 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
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THREE POEMS
Cantantes, licet usque (minus via lædet) eamus.
Virgil. Eclog. IX. ver. 64.
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TO HENRY COLLINGWOOD SELBY, ESQ.
101
SIDDONS:
A POEM.
Vehemens in flectendo, in quo uno vis omnis oratoris est.
Cicero.—Orator.
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A bard, whom no poetic ills appall,
The patron's coldness, or the critic's gall;
With generous effort, still asserts the bays;
Or gives a brother's genius all its praise.
The patron's coldness, or the critic's gall;
With generous effort, still asserts the bays;
Or gives a brother's genius all its praise.
Poets not merely, to their Phœbus owe
That art which bids immortal numbers flow;
The kind inspirer, to his favourite train,
Gives, with his tuneful, his prophetick strain.
They feel ambition's late, but lasting power
And leave the vain their tinsel of the hour;
Of justice from posterity secure,
Calmly the malice of their age endure.
That art which bids immortal numbers flow;
The kind inspirer, to his favourite train,
Gives, with his tuneful, his prophetick strain.
They feel ambition's late, but lasting power
And leave the vain their tinsel of the hour;
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Calmly the malice of their age endure.
But celebrated actors hardly save
Their well-earned laurel from the ruthless grave;
Their glory sickens at it's owner's death,
And scarce outlives cotemporary breath.
With eastern flowers, to strew their path of life,
Fame, luxury, gold, maintain a friendly strife;
But they bequeathe no strong, immortal verse;
And hence their fame droops pallid o'er their herse.
Their well-earned laurel from the ruthless grave;
Their glory sickens at it's owner's death,
And scarce outlives cotemporary breath.
With eastern flowers, to strew their path of life,
Fame, luxury, gold, maintain a friendly strife;
But they bequeathe no strong, immortal verse;
And hence their fame droops pallid o'er their herse.
Poets, a more august, and sacred name,
Their art, our glory, and their fate, our shame,
Bear, and anticipate, a different doom,
In mortal fortune, and beyond the tomb.
Their art, our glory, and their fate, our shame,
Bear, and anticipate, a different doom,
In mortal fortune, and beyond the tomb.
Those talents which produce the godlike strain,
Subject the man to poverty, and pain;
Mean labours his ethereal fire controul;
And want unnerves his energy of soul.
Whenever God, for his mysterious ends,
Pressed with all evils, destitute of friends,
Presents a Chatterton to human view,
The Devil conjures up a Walpole too.
Subject the man to poverty, and pain;
Mean labours his ethereal fire controul;
And want unnerves his energy of soul.
Whenever God, for his mysterious ends,
Pressed with all evils, destitute of friends,
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The Devil conjures up a Walpole too.
Yet well they know, ere glory's wreath is won,
And far from Orford's more unfeeling son,
Through glades Elysian ere their spirits rove,
Or through the fragrance of the laurel grove;
Full well they know (the presage heals their woes)
That even on earth their fame eternal flows;
That their existence was by heaven designed
To give the distant sons of human kind
The brightest emanations of the mind.
And far from Orford's more unfeeling son,
Through glades Elysian ere their spirits rove,
Or through the fragrance of the laurel grove;
Full well they know (the presage heals their woes)
That even on earth their fame eternal flows;
That their existence was by heaven designed
To give the distant sons of human kind
The brightest emanations of the mind.
A splendid object, full in fancy's view,
On bards and actors my reflexions drew;
Candour my verse digressive will forgive;
They write correctly who securely live;
The poet, from his theme before he strayed,
For Siddons had invoked the muse's aid.
His liberal strain requests the publick ear,
Not with presumption, nor fictitious fear.
Talents pre-eminent are sure to find
From him the verdict of an honest mind;
He wishes that the laurel still may bloom
Round the right brow, and round the sacred tomb;
Admires, with ardour, each illustrious name;
Himself, through all his soul, alive to fame.
On bards and actors my reflexions drew;
Candour my verse digressive will forgive;
They write correctly who securely live;
The poet, from his theme before he strayed,
For Siddons had invoked the muse's aid.
His liberal strain requests the publick ear,
Not with presumption, nor fictitious fear.
Talents pre-eminent are sure to find
From him the verdict of an honest mind;
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Round the right brow, and round the sacred tomb;
Admires, with ardour, each illustrious name;
Himself, through all his soul, alive to fame.
Siddons! bright subject for a poet's page!
Born to augment the glory of the stage!
Our soul of tragedy restored I see;
A Garrick's genius is renewed in thee.
To give our nature all it's glorious course;
With moral beauty, with resistless force,
To call forth all the passions of the mind,
The good, the brave, the vengeful, the refined;
The sigh, the thrill, the start, the angel's tear;
Thy Isabella is our Garrick's Lear.
Born to augment the glory of the stage!
Our soul of tragedy restored I see;
A Garrick's genius is renewed in thee.
To give our nature all it's glorious course;
With moral beauty, with resistless force,
To call forth all the passions of the mind,
The good, the brave, the vengeful, the refined;
The sigh, the thrill, the start, the angel's tear;
Thy Isabella is our Garrick's Lear.
'Tis not the beauties of thy form alone,
Thy graceful motion, thy impassioned tone;
Thy charming attitudes, thy magic pause,
That speaks the eloquence of nature's laws;
Not these have given thee high theatrick fame,
Nor fired the muse to celebrate thy name.
Thy graceful motion, thy impassioned tone;
Thy charming attitudes, thy magic pause,
That speaks the eloquence of nature's laws;
Not these have given thee high theatrick fame,
Nor fired the muse to celebrate thy name.
When Thomson's epithets, to nature true,
Recall her brightest glories to my view;
Whene'er his mind-illumined aspect brings
The look that speaks unutterable things;
In fancy, then, thy image I shall see;
Then, heavenly artist, I shall think on thee!
Whatever passion animates thine eye;
Thence, whether pity steals, or terrours fly;
Or heaven commands, to fix a verse benign,
With power miraculous, thy face to shine;
Whatever feeling 'tis thy aim to move,
Fear, vengeance, hate, benevolence, or love;
Still do thy looks usurp divine controul,
And on their objects rivet all the soul:
Thy lightning far outstrips the poet's race;
Even Otway's numbers yield to Siddons' face.
Recall her brightest glories to my view;
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The look that speaks unutterable things;
In fancy, then, thy image I shall see;
Then, heavenly artist, I shall think on thee!
Whatever passion animates thine eye;
Thence, whether pity steals, or terrours fly;
Or heaven commands, to fix a verse benign,
With power miraculous, thy face to shine;
Whatever feeling 'tis thy aim to move,
Fear, vengeance, hate, benevolence, or love;
Still do thy looks usurp divine controul,
And on their objects rivet all the soul:
Thy lightning far outstrips the poet's race;
Even Otway's numbers yield to Siddons' face.
Long after thou hast closed the glowing scene;
Withdrawn thy killing, or transporting mien;
Humanely hast removed from mortal sight,
Those eyes that shed insufferable light;
Effects continue, rarely seen before;
The tumult of the passions is not o'er;
Imagined miseries we still deplore:
We see a few (oh! England's pride, and shame!
But 'tis where Picq, and Vestris have a name!)
Who still are clinging to the tale of woe,
Aud give, without reserve, their tears to flow;
Still thy strong pathos works the generous heart;
Still, still we grieve, and cannot think it art.
Withdrawn thy killing, or transporting mien;
Humanely hast removed from mortal sight,
Those eyes that shed insufferable light;
Effects continue, rarely seen before;
The tumult of the passions is not o'er;
Imagined miseries we still deplore:
We see a few (oh! England's pride, and shame!
But 'tis where Picq, and Vestris have a name!)
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Aud give, without reserve, their tears to flow;
Still thy strong pathos works the generous heart;
Still, still we grieve, and cannot think it art.
Even yet distress on meditation grows;
Even yet I feel all Isabella's woes;
The dreadful thoughts, raised by the magick ring,
With all her agonies my bosom sting;
I feel, where Biron ascertains his life,
All the severe amazement of the wife:
When she, by force, from his remains is borne,
Myself by ruffians, from myself am torne;
Where the keen dagger gives her soul relief,
Frees her from frenzy, and o'erwhelming grief;
At vain compassion, with her latest breath,
I laugh, and triumph in fictitious death.
The poet, born with elegant desires,
Born to diffuse, in ease, the muse's fires;
Inspired by thee, forgets his rigorous doom,
In fate's long winter feels his genius bloom;
Forgets each taint that checks his growing bays,
Avowed hostilities, or frugal praise;
Nor can grim poverty his warmth restrain;
The squalid spectre threats his gripe in vain.
On other heroines is attention hung;
In them, we're charmed with a mellifluous tongue;
All action's grace, in them, our eyes admire;
Yet, with these powers, from genius we require
Thy rare prerogative, resistless fire.
Even yet I feel all Isabella's woes;
The dreadful thoughts, raised by the magick ring,
With all her agonies my bosom sting;
I feel, where Biron ascertains his life,
All the severe amazement of the wife:
When she, by force, from his remains is borne,
Myself by ruffians, from myself am torne;
Where the keen dagger gives her soul relief,
Frees her from frenzy, and o'erwhelming grief;
At vain compassion, with her latest breath,
I laugh, and triumph in fictitious death.
The poet, born with elegant desires,
Born to diffuse, in ease, the muse's fires;
Inspired by thee, forgets his rigorous doom,
In fate's long winter feels his genius bloom;
Forgets each taint that checks his growing bays,
Avowed hostilities, or frugal praise;
Nor can grim poverty his warmth restrain;
The squalid spectre threats his gripe in vain.
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In them, we're charmed with a mellifluous tongue;
All action's grace, in them, our eyes admire;
Yet, with these powers, from genius we require
Thy rare prerogative, resistless fire.
More gentle arts the calm spectator views;
Their softer pleasure soothes: but fire subdues;
This, in a moment, thrilling through the frame,
Makes voluntary victims to it's flame:
Of common motion scorns the laws assigned;
To Thebes, or Athens, whirls the ravished mind;
Sends it's contending passions from the stage,
And racks us with ambition, grief, or rage.
This magick property, this fire divine,
Pours heaven's own lightning through the poet's line.
This Hayley wants; and hence his golden lays
A respite give us; give us breath to praise.
But when great Dryden flies along his plain,
And gives his foaming Pegasus the rein,
We fight old battles, and we slay the slain.
This fire diffused it's warmth when Milton sung;
And sways the soul, in Siddons, and in Younge.
Celestial property! at thy display,
How feebler lustre fades, and dies away!
Thus, if we recollect Blandusia's stream,
Of Horace, once, the sportive, rural theme;
It's grot, it's trees, it's murmurs we admire,
And in our bosom feel Arcadian fire.
Next, should our fancy o'er the Atlantick stray,
Where nobler objects wake a bolder lay;
Where Orellana, from his mighty source,
Holds a magnificent, stupendous course;
And borne through many a far-extended plain,
Repels the jealous, and reluctant main;
Small images, indignant, we discard;
We lose the fountain; nay we lose the bard;
The mind expands; it's genius sweeps along;
And pours it's fervour in congenial song.
Their softer pleasure soothes: but fire subdues;
This, in a moment, thrilling through the frame,
Makes voluntary victims to it's flame:
Of common motion scorns the laws assigned;
To Thebes, or Athens, whirls the ravished mind;
Sends it's contending passions from the stage,
And racks us with ambition, grief, or rage.
This magick property, this fire divine,
Pours heaven's own lightning through the poet's line.
This Hayley wants; and hence his golden lays
A respite give us; give us breath to praise.
But when great Dryden flies along his plain,
And gives his foaming Pegasus the rein,
We fight old battles, and we slay the slain.
This fire diffused it's warmth when Milton sung;
And sways the soul, in Siddons, and in Younge.
112
How feebler lustre fades, and dies away!
Thus, if we recollect Blandusia's stream,
Of Horace, once, the sportive, rural theme;
It's grot, it's trees, it's murmurs we admire,
And in our bosom feel Arcadian fire.
Next, should our fancy o'er the Atlantick stray,
Where nobler objects wake a bolder lay;
Where Orellana, from his mighty source,
Holds a magnificent, stupendous course;
And borne through many a far-extended plain,
Repels the jealous, and reluctant main;
Small images, indignant, we discard;
We lose the fountain; nay we lose the bard;
The mind expands; it's genius sweeps along;
And pours it's fervour in congenial song.
Or, thus, if Mason's page a poet reads;
Sports among dews, and trees, and flowers, and meads;
The mind, too candid to the florid strain,
Expects emotion, but expects, in vain.
But, if to raise imagination's force,
He seeks, in Homer's muse, a sure resource;
Perhaps, where Priam his grave council calls,
And Helen moves divinely on the walls;
While Troy's astonished youth new raptures prove,
And age grows tender to the faults of love;
The modern bard imbibes the Grecian fires,
To the sublime, and beautiful aspires;
He emulates, in thought, Homerick lays,
And boldly meditates a Devon's praise.
Sports among dews, and trees, and flowers, and meads;
The mind, too candid to the florid strain,
Expects emotion, but expects, in vain.
But, if to raise imagination's force,
He seeks, in Homer's muse, a sure resource;
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And Helen moves divinely on the walls;
While Troy's astonished youth new raptures prove,
And age grows tender to the faults of love;
The modern bard imbibes the Grecian fires,
To the sublime, and beautiful aspires;
He emulates, in thought, Homerick lays,
And boldly meditates a Devon's praise.
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A POETICAL EPISTLE TO SIR ASHTON LEVER.
Nostris acerbissimis doloribus, variisque, et undique circumfusis molestiis, alia nulla potuit inveniri Levatio.
Cicero's Conclusion of his Tusculan Questions.
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A strange, unfashionable modern muse,
Who, with charmed eye the works of nature views;
Still fond to walk in her eternal road,
And still despising perishable mode;
No flatterer of the great, nor of the vain,
To Lever wakes her tributary strain.
Who, with charmed eye the works of nature views;
Still fond to walk in her eternal road,
And still despising perishable mode;
No flatterer of the great, nor of the vain,
To Lever wakes her tributary strain.
Whilst others make mankind their easy prey;
Of folly, and of vice, extend the sway;
Some new incentives plan, to loose desire;
Or stimulate the gamester's desperate fire;
A war with sense, to please the coxcomb, wage;
And dupe him with a vile Italian stage;
Lever expands creation's mighty roll;
Suggests our Maker to the languid soul;
Kindles, in torpid breasts, a generous flame;
And bids us glow with virtue, or with shame.
Of folly, and of vice, extend the sway;
Some new incentives plan, to loose desire;
Or stimulate the gamester's desperate fire;
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And dupe him with a vile Italian stage;
Lever expands creation's mighty roll;
Suggests our Maker to the languid soul;
Kindles, in torpid breasts, a generous flame;
And bids us glow with virtue, or with shame.
In order fair, we view, disposed by thee,
Inhabitants of earth, and air, and sea;
The various wonders of our globe explore,
From Siam's realm, to California's shore;
From where Magellan's thundering billows roll,
To the fixed winter of the northern pole.
Inhabitants of earth, and air, and sea;
The various wonders of our globe explore,
From Siam's realm, to California's shore;
From where Magellan's thundering billows roll,
To the fixed winter of the northern pole.
Ye, who, with impious pride, contemn that law,
Meant, from our lives the best effects to draw;
That law, which Milton's heaven-taught genius fired,
Which Locke's, and Newton's thoughts, and acts inspired;
Ye, who impute disorder of the brain
To those who worship in a Christian fane;
For once, reject your light, and glittering toys;
For once, emerging into men, from boys,
Of thought and sentiment, the pleasures try;
No earthly gain can with their blessings vie;
Perhaps they'll teach you how to live, and die.
Repair to Lever's temple, and adore;
And blush, and shudder, and be fools no more.
To mar your piety, you'll find, at least,
No wanton organ, and no drawling priest.
Meant, from our lives the best effects to draw;
That law, which Milton's heaven-taught genius fired,
Which Locke's, and Newton's thoughts, and acts inspired;
Ye, who impute disorder of the brain
To those who worship in a Christian fane;
For once, reject your light, and glittering toys;
For once, emerging into men, from boys,
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No earthly gain can with their blessings vie;
Perhaps they'll teach you how to live, and die.
Repair to Lever's temple, and adore;
And blush, and shudder, and be fools no more.
To mar your piety, you'll find, at least,
No wanton organ, and no drawling priest.
Thither, with me, you condescend to go;
I'm confident you love what makes a show.
We, surely, tread on consecrated ground;
How nature's Author strikes us, all around!
I feel profaneness in each idle sound!
'Tis God who speaks: will you refuse to hear?
Nay, he reproves; will you not learn to fear?
Ye, who can only essences inhale;
Who shrink, and tremble, at the frosty gale;
Will you not dread that Being, who presides
O'er the wind's force, and o'er the swelling tides;
Who shakes with earthquakes, now, some guilty shore,
Now bids his thunder, now, Vesuvius, roar!
I'm confident you love what makes a show.
We, surely, tread on consecrated ground;
How nature's Author strikes us, all around!
I feel profaneness in each idle sound!
'Tis God who speaks: will you refuse to hear?
Nay, he reproves; will you not learn to fear?
Ye, who can only essences inhale;
Who shrink, and tremble, at the frosty gale;
Will you not dread that Being, who presides
O'er the wind's force, and o'er the swelling tides;
Who shakes with earthquakes, now, some guilty shore,
Now bids his thunder, now, Vesuvius, roar!
Yet, generous Lever! in our leaden days,
All thy reward may prove, the poet's praise!
For, thy magnificent and varied store,
Which gives to science views unknown before;
Which more unfolds the worlds harmonious plan,
The mind eternal, and the mind of man
(It's master, in some inauspicious hour,
Meanly by wealth deserted, and by power)
Like Houghton's monuments of art, may go
To find a patroness in Russian snow;
May be received (since taste is, here, no more)
With genial ardour on a frozen shore.
All thy reward may prove, the poet's praise!
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Which gives to science views unknown before;
Which more unfolds the worlds harmonious plan,
The mind eternal, and the mind of man
(It's master, in some inauspicious hour,
Meanly by wealth deserted, and by power)
Like Houghton's monuments of art, may go
To find a patroness in Russian snow;
May be received (since taste is, here, no more)
With genial ardour on a frozen shore.
And yet, there was a more propitious time,
Ere knowledge, vigorous, once, in England's clime
Had all it's honours lost, and all it's prime;
Ere luxury, more general, and refined,
And venal baseness, quite enslaved the mind;
Gave all a Dæmon's rage to low desire,
And quenched the fainting sparks of generous fire;
When English liberality was shown
To ores, and spars, and butterflies of Sloane.
Ere knowledge, vigorous, once, in England's clime
Had all it's honours lost, and all it's prime;
Ere luxury, more general, and refined,
And venal baseness, quite enslaved the mind;
Gave all a Dæmon's rage to low desire,
And quenched the fainting sparks of generous fire;
When English liberality was shown
To ores, and spars, and butterflies of Sloane.
Ye Fair! the pride of celebrated isles!
What power is in your frowns, and in your smiles,
I need not say: you may retard our doom;
And bid, again, a nation's virtue bloom.
When great Lycurgus formed the Spartan state,
As fixed by him, impregnable to fate;
His rough Laconian sons were taught to feel
No ardour, like the love of publick weal:
They sought no foes; they owned no haughty Lord;
And only for their country drew their sword:
Then were they nobly prodigal of breath;
And all their wish was, Liberty, or Death.
Through either sex the brave infection ran;
They all pursued their legislator's plan.
Ere a young Spartan soldier took the field,
His mother brought him forth the sacred shield;
And said;—“Let this, from thee, by none be torne;
“Bear home thy shield; or on thy shield be borne.”
He felt the precept throb in every vein:
He conquered; or was numbered with the slain.
What power is in your frowns, and in your smiles,
I need not say: you may retard our doom;
And bid, again, a nation's virtue bloom.
121
As fixed by him, impregnable to fate;
His rough Laconian sons were taught to feel
No ardour, like the love of publick weal:
They sought no foes; they owned no haughty Lord;
And only for their country drew their sword:
Then were they nobly prodigal of breath;
And all their wish was, Liberty, or Death.
Through either sex the brave infection ran;
They all pursued their legislator's plan.
Ere a young Spartan soldier took the field,
His mother brought him forth the sacred shield;
And said;—“Let this, from thee, by none be torne;
“Bear home thy shield; or on thy shield be borne.”
He felt the precept throb in every vein:
He conquered; or was numbered with the slain.
To England's fair, the poet recommends
Means more adventurous, aimed at distant ends.
But, ever, to the great, and arduous deed,
Peculiar honour is the destined meed.
The task auspicious of the Spartan dame,
Was, but to speed the course of virtue's flame;
Yours is the task, when all her power is fled,
To bid her warmth re-animate the dead;
To aid the weaker influence of my pen;
And to substantiate shadows into men;
Shadows of those, who conquered in the fray,
At Cressy's, Agincourt's, and Blenheim's day.
Yet let not hope on your bright aspects lower;
Scarce is a miracle beyond your power.
Means more adventurous, aimed at distant ends.
But, ever, to the great, and arduous deed,
Peculiar honour is the destined meed.
The task auspicious of the Spartan dame,
Was, but to speed the course of virtue's flame;
Yours is the task, when all her power is fled,
122
To aid the weaker influence of my pen;
And to substantiate shadows into men;
Shadows of those, who conquered in the fray,
At Cressy's, Agincourt's, and Blenheim's day.
Yet let not hope on your bright aspects lower;
Scarce is a miracle beyond your power.
Prescribe us, by your exemplary lives,
As tender mothers, faithful, generous wives,
The moral excellence we must pursue,
If we aspire to be approved by you.
On you those sentiments kind Heaven bestowed,
Which urge us on, in glory's thorny road;
Then, let them, by exertion, be refined;
And into culture shame each dozing mind.
Chuse fine amusements; let them not be vain;
And oft, at Lever's, join the sober train;
The female form, august; the female mien,
Inspired by thought, will dignify the scene.
Still, in your minds, let judgment hold her seat;
Scorn an Italian trill; a Frenchman's feet:
Still, let the path to happiness be trod;
And give your hours to Nature, and to God.
Our living race the Tarentines renew;
Or softer Sybarites, in them, we view.
By principle they never will be led
To emulate the glory of the dead.
Of English manners, then, ye English Fair,
To give reforming models, be your care.
Let, from your influence, our improvement flow;
Extort from love, what we to reason owe;
And since neglectful of her card we sail,
Let us to virtue steer, by passion's gale.
As tender mothers, faithful, generous wives,
The moral excellence we must pursue,
If we aspire to be approved by you.
On you those sentiments kind Heaven bestowed,
Which urge us on, in glory's thorny road;
Then, let them, by exertion, be refined;
And into culture shame each dozing mind.
Chuse fine amusements; let them not be vain;
And oft, at Lever's, join the sober train;
The female form, august; the female mien,
Inspired by thought, will dignify the scene.
Still, in your minds, let judgment hold her seat;
Scorn an Italian trill; a Frenchman's feet:
Still, let the path to happiness be trod;
And give your hours to Nature, and to God.
123
Or softer Sybarites, in them, we view.
By principle they never will be led
To emulate the glory of the dead.
Of English manners, then, ye English Fair,
To give reforming models, be your care.
Let, from your influence, our improvement flow;
Extort from love, what we to reason owe;
And since neglectful of her card we sail,
Let us to virtue steer, by passion's gale.
125
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG OFFICER OF THE ARMY.
127
Born, with the virtues of maturer age,
To warm the poet's, or historian's page;
Born, life's best deeds, and best rewards to prove,
To merit friendship, and to merit love;
Born with that fire, by which, of old, was hurled
Britannia's thunder on a hostile world:
But all this worth, just opening into bloom,
Is closed, for ever, by the ruthless tomb.
To warm the poet's, or historian's page;
Born, life's best deeds, and best rewards to prove,
To merit friendship, and to merit love;
Born with that fire, by which, of old, was hurled
Britannia's thunder on a hostile world:
But all this worth, just opening into bloom,
Is closed, for ever, by the ruthless tomb.
Severely for my heart, too soon a shade,
Accept this tribute, from affection payed;
Well-pleased accept it; for the poet's verse,
More than funereal pomp adorns the herse;
Gives us, at once, improvement, and relief;
Refines our morals, while it soothes our grief;
While it commands our tears afresh to flow,
Indulging soft, and salutary woe.
Accept this tribute, from affection payed;
Well-pleased accept it; for the poet's verse,
More than funereal pomp adorns the herse;
128
Refines our morals, while it soothes our grief;
While it commands our tears afresh to flow,
Indulging soft, and salutary woe.
Forming the numbers to thy memory due,
The frowns of fortune unappalled I view;
For never could the wanton tyrant's reign
Extinguish, in my breast, the liberal strain;
Ne'er cool my ardour for a poet's name,
By her gay fops of fashionable fame;
Ne'er sink my heart beneath it's noblest ends;
To honour living, or departed friends.
The frowns of fortune unappalled I view;
For never could the wanton tyrant's reign
Extinguish, in my breast, the liberal strain;
Ne'er cool my ardour for a poet's name,
By her gay fops of fashionable fame;
Ne'er sink my heart beneath it's noblest ends;
To honour living, or departed friends.
And let not the severe, ye martial train,
Tell me my grief is weak, and flows in vain!
Oh! let the short-lived joys, and hopes of youth,
Impress you, ever, with important truth!
Since life is short, with virtue fill the span;
The habits of the youth decide the man.
The good from fate their deathless graces save,
And are mature, though minors, for the grave.
Tell me my grief is weak, and flows in vain!
Oh! let the short-lived joys, and hopes of youth,
Impress you, ever, with important truth!
Since life is short, with virtue fill the span;
The habits of the youth decide the man.
The good from fate their deathless graces save,
And are mature, though minors, for the grave.
And oft to pleasure's gay, luxuriant bower,
Contrast the dark, irrevocable hour;
Which, haply, gives you, long, the golden light,
Or adds it's gloom to the returning night.
For not alone, on Mars's purple field,
The sons of war their generous spirits yield;
Death still attends us, on whatever ground;
Lurks in our frame, and hovers all around:
Oft, even the light, elastic spring of life,
With life's duration is at fatal strife:
We draw our dissolution with our breath;
Our vital air impregnated with death;
And thus as surely by an atom fall,
As by the Culverin's destructive ball.
Contrast the dark, irrevocable hour;
129
Or adds it's gloom to the returning night.
For not alone, on Mars's purple field,
The sons of war their generous spirits yield;
Death still attends us, on whatever ground;
Lurks in our frame, and hovers all around:
Oft, even the light, elastic spring of life,
With life's duration is at fatal strife:
We draw our dissolution with our breath;
Our vital air impregnated with death;
And thus as surely by an atom fall,
As by the Culverin's destructive ball.
Ambitious of no mean effects, my muse
Extends to either world her moral views:
Then may these lays, enforcing human weal,
Firmly to act, and tenderly to feel;
To my friend's memory, to our species kind,
Still move the heart, and still impell the mind;
With sympathy producing virtue, read,
Preserve the living, and embalm the dead.
Extends to either world her moral views:
Then may these lays, enforcing human weal,
Firmly to act, and tenderly to feel;
To my friend's memory, to our species kind,
Still move the heart, and still impell the mind;
With sympathy producing virtue, read,
Preserve the living, and embalm the dead.
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |