beauty and fertility of the spot, they adopted the resolution of passing their days in this remote corner of the globe; convinced that the most perfect happiness resides oftener in simplicity than splendour. Their opinion soon became realised: fond of the innocent natives, and equally beloved again, the delightful little republic flourished under their auspices, and restored the golden age.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |