University of Virginia Library

Nor yet, divine Simplicity, withdraw
That aid auspicious, which, in Art's domain,
Already has reform'd whate'er prevail'd
Of foreign, or of false; has led the curve
That Nature loves through all her sylvan haunts;
Has stol'n the fence unnotic'd that arrests
Her vagrant herds; giv'n lustre to her lawns,
Gloom to her groves, and, in expanse serene,
Devolv'd that wat'ry mirror at her foot,
O'er which she loves to bend and view her charms.

And tell me thou, whoe'er hast new-arrang'd
By her chaste rules thy garden, if thy heart
Feels not the warm, the self-dilating glow
Of true benevolence. Thy flocks, thy herds,
That browse luxurious o'er those very plots
Which once were barren, bless thee for the change;
The birds of air (which thy funereal yews
Of shape uncouth, and leaden sons of earth,
Antæus and Enceladus, with clubs
Uplifted, long had frighted from the scene)
Now pleas'd return, they perch on ev'ry spray,
And swell their little throats, and warble wild
Their vernal minstrelsy; to heav'n and thee
It is a hymn of thanks: do thou, like heav'n,
With tutelary care reward their song.

Erewhile the Muse, industrious to combine
Nature's own charms, with these alone adorn'd
The genius of the scene; but other gifts
She has in store, which gladly now she brings,
And he shall proudly wear. Know, when she broke
The spells of Fashion, from the crumbling wreck
Of her enchantments sagely did she cull
Those reliques rich of old Vitruvian skill,
With what the sculptor's hand in classic days
Made breathe in brass or marble; these the hag
Had purloin'd, and dispos'd in Folly's fane;
To him these trophies of her victory
She bears; and where his awful nod ordains
Conspicuous means to place. He shall direct
Her dubious judgment, from the various hoard
Of ornamental treasures, how to choose
The simplest and the best; on these his seal
Shall stamp great Nature's image and his own,
To charm for unborn ages.—Fling the rest
Back to the beldame, bid her whirl them all
In her vain vortex, lift them now to day,
Now plunge in night, as, through the humid rack
Of April cloud, swift flits the trembling beam.

But precepts tire, and this fastidious age
Rejects the strain didactic: try we then
In livelier narrative the truths to veil
We dare not dictate. Sons of Albion, hear!
The tale I tell is full of strange event,
And piteous circumstance; yet deem not ye,
If names I feign, that therefore facts are feign'd:
Nor hence refuse (what most augments the charm
Of storied woe) that fond credulity
Which binds th' attentive soul in closer chains.

At manhood's prime Alcander's duteous tear
Fell on his father's grave. The fair domain,
Which then became his ample heritage,
That father had reform'd; each line destroy'd
Which Belgic dulness plann'd; and Nature's self
Restor'd to all the rights she wish'd to claim.

Crowning a gradual hill his mansion rose
In antient English grandeur: Turrets, spires,
And windows, climbing high from base to roof
In wide and radiant rows, bespoke its birth
Coëval with those rich cathedral fanes,
(Gothic ill-nam'd) where harmony results
From disunited parts; and shapes minute,
At once distinct and blended, boldly form
One vast majestic whole. No modern art
Had marr'd with misplac'd symmetry the pile.
Alcander held it sacred: On a height,
Which westering to its site the front survey'd,
He first his taste employ'd: for there a line
Of thinly scatter'd beech too tamely broke
The blank horizon. “Draw we round yon knowl,”
Alcander cry'd, “in stately Norman mode,
“A wall embattled; and within its guard
“Let every structure needful for a farm
“Arise in Castle-semblance; the huge barn
“Shall with a mock portcullis arm the gate,
“Where Ceres entering, o'er the flail-proof floor
“In golden triumph rides; some tower rotund
“Shall to the pigeons and their callow young
“Safe roost afford; and ev'ry buttress broad,
“Whose proud projection seems a mass of stone,
“Give space to stall the heifer, and the steed.
“So shall each part, though turn'd to rural use,
“Deceive the eye with those bold feudal forms
“That Fancy loves to gaze on.” This achiev'd,
Now nearer home he calls returning Art
To hide the structure rude where Winter pounds
In conic pit his congelations hoar,
That Summer may his tepid beverage cool
With the chill luxury; his dairy too
There stands of form unsightly: both to veil,
He builds of old disjointed moss-grown stone
A time-struck abbey. An impending grove
Screens it behind with reverential shade;
While bright in front the stream reflecting spreads,
Which winds a mimic river o'er his lawn.
The fane conventual there is dimly seen,
The mitred window, and the cloister pale,
With many a mouldering column; ivy soon
Round the rude chinks her net of foliage spreads;
Its verdant meshes seem to prop the wall.

One native glory, more than all sublime,
Alcander's scene possest: 'twas Ocean's self—
He, boist'rous king, against the eastern cliffs
Dash'd his white foam; a verdant vale between
Gave splendid ingress to his world of waves.
Slanting this vale the mound of that clear stream
Lay hid in shade, which slowly lav'd his lawn:
But there set free, the rill resum'd its pace,
And hurried to the main. The dell it past
Was rocky and retir'd: here art with ease
Might lead it o'er a grot, and filter'd there,
Teach it to sparkle down its craggy sides,
And fall and tinkle on its pebbled floor.
Here then that grot he builds, and conchs with spars,
Moss petrified with branching corallines
In mingled mode arranges: all found here
Propriety of place; what view'd the main
Might well the shelly gifts of Thetis bear.
Not so the inland cave: with richer store
Than those the neighb'ring mines and mountains yield
To hang its roof, would seem incongruous pride,
And fright the local genius from the scene.

One vernal morn, as urging here the work
Surrounded by his hinds, from mild to cold
The season chang'd, from cold to sudden storm,
From storm to whirlwind. To the angry main
Swiftly he turns and sees a laden ship
Dismasted by its rage. “Hie, hie we all,”
Alcander cry'd, “quick to the neighb'ring beach.”
They flew; they came but only to behold,
Tremendous sight! the vessel dash its poop
Amid the boiling breakers. Need I tell
What strenuous arts were us'd, when all were us'd,
To save the sinking crew? One tender maid
Alone escap'd, sav'd by Alcander's arm,
Who boldly swam to snatch her from the plank
To which she feebly clung; swiftly to shore,
And swifter to his home the youth convey'd
His clay-cold prize, who at his portal first
By one deep sigh a sign of life betray'd.

A maid so sav'd, if but by nature blest
With common charms, had soon awak'd a flame
More strong than Pity, in that melting heart
Which Pity warm'd before. But she was fair
As poets picture Hebe, or the Spring;
Graceful withal, as if each limb were cast
In that ideal mould whence Raphael drew
His Galatea: Yes, the impassion'd youth
Felt more than pity when he view'd her charms.
Yet she (ah, strange to tell) though much he lov'd,
Supprest as much that sympathetic flame
Which love like his should kindle: Did he kneel
In rapture at her feet? she bow'd the head,
And coldly bad him rise; or did he plead,
In terms of purest passion, for a smile?
She gave him but a tear: his manly form,
His virtues, ev'n the courage that preserv'd
Her life, beseem'd no sentiment to wake
Warmer than gratitude; and yet the love
Withheld from him she freely gave his scenes;
On all their charms a just applause bestow'd;
And, if she e'er was happy, only then
When wand'ring where those charms were most display'd.

As through a neighb'ring grove, where ancient beech
Their awful foliage flung, Alcander led
The pensive maid along, “Tell me,” she cry'd,
“Why, on these forest features all intent,
“Forbears my friend some scene distinct to give
“To Flora and her fragrance? Well I know
“That in the general landscape's broad expanse
“Their little blooms are lost; but here are glades,
“Circled with shade, yet pervious to the sun,
“Where, if enamell'd with their rainbow-hues,
“The eye would catch their splendour: turn thy taste,
“Ev'n in this grassy circle where we stand,
“To form the plots; there weave a woodbine bower,
“And call that bower Nerina's.” At the word
Alcander smil'd; his fancy instant form'd
The fragrant scene she wish'd; and Love, with Art
Uniting, soon produc'd the finish'd whole.

Down to the south the glade by Nature lean'd;
Art form'd the slope still softer, opening there
Its foliage, and to each Etesian gale
Admittance free dispensing; thickest shade
Guarded the rest.—His taste will best conceive
The new arrangement, whose free footsteps, us'd
To forest haunts, have pierc'd their opening dells,
Where frequent tufts of sweetbriar, box, or thorn,
Steal on the greensward, but admit fair space
For many a mossy maze to wind between.
So here did Art arrange her flow'ry groups
Irregular, yet not in patches quaint,
But interpos'd between the wand'ring lines
Of shaven turf which twisted to the path,
Gravel or sand, that in as wild a wave
Stole round the verdant limits of the scene;
Leading the eye to many a sculptur'd bust
On shapely pedestal, of sage, or bard,
Bright heirs of fame, who living lov'd the haunts
So fragrant, so sequester'd. Many an urn
There too had place, with votive lay inscrib'd
To freedom, friendship, solitude, or love.

And now each flow'r that bears transplanting change,
Or blooms indigenous, adorn'd the scene:
Only Nerina's wish, her woodbine bower,
Remain'd to crown the whole. Here, far beyond
That humble wish, her lover's genius form'd
A glittering fane, where rare and alien plants
Might safely flourish; where the citron sweet,
And fragrant orange, rich in fruit and flowers,
Might hang their silver stars, their golden globes,
On the same odorous stem: Yet scorning there
The glassy penthouse of ignoble form,
High on Ionic shafts he bad it tower
A proud rotunda; to its sides conjoin'd
Two broad piazzas in theatric curve,
Ending in equal porticos sublime.
Glass roof'd the whole, and sidelong to the south
'Twixt ev'ry fluted column, lightly rear'd
Its wall pellucid. All within was day,
Was genial summer's day, for secret stoves
Through all the pile solstitial warmth convey'd.

These led through isles of fragrance to the dome,
Each way in circling quadrant. That bright space
Guarded the spicy tribes from Afric's shore,
Or Ind, or Araby, Sabæan plants
Weeping with nard, and balsam. In the midst
A statue stood, the work of Attic art;
Its thin light drapery, cast in fluid folds,
Proclaim'd its ancientry; all save the head,
Which stole (for love is prone to gentle thefts)
The features of Nerina; yet that head,
So perfect in resemblance; all its air
So tenderly impassion'd; to the trunk,
Which Grecian skill had form'd, so aptly join'd
Phidias himself might seem to have inspir'd
The chissel, brib'd to do the am'rous fraud.
One graceful hand held forth a flow'ry wreath,
The other prest her zone; while round the base
Dolphins, and Triton shells, and plants marine
Proclaim'd, that Venus, rising from the sea,
Had veil'd in Flora's modest vest her charms.

Such was the fane, and such the Deity
Who seem'd, with smile auspicious, to inhale
That incense which a tributary world
From all its regions round her altar breath'd:
And yet, when to the shrine Alcander led
His living goddess, only with a sigh,
And starting tear, the statue and the dome
Reluctantly she view'd. And “why,” she cry'd,
“Why would my best preserver here erect,
“With all the fond idolatry of love,
“A wretch's image whom his pride should scorn,
“(For so his country bids him)? Drive me hence,
“Transport me quick to Gallia's hostile shore,
“Hostile to thee, yet not, alas! to her,
“Who there was meant to sojourn: there, perchance,
“My father, wafted by more prosp'rous gales,
“Now mourns his daughter lost; my brother there
“Perhaps now sooths that venerable age
“He should not sooth alone. Vain thought! perchance
“Both perish'd at Esopus—do not blush,
“It was not thou that lit the ruthless flame;
“It was not thou, that like remorseless Cain,
“Thirsted for brother's blood: thy heart disdains
“The savage imputation. Rest thee there,
“And, though thou pitiest, yet forbear to grace,
“A wretched alien, and a rebel deem'd,
“With honours ill-beseeming her to claim.
“My wish, thou know'st, was humble as my state;
“I only begg'd a little woodbine bower,
“Where I might sit and weep, while all around
“The lilies and the blue bells hung their heads
“In seeming sympathy.” “Does then the scene
“Displease?” the disappointed lover cry'd;
“Alas! too much it pleases,” sigh'd the fair;
“Too strongly paints the passion which stern Fate
“Forbids me to return;” “Dost thou then love
“Some happier youth?” “No; tell thy generous soul
“Indeed I do not.” More she would have said,
But gushing grief prevented. From the fane
Silent he led her, as from Eden's bower
The sire of men his weeping partner led,
Less lovely, and less innocent than she.

Yet still Alcander hop'd what last she sigh'd
Spoke more than gratitude: the war might end;
Her father might consent; for that alone
Now seem'd the duteous barrier to his bliss.
Already had he sent a faithful friend
To learn if France the reverend exile held:
That friend return'd not. Meanwhile ev'ry sun
Which now (a year elaps'd) diurnal rose
Beheld her still more pensive; inward pangs,
From grief's concealment, hourly seem'd to force
Health from her cheek, and quiet from her soul.
Alcander mourn'd the change, yet still he hop'd;
For Love to Hope his flickering taper lends,
When Reason with his steady torch retires:
Hence did he try by ever-varying arts,
And scenes of novel charm her grief to calm.

Nor did he not employ the syren powers
Of Music and of Song; or Painting, thine,
Sweet source of pure delight! But I record
Those arts alone, which form my sylvan theme.

At stated hours, full oft had he observ'd,
She fed with welcome grain the household fowl
That trespass'd on his lawn; this wak'd a wish
To give her feather'd fav'rites space of land,
And lake appropriate: in a neighb'ring copse
He plann'd the scene; for there the crystal spring,
That form'd his river, from a rocky cleft
First bubbling broke to day; and spreading there
Slept on its rushes. “Here my delving hinds,”
He cry'd, “shall soon the marshy soil remove,
“And spread, in brief extent, a glittering lake
“Chequer'd with isles of verdure; on yon rock
“A sculptur'd river-god shall rest his urn;
“And through that urn the native fountain flow.
“Thy wish-for bower, Nerina, shall adorn
“The southern bank; the downy race, that swim
“The lake, or pace the shore, with livelier charms,
“Yet no less rural, here will meet thy glance,
“Than flowers inanimate.” Full soon was scoop'd
The wat'ry bed, and soon, by margin green
And rising banks, inclos'd; the highest gave
Site to a rustic fabric, shelving deep
Within the thicket, and in front compos'd
Of three unequal arches, lowly all
The surer to expel the noontide glare,
Yet yielding liberal inlet to the scene;
Woodbine with jasmine carelessly entwin'd
Conceal'd the needful masonry, and hung
In free festoons, and vested all the cell.
Hence did the lake, the islands, and the rock,
A living landscape spread; the feather'd fleet,
Led by two mantling swans, at ev'ry creek
Now touch'd, and now unmoor'd; now on full sail,
With pennons spread and oary feet they ply'd
Their vagrant voyage; and now, as if becalm'd,
'Tween shore and shore at anchor seem'd to sleep.
Around those shores the fowl that fear the stream
At random rove: hither hot Guinea sends
Her gadding troop; here midst his speckled dames
The pigmy chanticleer of Bantam winds
His clarion; while, supreme in glittering state,
The peacock spreads his rainbow train, with eyes
Of sapphire bright, irradiate each with gold.
Meanwhile from ev'ry spray the ring-doves coo,
The linnets warble, captive none, but lur'd
By food to haunt the umbrage: all the glade
Is life, is music, liberty, and love.

And is there now to pleasure or to use
One scene devoted in the wide domain
Its master has not polish'd? Rumour spreads
Its praises far, and many a stranger stops
With curious eye to censure or admire.
To all his lawns are pervious; oft himself
With courteous greeting will the critic hail,
And join him in the circuit. Give we here
(If Candour will with patient ear attend)
The social dialogue Alcander held
With one, a youth of mild yet manly mein,
Who seem'd to taste the beauties he survey'd.

“Little, I fear me, will a stranger's eye
“Find here to praise, where rich Vitruvian art
“Has rear'd no temples, no triumphal arcs;
“Where no Palladian bridges span the stream,
“But all is homebred Fancy.” “For that cause,
“And chiefly that,” the polish'd youth reply'd,
“I view each part with rapture. Ornament,
“When foreign or fantastic, never charm'd
“My judgment; here I tread on British ground;
“With British annals all I view accords.
“Some Yorkist, or Lancastrian baron bold,
“To awe his vassals, or to stem his foes,
“Yon massy bulwark built; on yonder pile
“In ruin beauteous, I distinctly mark
“The ruthless traces of stern Henry's hand.

“Yet,” cry'd Alcander, (interrupting mild
The stranger's speech) “if so yon ancient seat,
“Pride of my ancestors, had mock'd repair,
“And by Proportion's Greek or Roman laws
“That pile had been rebuilt, thou wouldst not then,
“I trust, have blam'd, if, there on Doric shafts
“A temple rose; if some tall obelisk
“O'ertopt yon grove, or bold triumphal arch
“Usurpt my castle's station.”—“Spare me yet
“Yon solemn ruin,” the quick youth return'd,
“No mould'ring aqueduct, no yawning crypt
“Sepulchral, will console me for its fate.”

“I mean not that,” the master of the scene
Reply'd; “though classic rules to modern piles
“Should give the just arrangement, shun we here
“By those to form our ruins; much we own
“They please, when, by Panini's pencil drawn,
“Or darkly grav'd by Piranesi's hand,
“And fitly might some Tuscan garden grace;
“But Time's rude mace has here all Roman piles
“Levell'd so low, that who, on British ground
“Attempts the task, builds but a splendid lie
“Which mocks historic credence. Hence the cause
“Why Saxon piles or Norman here prevail:
“Form they a rude, 'tis yet an English whole.”

“And much I praise thy choice,” the stranger cry'd;
“Such chaste selection shames the common mode,
“Which, mingling structures of far distant times,
“Far distant regions, here, perchance, erects
“A fane to Freedom, where her Brutus stands
“In act to strike the tyrant; there a tent,
“With crescent crown'd, with scymitars adorn'd,
“Meet for some Bajazet; northward we turn,
“And lo! a pigmy pyramid pretends
“We tread the realms of Pharoah; quickly thence
“Our southern step presents us heaps of stone
“Rang'd in a Druid circle. Thus from age
“To age, from clime to clime incessant borne,
“Imagination flounders headlong on,
“Till, like fatigu'd Villario, soon we find
“We better like a field.” “Nicely thy hand
“The childish landscape touches,” cries his host,
“For Fashion ever is a wayward child;
“Yet sure we might forgive her faults like these,
“If but in separate or in single scenes
“She thus with Fancy wanton'd: should I lead
“Thy step, my friend, (for our accordant tastes
“Prompt me to give thee that familiar name)
“Behind this screen of elm, thou there might'st find
“I too had idly play'd the truant's part,
“And broke the bounds of judgment.” “Lead me there,”
Briskly the youth return'd, “for having prov'd
“Thy Epic Genius here, why not peruse
“Thy lighter Ode or Eclogue?” Smiling thence
Alcander led him to the woodbine bower
Which last our song describ'd, who seated there,
In silent transport view'd the lively scene.

“I see, his host resum'd, “my sportive art
“Finds pardon here; not ev'n yon classic form,
“Pouring his liquid treasures from his vase,
“Though foreign from the soil, provokes thy frown.
“Try we thy candor farther: higher art,
“And more luxurious, haply too more vain,
“Adorns yon southern coppice.” On they past
Through a wild thicket, till the perfum'd air
Gave to another sense its prelude rich
On what the eye should feast. But now the grove
Expands; and now the rose, the garden's Queen,
Amidst her blooming subjects' humbler charms,
On ev'ry plot her crimson pomp displays.
“Oh Paradise!” the ent'ring youth exclaim'd,
“Groves whose rich trees weep odorous gums and balm,
“Others whose fruit, burnish'd with golden rind,
“Hang amiable, Hesperian fables true,
“If true here only.” Thus, in Milton's phrase
Sublime, the youth his admiration pour'd,
While passing to the dome; his next short step
Unveil'd the central statue; “Heav'ns! just Heav'ns,”
He cry'd, “'tis my Nerina.” “Thine, mad youth?
“Forego the word,” Alcander said, and paus'd;
His utterance fail'd; a thousand clust'ring thoughts,
And all of blackest omen to his peace,
Recoil'd upon his brain, deaden'd all sense,
And at the statue's base him headlong cast,
A lifeless load of being.—Ye, whose hearts
Are ready at Humanity's soft call
To drop the tear, I charge you weep not yet,
But fearfully suspend the bursting woe:
Nerina's self appears; the further isle
She, fate-directed, treads. Does she too faint?
Would Heav'n she could! it were a happy swoon
Might soften her fixt form, more rigid now
Than is her marble semblance. One stiff hand
Lies leaden on her breast; the other rais'd
To heav'n, and half-way clench'd; steadfast her eyes,
Yet viewless; and her lips, which op'd to shriek,
Can neither shriek nor close. So might she stand
For ever: He whose sight caus'd the dread change,
Though now he clasps her in his anxious arm,
Fails to unbend one sinew of her frame;
'Tis ice; 'tis steel. But see, Alcander wakes;
And waking, as by magic sympathy,
Nerina whispers, “all is well, my friend;
“'Twas but a vision; I may yet revive—
“But still his arm supports me; aid him, friend,
“And bear me swiftly to my woodbine bower:
“For there indeed I wish to breathe my last.”

So saying, her cold cheek, and parched brow,
Turn'd to a livid paleness; her dim eyes
Sunk in their sockets; sharp contraction prest
Her temples, ears, and nostrils: signs well known
To those that tend the dying. Both the youths
Perceiv'd the change; and had stern Death himself
Wav'd his black banner visual o'er their heads,
It could not more appall. With trembling step,
And silent, both convey'd her to the bower.

Her languid limbs there decently compos'd,
She thus her speech resum'd: “Attend my words
“Brave Cleon! dear Alcander! generous pair:
“For both have tender interest in this heart
“Which soon shall beat no more. That I am thine
“By a dear father's just commands I own,
“Much-honour'd Cleon! take the hand he gave,
“And with it, Oh, if I could give my heart,
“Thou wert its worthy owner. All I can,
“(And that preserv'd with chastest fealty)
“Duteous I give thee, Cleon it is thine;
“Not ev'n this dear preserver, e'er could gain
“More from my soul than friendship—that be his;
“Yet let me own, what, dying, sooths the pang,
“That, had thyself and duty ne'er been known,
“He must have had my love.” She paus'd; and dropt
A silent tear: then prest the stranger's hand;
Then bow'd her head upon Alcander's breast,
And “bless them both, kind Heav'n!” she pray'd and died.

“And blest art thou,” cry'd Cleon, (in a voice
Struggling with grief for utterance) blest to die
“Ere thou hadst question'd me, and I perforce
“Had told a tale which must have sent thy soul
“In horror from thy bosom. Now it leaves
“A smile of peace upon those pallid lips,
“That speaks its parting happy. Go, fair saint!
“Go to thy palm-crown'd father! thron'd in bliss,
“And seated by his side, thou wilt not now
“Deplore the savage stroke that seal'd his doom;
“Go hymn the Fount of Mercy, who, from ill
“Educing good, makes ev'n a death like his,
“A life surcharg'd with tender woes like thine,
“The road to joys eternal. Maid, farewell!
“I leave the casket that thy virtues held
“To him whose breast sustains it; more belov'd,
“Perhaps more worthy, yet not loving more
“Than did thy wretched Cleon.” At the word
He bath'd in tears the hand she dying gave,
Return'd it to her side, and hasty rose.
Alcander starting from his trance of grief,
Cry'd “Stay, I charge thee stay:” “and shall he stay,”
Cleon reply'd, “whose presence stabb'd thy peace?
“Hear this before we part: That breathless Maid
“Was daughter to a venerable Sage,
“Whom Boston, when with peace and safety blest,
“In rapture heard pour from his hallow'd tongue
“Religion's purest dictates. 'Twas my chance,
“In early period of our civil broils,
“To save his precious life: And hence the Sire
“Did to my love his daughter's charms consign;
“But, till the war should cease, if ever cease,
“Deferr'd our nuptials. Whither she was sent
“In search of safety, well, I trust, thou know'st;
“He meant to follow; but those ruthless flames,
“That spar'd nor friend nor foe, nor sex nor age,
“Involv'd the village, where on sickly couch
“He lay confin'd, and whither he had fled
“Awhile to sojourn. There (I see thee shrink)
“Was he, that gave Nerina being, burnt!
“Burnt by thy countrymen! to ashes burnt!
“Fraternal hands and christian lit the flame.—
“Oh thou hast cause to shudder. I meanwhile
“With his brave son a distant warfare wag'd:
“And him, now I have found the prize I sought,
“And finding lost, I hasten to rejoin;
“Vengeance and glory call me.” At the word,
Not fiercer does the tigress quit her cave
To seize the hinds that robb'd her of her young,
Than he the bower. “Stay, I conjure thee, stay,”
Alcander cry'd; but ere the word was spoke
Cleon was seen no more. “Then be it so,”
The youth continued, clasping to his heart
The beauteous corse, and smiling as he spoke,
(Yet such a smile as far out-sorrows tears)
“Now thou art mine entirely—Now no more
“Shall duty dare disturb us—Love alone—
“But hark! he comes again—Away vain fear!
“'Twas but the fluttering of thy feather'd flock.
“True to their custom'd hour, behold they troop
“From island, grove, and lake. Arise my love,
“Extend thy hand—I lift it, but it falls.
“Hence then, fond fools, and pine! Nerina's hand
“Has lost the power to feed you. Hence and die.”

Thus plaining, to his lips the icy palm
He lifted, and with ardent passion kiss'd;
Then cry'd in agony, “on this dear hand,
“Once tremblingly alive to Love's soft touch,
“I hop'd to seal my faith:” This thought awak'd
Another sad soliloquy, which they,
Who e'er have lov'd, will from their hearts supply,
And they who have not will but hear and smile.

And let them smile; but let the scorners learn
There is a solemn luxury in grief
Which they shall never taste; well known to those,
And only those, in Solitude's deep gloom
Who heave the sigh sincerely: Fancy there
Waits the fit moment; and, when Time has calm'd
The first o'erwhelming tempest of their woe,
Piteous she steals upon the mourner's breast
Her precious balm to shed: Oh, it has power,
Has magic power to soften and to sooth,
Thus duly minister'd. Alcander felt
The charm, yet not till many a ling'ring moon
Had hung upon her zenith o'er his couch,
And heard his midnight wailings. Does he stray
But near the fated temple, or the bower?
He feels a chilly monitor within
Who bids him pause. Does he at distance view
His grot? 'tis darken'd with Nerina's storm,
Ev'n at the blaze of noon. Yet there are walks
The lost one never trod; and there are seats
Where he was never happy by her side,
And these he still can sigh in. Here at length,
As if by chance, kind Fancy brought her aid,
When wand'ring through a grove of sable yew,
Rais'd by his ancestors: their Sabbath-path
Led through its gloom, what time too dark a stole
Was o'er Religion's decent features drawn
By puritanic zeal. Long had their boughs
Forgot the sheers; the spire, the holy ground
They banish'd by their umbrage. “What if here,”
Cry'd the sweet soother, in a whisper soft,
“Some open space were form'd, where other shades,
“Yet all of solemn sort, cypress and bay
“Funereal, pensive birch its languid arms
“That droops, with waving willows deem'd to weep,
“And shiv'ring aspens mixt their varied green;
“What if yon trunk, shorn of its murky crest,
“Reveal'd the sacred fane?” Alcander heard
The Charmer; ev'ry accent seem'd his own,
So much they touch'd his heart's sad unison.
“Yes, yes,” he cry'd, “Why not behold it all?
“That bough remov'd shews me the very vault
“Where my Nerina sleeps, and where, when heav'n
“In pity to my plaint the mandate seals,
“My dust with her's shall mingle.” Now his hinds,
Call'd to the task, their willing axes wield:
Joyful to see, as witless of the cause,
Their much-lov'd lord his sylvan arts resume.
And next, within the centre of the gloom,
A shed of twisting roots and living moss,
With rushes thatch'd, with wattled oziers lin'd,
He bids them raise: it seem'd a hermit's cell;
Yet void of hour-glass, scull, and maple dish,
Its mimic garniture: Alcander's taste
Disdains to trick, with emblematic toys,
The place where he and Melancholy mean
To fix Nerina's bust, her genuine bust,
The model of the marble. There he hides,
Close as a miser's gold, the sculptur'd clay;
And but at early morn and latest eve
Unlocks the simple shrine, and heaves a sigh:
Then does he turn, and through the glimm'ring glade
Cast a long glance upon her house of death;
Then views the bust again, and drops a tear.
Is this idolatry, ye sage ones say?—
Or, if ye doubt, go view the num'rous train
Of poor and fatherless his care consoles;
The sight will tell thee, he that dries their tears
Has unseen angels hov'ring o'er his head,
Who leave their heav'n to see him shed his own.

Here close we, sweet Simplicity! the tale,
And with it let us yield to youthful bards
That Dorian reed we but awak'd to voice
When Fancy prompted, and when Leisure smil'd;
Hopeless of general praise, and well repaid,
If they of classic ear, unpall'd by rhyme,
Whom changeful pause can please, and numbers free,
Accept our song with candour. They perchance,
Led by the Muse to solitude and shade,
May turn that art we sing to soothing use,
At this ill-omen'd hour, when Rapine rides
In titled triumph; when Corruption waves
Her banners broadly in the face of day,
And shews th' indignant world the host of slaves
She turns from Honour's standard. Patient there,
Yet not desponding, shall the sons of Peace
Await the day, when, smarting with his wrongs,
Old England's Genius wakes; when with him wakes
That plain integrity, contempt of gold,
Disdain of slav'ry, liberal awe of rule
Which fixt the rights of people, peers, and prince,
And on them founded the majestic pile
Of British Freedom; bad fair Albion rise
The scourge of tyrants; sovereign of the seas;
And arbitress of empires. Oh return,
Ye long-lost train of Virtues! swift return
To save ('tis Albion prompts your Poet's prayer)
Her throne, her altars, and her laureat bowers.