The Poetical Works of Anna Seward :: :: University of Virginia Library

Glad, as the lone night-wanderer, on his way
Hails the mild day-spring, red'ning on the shore,
We meet description's light diffusing ray,
Shining on climes not given us to explore.

Powers, that thro' distant scenes, or soft, or dread,
Lead the charm'd spirit with supreme controul,
Where icy hills, or torrid plains, are spread,
Where winds might waft us, or where seas might roll.

Rich in those powers, energic, warm, and bland,
The leaves where Wraxal, More, and Coxe explain

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How clime prevails,—thrones rise,—or laws expand,
To ravage, or to bless each mark'd domain.

And gayer Sterne, whose page, to latest time,
Britons shall love;—since its pervading art,
As manners vary with the varied clime,
Winds through the labyrinths of the human heart.

Does one mild virtue spread its lunar ray,
Deep in the pensive bosom's coy recess,
Untrac'd by him along its latent way
To love,—to pity,—charity,—and peace?

Or lurks one selfish passion, sly, and grave,
But at his touch its genuine form shall wear?
To whose free pen presiding Genius gave
The force resistless of Ithuriel's spear.

And shalt not thou, O daring Cook! obtain
The lasting homage of the enquiring soul,
Who, 'mid the dangers of the frozen main,
Lifts the pale curtains of the southern pole!

But now what meed shall my thrill'd fancy pay
The talents, which to public honours cold,
Yet warm to amity, those scenes display
That did to their delighted sense unfold,

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When up the Savoy mountains Whalley rose,
Where Alpine eagles have their aeries built;
Saw rocks as bold as savage Rosa shows,
And dales as soft as sunny Claude has gilt;

His lov'd Chatilion's home; whose youthful mind
Congenial wit, and kindred worth adorn;
By genius nerv'd, by classic taste refined,
A summer ripeness in a vernal morn.

What marvel, Whalley, that an heart like thine
Should brave the surging storms, that ceaseless howl
When winter yells around that craggy shrine
With icy breath and petrifying scowl;

What marvel?—drawn by the magnetic power,
That soul to soul so instantly endears,
Investing friendship's young, and blossoming hour
With all the fruits that crown her mellowest years.

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I bless that power, illum'd by fancy's ray,
It gives to thy free pen supreme command,
That bears me with resistless force away,
And on the rocks of Savoy bids me stand;

Shows me the Alps, huge in embattled pride,
A clust'ring Phalanx, meet the wintry gales;
Or where, dispers'd, they seem, with giant stride,
To chace each other to the gloomy vales;

Now, in vast curtains of encircling clouds,
Wrap their stupendous heads from mortal eyes;
And then, awakening, pierce the misty shrouds,
Roll the dark volumes back—and brave the skies.

I see, as winter blots the lurid air,
The savage Graces o'er the mountains stalk,
Shake the frore horrors from their shaggy hair,
While howling wolves attend their desert walk;

Then, as with livid hand, and Gorgon frown,
Sternly they wave the pale, petrific wand
O'er the loud floods, down, down the vast steeps thrown;—
In silent ice the shrinking cataracts stand.

Now charm'd I mark the genial breath of spring
To life, and beauty wake the dreary scene,

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When o'er the melting vales she hastes to fling
Her silver blossoms, and her tender green;

And on the lawns, between the mountains spread,
To bid the floret's lavish perfume flow,
Against their basis rest its blushing head,
Whose summits whiten in eternal snow.

I mark the clouds, that gorgeous summer shows,
Enfold the mountain-cliffs with mantles bright,
Or gather on their vast, imperial brows
In glorious diadems of colour'd light;

Or sail from rock to rock, and change their form,
As setting suns their last effulgence shed,
That, now with gold, and now with crimson warm,
Tinges their floating skirts, magnificently spread.

Charm'd I behold purpureal autumn lead
Her grapes of deep, or of transparent stain,
Round the tall steeps, and o'er the yellow mead,
Varied, and spotted with the sable grain.

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View that cold mass, shining as though it drew
New radiant whiteness from the orb that fills
With cordial strength, and gives the tyrian hue
To the rich vines that deck the opposing hills;

Hear melted cataracts thunder down the steeps,
Startling the gloomy valley's deep repose,
Whose current, as from rock to rock it leaps,
Retains the whiteness of its parent snows,

Ample and still, that on the mountain's brow,
Heedless of tepid, or of stormy gales,
Sit,—in calm contrast to the roar below
Of filial torrents, tumbling to the vales.

They, through the wide-stretch'd forest, black with pines,
Run silvering onward with divided streams,
While, in the vale, the lone Montmelion shines,
Gilded by sunny evening's saffron gleams.

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Once, on that insulated summit, rose
The towers most hostile to ambition's sway,
That ere for Savoy's weal had dar'd oppose
The Gallic victor, on his ruthless way.

Resisting long, they found resistance vain,
And to the polish'd despot slowly yield;—
Why did not wanton Montespan detain
Voluptuous Louis from the deathful field?

Tender repentant Valiere!—not thy tears
For honour lost so deeply pitied flow,
As those sad sighs, and agonizing fears
That rose, in all the bitterness of woe,

When the pale Genius of that lovely land
Lean'd from his rock, defil'd with goary stains,
And saw fierce War stretch forth his red right hand,
Drenching with blood those fair, and fertile plains.

Wall'd by the cloud-capt Alps on every side,
The plenteous vales of Savoy guarded seem
From the fierce inroad of Ambition's tide,
When neighbouring powers unsluice its wasteful stream.

But ah! what barriers may kind Nature rear
Which that fell Demon, on his restless course,

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Shall not, in some disastrous hour, o'er-peer,
Sap by his art, or vanquish by his force?

O happier Switzerland!—as yet 'tis thine
To see bright Liberty triumphant shake
Her radiant Ægis on thy craggy shrine,
And dip her pinions in thy silver lake!

Not on its fertile banks, or through the street
Of busy Zuric, does the squalid crew
Of useless beggary the traveller meet,
Wound his reluctant ear, and shock his view;

But Plenty breathes an universal gale,
And liberal Commerce every want supplies,
For equal her unfetter'd powers prevail,
Urge the quick step, and animate the eyes.

Where idleness, or vicious waste alone
Want Life's warm comforts, or her soft repose;
O Monarchy! can thy proud pomp atone
For those lost joys Equality bestows?

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Ye, who so loudly plead for kingly sway,
The rank of nobles, and the pageant train
Of mean subordination, speed your way
Where Savoy's richest vallies teem in vain.

Not for her hapless sons her vineyards bend,
With loaded branches, from the mountain's side;
O! not for them her golden vales extend,
Or slope her forests in theatric pride.

In beauty's pomp, in vegetation's wealth
Boon Nature cloth'd her vallies and her bowers;
But seek her capital,—view life, and health,
Shudder, and pine beneath her crumbling towers!

O! if that form of government is best
That makes its people happiest,—then compare
The crowds Chambery's ruin'd streets infest
With those that breathe throng'd Zuric's gladden'd air!

And when that calm comparison is made
By English spirits, shall they fail to guard

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Those sacred laws, Ambition would invade,
And save us from a Despot's proud award?

But now, from blessings England never knew,
From evils which, I trust, she ne'er shall prove,
Turn thou, my soul, thy unavailing view,
And seek the scenes thy kindling senses love!

Though, hapless Savoy, Liberty is fled
From thy wild haunts, that every charm disclose,
Yet, with my friend, thy mazes let me tread,
And in thy graces half forget thy woes.

Calm let us sit, at Evening's solemn hour,
Beneath a rock;—and see her mantle brown
Veil the mark'd features of each Alpine tower,
Till in one huge stupendous mass they frown;

View Night's pale orb her shadowy pomp assume,
And o'er the sombrous cliffs majestic ride;
And partially their craggy points illume
Or deck with hoary light their stony side;

Silver the vale, which at their feet secure
Slumbers,—and smiles amid its peaceful dreams;
Bares its green bosom to the radiance pure,
That gems the Iser's wildly-devious streams.

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And during brighter hours, in smiling gaze,
Shall our fix'd eyes the Bourgian Lake behold,
When Autumn-evenings, and their burnish'd rays,
Tint her green waters with etherial gold;

That lake, spread wide between stupendous hills,
Whose sylvan curtains slope and kiss her tide;
While through them gleam the tributary rills,
That rush, with frothing haste, to swell her pride.

I view thy friend's paternal walls ascend
From her broad bosom to an height sublime;
While o'er her waves the shatter'd turrets bend,
And frown defiance vain to whelming time.

Yet there, amid the ravage of his powers,
The desolate Graces hold their pensive reign,
Silent they stand beneath the cloven towers,
Which, what they lose in strength, in interest gain.

Thou, Whalley, in the mansion large and drear,
Whose mouldering walls dismantled seem to scowl,

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At midnight laid, wert not displeas'd to hear
The rising tempest o'er the waters howl.

Against the rattling windows as it beat,
And mutter'd thro' the chasms, no weak alarm
Shock'd thy aw'd sense—tho' oft the ponderous gate
Fiercely it shook, as with a giant's arm.

Nor would my friend that solemn scene have changed
For all the hand of luxury knows to spread;
Not then his rapt imagination ranged
To the gilt roof, bright hearth, and downy bed.

Or if a wish in softer scenes to rove
Stole through his breast, amid that awful gloom,
'Twas for the murmurs of a cypress grove,
'Twas for the silence of a sister's tomb.

Thus, when the oak groan'd sullen in the wind,
And distant far the drizzling dawn of day,
Alone, and musing, at its roots reclin'd,
On cold Temora's hill great Ossian lay;

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And heard his harp, high on the riv'd boughs hung,
By pale dim hands disturb'd, low-jarring shake;
While shadowy shields amid the tempest rung,
Clash'd by the spirits of the troubled lake.

Nor griev'd, but that the loud, and angry storms
The voice of the heroic Dead might drown;
The noble mind reveres terrific forms,
And grows enamour'd of their darkest frown.

Now from those scenes, where awful horror sheds
Gloom, that contrasts sweet beauty's ruddy light,
My gentle friend his lov'd Eliza leads
Where throng'd Avignon's lofty domes invite.

Yet there no ardour of his soul decays,
Fann'd, lone Valclusa, by thy amorous gales;
He, as with Sorga's winding wave he strays,
The rocks—the streams—the hallow'd Fountain hails!

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And where those rocks, with shadowy summits, lean
O'er the clear waters, in their solemn rest,
And not a wave, upon the deep serene,
Disturbs the darken'd fountain's glassy breast,

With Heaven-directed eyes I see him bend;
I see the shade of Petrarch hovering nigh,
Pleas'd with his glory's richest gale to blend
The rising incense of a generous sigh.—

Now, when the neighbouring mountain's rigid snows,
Spring's milder rays for aye inured to mock,
Sink, as the Summer's sun more fiercely glows,
Deep to the fluid sources in the rock,

'Tis then the Naiad from their sullen sleep
Wakes her deep waters;—and in murmuring tones
High o'er the cavern'd basin bids them leap
Adown the shelving mound of rocky stones;

In flashing eddies swell thy lucid train,
Clear Sorga, wandering through the olive bowers,
Till, in an ampler mirror, proud Sommane
Eyes the dark shadows of her lonely towers

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It suits ye well, that air of stately gloom,
O towers, where high-born Laura sojourn'd long!
The Nymph by beauty deck'd with peerless bloom,
The Nymph immortaliz'd in peerless song.

Thee, Whalley, breathing, as thou rangest there,
Petrarch's sweet lays, how often I behold!
The lays that paint Valclusa's charming fair,
Bright as its laurels, as its fountain cold.

Shade of the Bard, who form'd that deathless lay,
And gave thy vale to fame, a dearer guest
Shall ne'er among its lone meanders stray,
Ne'er shalt thou hail a more congenial breast!

Yet still, sublimer Savoy, still thy haunts
On Whalley's mind in deeper trace shall dwell;
Not that alone thy loftier grace enchants
The spirit, touch'd by Fancy's potent spell;

Those awful heights the stamp and image bear
Of dearest amity;—her living smile
Each recollected mountain long shall wear,
Each vale romantic and each rocky pile.

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Where Matron excellence in friendship warm,
Source, and Protectress of each dear delight,
Breath'd through the social walls the sacred charm
That gives to Virtue the convivial night.

There, with Chatilion's duteous cares to vie,
Two other noble sons assiduous strove,
And watch'd each glance of her maternal eye,
In deep respect, and with preventive love.

While their sweet sister, whom the loves adorn,
With hope's soft blush, and facile smile serene,
Bright as the star that leads the vernal morn,
Sat sparkling by, and more illum'd the scene.

A mother's mild restrictions only known,
There, 'twas thy lot, fair maid, to meet the rays,
That still on thee with cordial lustre shone,
In each fraternal glance, and social gaze;

Those suns of the cheer'd heart, that never shine
Within monastic walls;—in gloom precise,
From day to day, where Gallic virgins pine,
Or buy dismission at a fatal price.

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With-held the joys, that other joys excell,
And from progressive passion only flow,
Whose tender constancy may best repel
The gay contagion of the faithless vow,

Breath'd from the frolic dames, by vice ensnared,
Vice, whose attractions seize the unguarded heart
When conjugal indifference has prepared
The youthful bosom for their venom'd dart.

Ye Gallic parents, to the nuptial shrine
When you, to glut your avarice, or your pride,
From the unsocial convent's shade malign
Lead to the altar the unsoften'd bride,

To Nature, and to Duty lost ye prove,
Ye, who from Youth's soft bosom have with-held
That previous, gradual, voluntary love,
Of nuptial faith the adamantine shield.

Hard on your hoary heads the future crimes
Of this your filial sacrifice shall bear,
When the seductions of licentious times
Her young, and undefended heart ensnare.

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Yet O! how general this parental guilt,
In France!—in Savoy!—miserable proof
Of tyranny, on proud example built,
From thrones descending to the private roof!

A rare exemption from the common doom,
Maid of Chatilion's race, thou late didst prove,
When joys domestic gilt thy years of bloom,
Far from the lonely cloister's frowning grove.

But O! if bliss illume our earthly course,
How soon, al s! its cheering lustres fly!
That matron-worth, of all those joys the source,
The silver cord, that link'd each social tie,

Smote by the ruthless hand of dire disease
Gasps on her fever'd couch!—my gentle friends,
What pain was yours to see the tyrant seize
The form, that duteous love in vain defends!

O! grieved reverse of those enlivening hours,
That stay'd you on your purpos'd way so long!
Now, for the soul's, and senses' darling powers,
Wit, science, music, and its melting song,—

The stealing step!—the hush'd and darken'd room!—
The anxious whisper!—the extended cross!

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The manly grief, that firmly meets its doom,
Yet inly ruminates, and mourns its loss!

The wailful accent,—the o'erwhelmed eye
Of helpless beauty!—trembling, chill'd, and faint,
With arms extended, and convulsive sigh,
Sunk on the pillow of the dying saint.—

And thou, my friend, a stranger though so late,
In this sad scene art not refus'd thy part;
Not shut to thee is sorrow's silent gate,
Not cold to thee its agonizing heart.

Nor can thy hesitating step forbear,
Thy trembling hands the curtains slowly ope;
Thy faltering words the tender fraud prepare,
And half articulate the faithless hope.

Dim eyes that feebly rise to thine, the while,
In gaze incredulous;—the pale, cold hand
Wav'd gently; with a faint, and pensive smile
On the wan lip, that tender fraud withstand;

And in expression, far beyond the reach
Of vocal breath, while life is ebbing fast,
Solemn the task of resignation teach,
And say to griev'd affection—All is Past!

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Yet, as with energy angelic fir'd,
The glowing interest in her pious breast,
By thine, and thy Eliza's worth inspir'd,
O'er Nature's final struggles rise confest;

For, as thou kneelest by the bed of death,
Thy fingers clasping o'er thy moisten'd eyes,
And hear'st, with ear appall'd, the short'ning breath,
Warming her icy hand with ceaseless sighs;

E'en in that awful, that momentous hour,
When the dark grave's terrific portals ope,
On thee the expiring lips their blessings pour,
Mix'd with the accents of immortal hope!

O! may those fervent blessings, on my friends
Breath'd by departing goodness, be fulfill'd!
Then, as new joys each varying clime extends,
Shall health and peace their wandering footsteps gild.

Till back, at length, to Albion's silver shores,
To open arms, and longing hearts they fly;—
Glad may they hail the period, that restores
Her soft green vallies, and her wayward sky!

If glow her suns less permanently bright,
If breathe her gales less exquisitely bland;

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If her hills rise a less stupendous height,
Her glassy lakes in less expansion stand;

Yet o'er her lov'd, capricious region broods
Dear Safety, still on Halcyon pinions found;
No bursting mountain pours the fiery floods,
No dire convulsion rends the quiet ground;

No gloomy tyrant glares upon her throne,
Breaking with crimson hands the legal rod,
Nor raves Intolerance, with bigot frown,
Usurping still the attributes of God;

But liberal Freedom, in the gracious form
Of Albion's tutelary Genius, there
Breathes, with unchanging sway, her influence warm,
Though suns, and winds, and skies, and tempers veer.

With every soft affection in her train,
My friends, their purpos'd years of absence o'er,
Shall she not summon to her verdant plain?
Shall she not welcome to her silvery shore?

Since, though for her their hands, in state sublime,
Nor bear the olive, nor the laurel bough;
Their perfect worth, in many a foreign clime,
Reflects mild lustre on her sacred brow.

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For this, when glad they furl the slacken'd sail,
Her quicken'd step shall print the yielding sands;
Their wish'd return delighted will she hail,
Whose virtues honour'd her in distant lands.

This poem is intended as a poetical mirror to the striking pictures of Alpine scenery, which Mr Whalley's letters from the Continent presented to the author.

Baron de Chatilion, a young Savoyard nobleman, whom Mr Whalley met at Dijon, and on whose account he and Mrs Whalley passed the winter at Chambery, the capitol of Savoy, situated amidst some of the highest Alps. It is the winter residence of the Chatilion family.

The black grain, which, sowed in patches amidst the corn-fields of Savoy, produces a landscape singularly shaded, and new to an English eye.

The fortress on the rock, Montmelion, was the last that yielded to Lewis the Fourteenth, when he conquered Savoy. This rock stands single in the centre of the vale, wholly unconnected with the surrounding Alps.

So it was then with that country—alas, the change!

The author has since been convinced by the fatal Revolution in France, that a limited monarchy, with its subordinate ranks, is the best form of government for a great nation like that country, or Britain.

A beautiful lake in the province of Bourgia. The ancient castle of the Chatilion family stands upon it, but in too ruinous a state to be their general habitation. Mr Whalley, on his tour through that province with the Baron, passed a very tempestuous night in that shattered castle.

Mr Whalley lost his beloved sister, the lovely and excellent Mrs Sage, two years before he left England.

The celebrated valley near Avignon. The laurels which Petrarch had so lavishly planted there, in allusion to the name of his mistress, are no longer to be found. Olives are now the only trees in the stony, rocky, and barren precincts near the Fountain.

The Chateau de Sommane. It stands on the right-hand side of the valley, and was once the habitation of Laura. It still belongs to her direct descendants, and was lately inhabited by the learned and ingenious Abbe de Sade, who, some years since, published the voluminous history of Petrarch and Laura, the Abbé's ancestress. From this work Mrs Dobson formed her valuable abridgement.

The Baroness de Chatilion.

The young women of France and Savoy are educated in monasteries, nor, in general, mix at all with the world till they are removed from their gloomy and wearisome exclusion, to be married to the husband appointed for them.