The Poetical Works of Anna Seward With Extracts from her Literary Correspondence. Edited by Walter Scott ... In Three Volumes |
I. | VOL. I. |
II. |
III. |
The Poetical Works of Anna Seward | ||
VOL. I.
THE VISIONS,
AN ELEGY.
Haunt of my youth, I wander thro' thy grove,
My loved Alinda's fate incessant mourn,
And drop my blighted garlands as I rove.
And on the smiling landscape sooth'd I gaze,
Where joy's wild music cheers the drooping mind,
As Nature's warblers swell the song of praise.
In June's gay pride they wave their flowing heads;
While, from the setting sun, a golden gleam
O'er these green fields the soften'd radiance sheds.
And on the fair horizon steals a cloud,
A few cold drops fall from the louring sky,
And mute the plumy warblers, late so loud!
This more than usual presage of the soul?
All things are silent as Alinda's tomb,
All but the death-bell's melancholy toll!
O! from its power my shrinking spirit save!
Why thus in dread funereal garb array'd,
The shroud,—the pall,—the vestments of the grave?
And withering flowers in mournful wreaths are twined,
With dark, warp'd leaves unfragrant and declin'd.
With hollow tone, she cries,—“Behold Despair!
“She bids thee ceaseless heave th' heart-rending sigh,
“And shed eternally the bitter tear.
“Soft gales, that scatter fragrance as they rove,
“The beauteous flowers, that drink the humid ray,
“'Mid the wild transports of the vocal grove,
“Deep in thy breast, fond joy's congenial tide?
“Springing at Beauty's glance and Pleasure's strains,
“Do her bright streams thro' Sorrow's mansion glide?
“Faded and gone, and all its fragrance fled!
“This sullied lily, once, with breast of snow,
“Was the chaste glory of its verdant bed.
“Alinda gather'd on her jocund way,
“When her eyes beam'd with health's enlivening ray.
“Herself a fairer flower,” that Death has cropt,
“From this lov'd bank, where oft, in happy hours,
“She raised each stem whose sickly blossom dropt.
“Of Fancy's lucid orb each hue refined,
“And all that lifts the spirit, warm and clear,
“High o'er th' inert, the common mass of mind.
“Pale, cold, and sunk, she lies in dread repose!
“Then, Julia, bid thy joys a long farewell!
“Young as thou art, in youth's gay hours they close.”
Sinks in the wind that howls along the glade,
And darkness o'er its ghastly form has thrown,
Gloom following gloom, impenetrable shade.
Streams on my folded hands!—yet I remain,
While night and horror gather on the plain;
Beheld me plunged in Sorrow's deadly dreams;
But now, while soften'd winds forget to roar,
On a cloud's edge the star of evening beams;
Light the dark cope, as with unnumber'd eyes;
Yet soon, before night's ample orb, retires
Each lesser glory that illumes the skies.
Thro' plenteous dews, shines silver'd by her light,
While the embosom'd lake, beneath the gale,
Reflects her lustre, tremulously bright.
Of lustre more benevolent appears!
And, as she glides from an o'ershadowing pine,
My earnest eyes dispense their gathering tears.
“Lone child of Sorrow,” the kind vision cries;
“And to my voice attune thy soften'd sighs!
“Of bliss, yet start if in the mingled bowl
“Rise the alloying griefs that fate has brought,
“Commission'd from above, to wean thy soul?
“Thou, who hast been most happy, bow resign'd!
“For man no more unfading roses blow,
“Winter lays waste his year, and grief his mind.
“T' expand the foliage, and disclose the flowers,
“Shall to the sorrowing mind sweet comforts bring,
“And warmly renovate its fainting powers.
“For this blest purpose, quit the seraph train;
“Thro' me, thro' Patience, first its mercies shine;
“O gently listen, and no more complain!
“So shall the lenient hand of Time to thee
“Lead pious Cheerfulness, fair child of day,
“Whom the Dread Voice has bade succeed to me.
“Tho' clouds of sorrow have eclipsed their ray,
“And she will chace each dark and deadly shade,
“Till life's fresh paths shall brighten on thy way.
“The tarriance short of giddy joy below;
“But guard thee well, when jocund she returns,
“Against the meteor-fires that round her glow.
“While through luxuriant scenes with thee she roves,
“Where snares for Innocence infest the meads,
“Circean-banquets rise, and syren-groves.
“Cold is the heart, by earthly pride made hard,
“And 'gainst the cold, the thankless, and impure,
“The everlasting gates of bliss are barr'd.
“The blooming wreaths of happiness are given,
“For peace on earth and joys immortal wait
“Good-will to Man and confidence in Heaven.”
And o'er my soul serener thoughts arise,
And swell no longer her convulsive sighs.
That press so hard on life's declining years,
With filial fondness sedulously smooth
My parents' thorny pillow, steep'd in tears.
In emblematic white, their duteous maid;
But ne'er for them arrived that festal day;
Their sweet, crush'd lily low in earth is laid.
To gild declining life with softest light;
Ill can my frailer mind's impetuous fire
Compensate her mild soul's eternal flight!
With tender love, shall shed some bless'd relief,
Watch for the moment when its voice may cheer,
And joy to mark the ebbing tide of grief.
Of form and mind, the pious task shall aid;
Glows this transplanted flower that decks their shade.
Yet clear intelligence, unswerving truth,
And every soothing sympathy, have thrown
Meridian lustre o'er her morn of youth.
Smile through thy tears, in pity's hallow'd guile?
Shield me, my love, from woe's o'erwhelming harms,
Thy tears are balm, and peace is in thy smile.
Fall, like the vernal breath on wintry bowers,
When, from the fleecy clouds, that lightly roll,
Silent and mild descend the sunny showers.
The sacred energies of Friendship burn,
Thy love, my dear Honora, shall revive
The joys that faded o'er Alinda's urn.
This Poem was written on the terrace walk of the Palace garden at Lichfield, soon after the death of the Author's only sister, who died at 19, on the eve of her intended marriage.
Miss Honora Sneyd, since Mrs Edge- worth, the daughter of Edward Sneyd, Esq. She was adopted by Mr and Mrs Seward, and educated in their family. In her 18th year she became the object of the brave, unfortunate Ma- jor André's unalienable attachment.
KNOWLEDGE,
A POEM IN THE MANNER OF SPENCER.
For which the soul of man so much should pine
As heaven-born Knowledge? Yet her sacred rays
Are as the diamond's, and by art must shine;
The latent beams more exquisitely fine
In some of highest worth, yet all require
Industrious care, or lost the light divine
Ordain'd to wake each elegant desire
That shall to all that's fair, and great, and good aspire.
Impervious veils must shroud its radiance clear;
When sluggish ignorance surrounds the heart
No lustres can pervade the darkness drear,
But all as colours to the blind appear;
Where Pleasure's tint, celestial, rosy red,
Majestic purple, scarlet, hue of war,
And Heaven's gay robe, a dark, unmingled mass is spread.
Of powerful bias, which to good, or ill,
Low, or exalted, must direct his state,
And one fixed purpose of the soul fulfill,
As early choice, to habit grown, shall will;
If, like the lark that mounts the orient beam,
His wing he not expand, aspiring still
To Wisdom's sun, whence light and beauty stream,
He sinks in murky caves, where owls and ravens scream.
Fosters each new idea planted there;
If we neglect to sow the grain refined,
No future pains can raise a harvest fair;
And memory, warm and soft in early year
As yielding wax, disused, grows cold and hard,
Nor aught retains of each impression rare,
Which, when retain'd, acquire the high reward
Bestow'd by star-crown'd Fame on timely studious bard.
Has rarely fail'd to shine in youthful breast,
From the dull spirit, in its stagnant rest;
She flies!—and with her flies each lovely guest,
From her deriving all their noblest powers,
Genius and Truth, in sun-gilt mantle drest,
Love, Friendship, Pity, all that speed the hours,
And strew the path of life with ever blooming flowers.
PORTRAIT OF MISS LEVETT.
Nor Phydian symmetry, nor Titian glow,
Yet Mind imparts, their transient charms to foil,
Life to her glance, and magic to her smile.
Consummate elegance in all her mien,
To her the youth from vaunted beauty flies,
And for the Graces, in their favourite, sighs,
They, in the very ribbons that o'ershade
Her lively brows, her auburn tresses braid,
The power resistless of the Cyprian zone.
See emulative fair-ones strive in vain!
While sires and matrons in attention vie,
And watch the rising archness in her eye.
E'en envious maids, in life's deserted wane,
Look half as pleased as if beloved again;
Lose, as they listen, all their sullen cares,
Remit their scandal, and neglect their prayers.
Round the grave Scholiast as her spirit plays,
Behold him chace it thro' its brilliant maze,
And, sexual pride subdued, at length disown
The Salique Law for Wit and Fancy's throne!
Then of Lichfield, and afterwards wife of the Rev. Richard Levett. This picture, in verse, was drawn by the author at eighteen.
ELEGY
ADDRESSED TO CORNET V---,
Pensive I wave this tributary lay;
Confess thy Julia must the fate deplore,
That soon shall lead thee o'er the wat'ry way.
That gentle name, from dangerous wishes free!
Yet will no merit from the boast pretend,
For who, who would not be the friend of thee?
All that can interest, all that can adorn,
To manly grace attempering softness join,
Life's noon-tide lustres in her orient morn.
Thy modest virtues every where the theme!—
Strange, if the coldest maid should blush to own
Desert so high awakes her owed esteem.
A little, little while, when they are new,
But soon the sweet enchantment fades away,
Transient as summer morn's exhaling dew.
To faithless hope the varied pang succeeds;
The thorny pillow banishes repose;
The wounded heart inevitably bleeds.
When the pale brood, of Disappointment born,
Attendants oft on Love's tyrannic reign,
Teach the lost maid her living death to mourn.
Such the sad lot I am ordain'd to prove,
Should I, rash votary at that dangerous shrine,
Receive the rose-deck'd chains of guileful love!
Then guarded rise my gay, my youthful hours!
Calm be my thoughts, my artless bosom free
From the sharp thorns of transitory flowers!
With tranquil empire, thro' these vernal years,
While, in Horatio's trusting friendship blest,
Mine his prosperity, and mine his cares.
To sooth thee, drooping in thy native clime;
Give then the precious confidence I ask,
The tender records of the vanish'd time!
And griefs divided lose their power to blight;
Watch the lone sigh, that steals to Gallia's plains,
Where Beauty mourns thy much unwilling flight.
Could my soul's wishes its soft orb command,
But point in purest light each languid beam,
And on the azure zenith shining stand.
And plumy Conquest triumph on thy sword;
Thine be each meed the milder virtues claim,
Health, Peace, and Plenty, hand-maids of thy board!
O! e'en thy graces cannot bribe their stay!
As Joy had brighten'd in thy radiant noon,
May soft Contentment gild thy closing day!
And when thou soarest from these veering spheres,
From busy Life, and from its silent bourne,
Thine be the bliss, that change nor period fears,
In the blest regions of the nightless morn.
The author had heard, and be- lieved, that her friend was attached, at the time this poem was written, to a young lady at Angiers.
THE HAY-FIELD,
A MORNING SCENE.
And useful labours, renovate my strain,
Rising, it vibrates to thy oaten reed,
And sings the artless pleasures of the mead.
No frown the Muse from Truth and Nature fears,
Tho' pale Refinement sicken as she hears.
The glowing wreaths that deck her thousand shrines;
On the lark's wing, sweet music hails the day,
And o'er the sun-beam pours his liquid lay;
While the blithe Spirit of the social plain
Leads Health, and Love, and Gladness in his train.
Along the fresh moist grass, young Lucy trips.
Yet catches many a dew-drop of the lawn.
Warm on her downy cheek health's deepest glow,
And in her eyes its lavish lustres flow;
And in her voice its wildly-warbled song
Floats, and returns the echoing glades among.
Her nut-brown tresses wanton on the gale,
Her breath perfumes afresh the blossom'd vale.
And ask and tell the tender tale of love;
With their prone fork and mystic scroll they frame,
Tracing on sand each heart-recorded name.
O'er the bared shoulder hangs the idle rake,
And busy Fancy paints the coming wake;
But from the lip th' unfinish'd periods break,
And joy's warm blushes deeper tinge the cheek;
For, see th' expected youths, in manhood's pride,
Stoutly are striding down the mountain's side;
High o'er the rapid brook at once they bound,
And gay good-morrows thro' the plain resound!
The cow stands duteous by the cleanly pail,
Where the rich milk descends in eddying tides,
Pure as the virgin hands thro' which it glides.
Sweep their bright scythes along the shiver'd mead;
Three draw, with gentle hand, the thrifty rake;
And three, 'mid carol sweet and jocund tale,
Scatter the breathing verdure to the gale.
In spiral columns, wreaths the sun-gilt oak;
The careful parents of the village dwell,
And dress the savoury pottage in the cell;
Their little rosy girls and boys prepare
The steaming breakfast thro' the vale to bear.
Watch their young donors loaded on the plain,
Inhale the grateful fumes that round them rise,
Mark their slow, heedful step and earnest eyes,
The chubby hands that grasp the circling rim,
Where health's warm viand rises to the brim.
Light on the violet bank recline the band,
And take the present from the willing hand;
With eager appetite, and poignant taste,
Thank the kind bearers, and enjoy the feast.
Courting, with golden vane, the passing breeze,
A peal, far heard, sends merry down the dale,
The notes of triumph tell a bridal tale.
Dark alders trembling o'er the sunny waves;
Its ripling breast receives each measured round,
Mellowing the shrillness of the silver sound.
And Hope anticipates their bridal joys;
Pours all her magic influence on the scene,
Laughs in their eyes, and triumphs in their mien.
Sportful their infant friends around them rove,
And all is frolic, innocence, and love.
And gild the labours of each future morn!
Whether the wanton hours, that lead the spring,
Catch silver rain-drops from her shining wing,
Or zoneless Summer, flaunting o'er the meads,
Empurpled bloom, and richest fragrance sheds;
Or auburn Autumn, from her full lap, throws
The mellow fruits upon the bending boughs;
Or Winter, with his dark relentless train,
Wind, snow, and sleet, shall desolate the plain;
Howl o'er the hill, and as the river raves,
In drear stagnation warp th' arrested waves.
Yes, may the days of bloom and ripeness find
Such joys rewarding each untainted mind;
And, in the rage of the severer hours,
May balmy Comfort, with assuasive powers,
Pile the warm hearth, and dress the neat repast;
Bid sport and song prepare the gladsome rite,
Then smooth the pillow through the stormy night!
Thus Health and Love the varying year shall crown,
While Truth and Nature smile, tho' pale Refinement frown.
INSCRIPTION
For an Urn in a Gentleman's Garden, amid the Mountainous Parts of Scotland, where two Lovers had been killed by the fall of an impending Precipice.
No blight from thee my cypress garland fears!
Away ye months, with light and roses crown'd!
But, melting April, steep it in thy tears!
Here the fond lover to his fair one told
The tale of tenderness and gay delight,
When, from its base, th' incumbent mountain roll'd,
And Beauty, Youth, and Love, were whelm'd in night.
Ah! gentle stranger, pensive o'er me bend,
Who, in these deathful scenes, am doom'd to prove,
A sad memorial of the timeless end,
And living grave, of Beauty, Youth, and Love!
LOVE ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.
EVANDER to EMILLIA.
ELEGY.
The mournful evening falls,
And hollow winds and chilling rain
Beat fast upon the walls.
With wet and weltering sound,
At intervals, the heavy drops
Plash on the wat'ry ground.
When wintry blasts severe,
More welcome than the vernal prime,
Were music to my ear.
Emillia, pass'd with thee,
I thank'd the rain, and wind's loud roar,
That banish'd all but me.
Oppress with cruel sway,
Since my life's light no more illume
Dark eve, or sullen day.
I hear the howling wind,
And sigh that faithful fond desires
Congenial winter find.
And heavy eave-drops count;
My heart no sprightlier sound requires,
Or listless spirits want.
Where cherish'd woes are dear,
They but insult the lover's sighs,
Insult his starting tear.
These absent weeks forlorn,
Did not presaging clouds of fear
Lour on thy wish'd return.
Goaded by busy foes,
May wait on that eventful hour,
And bring a train of woes.
I muse the night away;
This dread, that 'gainst my peace conspires,
Resist it as I may.
With softest balm assuage,
And better hopes, with love impart,
To chase the sad presage!
How slow soe'er they move,
Since bring they must the day, perforce,
That gives me back my love.
EVANDER to EMILLIA.
EPISTLE.
My soul's devotion in its wild excess?
This hand, extended, might as soon contain
The mighty waters of the boundless main.
But ah! not pierced,—not rapt,—not lost as mine!
What man e'er shone on woman's dazzled gaze
As thou on mine, bright sun-beam of my days!
Tho' every youthful charm were round him placed,
Narcissus boasted, or Adonis graced.
Inert and pale, upon my senses lay,
Till, on their dull expanse, in floods of light,
Stream'd those dear eyes—a day upon my night!
Till I nor look, nor seem, nor am the same.
Thus all my thoughts, with secret force, persuade,
Had ne'er on me these melting glances play'd;
The honour'd object of thy tender cares,
Whose now changed form a love-born magic wears,
No more had lived, than life could be retain'd,
When nor by air nor aliment sustain'd;
A human shape indeed might breathe and move,
Some dim resemblance of the man you loved;
But, had his eyes been found indeed the same,
Untouch'd by Passion's soul-enkindling flame?
Source of that glow of intellect refined,
That meets the efflux of thy fervent mind!
The same his lip, without its conscious smiles,
Gay progeny of hope, and tender wiles?
Thro' life's dull path plodding their destined way,
In the trite business of the vapid day,
Would equal grace his listless limbs have crown'd,
As when o'er the unburden'd earth they bound,
Seek, with elastic speed, her gladdening sight,
Who speaks in music, and who moves in light?
Ah no! such cold privation had assign'd
His form unlovely, as opake his mind.
Narrow and long, with dusty brick enwall'd.
Breathe the thick smoke, that shrowds the summer sky,
If there a hapless rose-tree meets the view,
How faint its odour, and how dim its hue!
A dusky red each rivell'd orbit wears,
And tinged with livid yellowness appears.
Borne where th' exhaling scents perfume the dawn,
From glowing border, or from verdant lawn,
Where soft showers fall, and tepid breezes blow,
And setting suns in golden radiance flow,
What living bloom the swelling globes array!
What rich luxuriance loads the bending spray!
Its poignant sweets the stealing gales disclose,
And Flora boasts the splendour of her rose.
Love, and her charms, endow'd with all their grace,
That lost to them, no eye had e'er allured
A canker'd rose, by sunless walls immured.
Shine ever thus, and gild my future days;
Still shed those vital beams, whose blest controul
My frame illumined, and inspired my soul!
ELEGY.
EMILLIA EMBROIDERING—AND JEALOUS.
Which from my hand, in gay creation, rise;
But, ah! this little talent's flatter'd powers
No pleasing gleam of self-applause supplies.
Vainly the soft and blended shades ye praise;
Observe my florets swell upon the sight,
And curve, and float from their entwining sprays.
Of grace and beauty, that their brilliant glow
Taught my obedient needle to dispense,
And lead their wavy lines in easy flow.
These eyes Evander's charming form had met,
Escaped delusive joy, and long regret;
That shroud the vernal mornings as they shine,
Now that Evander's eyes no longer melt
In tender passion, as they gaze on mine;
Who once long ages deem'd each absent hour;
Now, that a rival nymph so often strays,
With air embarrass'd, round Evander's bower.
EPISTLE.
EVANDER TO EMILLIA.
[O! why this ceaseless, cruel, strange distrust]
To thy own charms, and my vow'd faith unjust?
Ingrate!—with what impatience did I dart
On these expected scriptures of thy heart!
Yet while my lips their seal unbroken press'd,
A latent dread rose sickening in my breast;
Since, ah! too oft, of late, the sullen eye,
The air repulsive, the upbraiding sigh,
Repress'd—no not repress'd my fond desires,
But fed their rising flame with gloomy fires.
That long, long tracts of hill, and dale, and plain,
Rise separating, and force our hearts to prove
The sick dejection of divided love;
Doubts that from shadowy causes wildly flow,
Change sick dejection to corrosive woe.
Thou pourest honey in the venom'd bowl
Of causeless jealousy, of needless strife,
Dark suicides on all the joys of life!
But long it is since sweetness unallay'd
Was to my thirsty, glowing lip convey'd
In that diurnal draught, thy hands consign
To him, whose heart, irrevocably thine,
Resents, and dreads, sighs, shudders, and deplores,
To death desires thee, and to guilt adores.
Each grace that gay, triumphant beauty arms,
Wit, genius, affluence, and pride, unite
To quench my daring hopes in endless night;
Bid her avoid his sight, and scorn his truth,
Whose lot obscure o'er-shades her radiant youth;
And who her peace too generously prefers
To join his yet improsp'rous fate with hers,
Till Time and Industry disperse the gloom,
In which relentless Fortune shrouds his home?
Tho' fierce winds howl, and clouds tempestuous lour,
Commit to all their rage her tender form,
And share with him the pelting of the storm!
Whate'er my shock'd, recoiling sense invade
Charged thus remorseless on my faithful heart,
That fears to lead her where the tempest blows,
And glooms impend of deep-involving woes,
Yet, O my soul! the dread arraignment bear,
Nor cherish anger, nor admit despair;
Since, if she ceased to love, her rage would cease,
The heart emancipated sinks to peace,
Calls calm disdain and silence to its aid,
And, once renouncing, will no more upbraid!
Traced by the hand that must award my doom;
By thine, Emillia, despot of my soul,
My life's adorner, and my fate's controul.
Their dire reproaches, their presages vain,
Still every wild, injurious thought of thine,
While thy dear heart-strings round my image twine,
I will endure;—and deprecate the scorn,
Of jealous love, not cold indifference, born;
Appease this seeming—O! but seeming hate,
Know I am loved, and compromise with Fate.
ELEGY.
EMILLIA TO EVANDET—IN RENAWED JEALOUSY.
The sigh prophetic, the upbraiding tear—
Can their obtrusive sorrows hope to gain
My wandering lover's cold, reluctant ear?
How vain, ingrate! thy alienated eyes
To Lydia's flatter'd pride too well explain,
Thy soft attentions, thy desiring sighs.
Yet how I prized them all too well thou know'st;
Well as I know complaint will ne'er restore
My powerless eyes the empire they have lost.
The vows, long-pledged to me—will her light heart
Thy griefs inflict, or that thy joys impart?
Left the unfaded graces of thy form,
Yet oh! his iron hand must shortly seize
That air, that look, with love and transport warm.
And scanty stock of beauty, scanty sure!
Shall pass away;—then can'st thou trust her truth?
Hope for attachment permanent and pure?
When thy yet lovely form dim age assails,
And, from their now meridian course declined,
Shrouds all thy graces in his icy veils?
Shall gloom with sad distrust each passing day,
And to the pillow of thy midnight rest
The wounding thorns of jealousy convey.
Vouchsafe to sooth thee e'en with faithless vows?
Check, for Evander's peace, her gay career,
And shun the pleasures honour disallows?
Shall rack thy fondness, and confirm thy fears,
Each hope of thine to soften, or to warn,
Vain as my sighs, and wasted as my tears,
Perfidious! shalt thou feel how sharp the pain,
And my proud rival shall avenge me well
On all thy broken vows and cold disdain!
EPISTLE.
EVANDER TO EMILLIA.
[Ah! can'st thou say contemptuously I smiled]
When thou, with flashing eye and vehemence wild,
Solemn did'st urge that I would bend no more
My steps to Lydia's interdicted door?—
Breath'd hated insult on my angry fair;
Well might I smile, that dread of Lydia's charms
Thy dear, tumultuous, jealous heart alarms!
Of that momentous, consecrated hour,
When in thy soften'd eye's seducing gaze
I read the transports of my future days,
Can its remembrance, all my soul that fires,
E'en in thy absence kindling fierce desires,
The base apostacy of grov'ling love?
Far from these blooming shades, my youth's loved home,
Where winding vallies wave in golden pride,
Thro' tufted banks, where glassy rivers glide;
Where fleecy flocks the green hill's side adorn,
Gay linnets warbling from the blossom'd thorn,
And each wide mead, and little sloping field
To numerous herds the silver'd herbage yield;
These would I leave, as soon, for some rude shore,
Vex'd by the stormy sea's incessant roar;
Or seek the clime, whose frowning aspect shocks,
Where arid heaths stretch lonely o'er the rocks,
And but one narrow stream's chill waters pour,
In straight blue line, along the russet moor,
Or, at the foot of mountains, bare and pale,
Obliquely huddles down the stony vale;
While all the phantoms, which the desert haunt,
Danger, and Dread, and Misery, and Want,
In blank sterility's abhorr'd domain,
With houseless solitude and silence reign.
If e'er I seek thy rival's meaner charms;
In that spontaneous smile's imputed guilt.
Contempt of thee!—O! never could it rise,
E'en in contending Beauty's jealous eyes!
Thy sex's envy may produce their hate
Of those eclipsing charms that round thee wait;
Man's selfish pride, for daring to reprove,
With undissembled scorn, presumptuous love;
But none were ever, for an instant, free
From insuppressive reverence of thee;
And could thy dear Evander's lip reveal
What yet nor slighted love nor envy feel?—
Was anger, melting in enamour'd fire,
Beneath that childish frown upon thy brow,
And eager claim of a superfluous vow.
Of face, of form, of temper, and of mind;
Those infant graces, with the ripen'd charms,
That full-blown youth in gay resplendence warms;
Yes, 'twas their fascinating union fired
My daring passion, which so high aspired;
Else had this heart, by calmer wishes sway'd,
To thy bright self a safer homage pay'd;
Awed by thy wit, thy birth, thy beauty's rays,
Had view'd thy form with less tumultuous gaze.
Thou dear, child-woman! by thy strange caprice,
Join'd to thy charms, thy talents proud controul,
And softness, stealing o'er my captive soul,
Hast left me no alternative to prove,
But death, or madness, if I lose thy love.
ELEGY.
EVANDER TO EMILLIA.
[Thou say'st my love is reasonless, to spare]
No glance, no smile, that ceremonies crave,
To Being masculine, ere yet he bear,
White on his brow, the blossoms of the grave.
The power of each bright glance, each lovely smile?
That dangerous transport, or that cureless woe,
Seizes the heart, their melting sweets beguile?
Shone unimpassion'd; no enamour'd ray
Shot thro' my fever'd senses, to decree
Death, or possession, to the future day.
All was delightless where they failed to flow,
To bid one thought with rising passion glow.
Which now for me the Summer's sun adorns
With lustre, ah! so exquisitely bright,
That all the rays, gilding his splendid morns,
Dim as the April dawn, with clouds begirt,
Clouds, that but catch, as thro' the skies they roll,
One wat'ry gleam, to edge their dusky skirt.
How much unreasonable!—for O! 'tis more
Than yet rapacious passion durst avow,
Than love delirious ever knew before!—
Soft o'er my lids, when night's dun sceptre sways;
That health's warm beams disease's mists repel
Through my or few, or many coming days,
Cold be to them the hopes thy graces bring!
Thy glance,—the sun in winter's icy skies,
Thy smile,—the first pale ray of tardy Spring!
EPISTLE.
EVANDER TO EMILLIA.
[Yes, my Emillia, I can say with truth]
Had Emma's Henry really stain'd his youth
With those dark crimes his jealousy assumed,
By murder branded, and to exile doom'd,
Passion sincere had forced him to dissuade
From sharing fate so dire, the noble maid;
Prompted each plea he urges to remove
The dread resolve of such disastrous love,
Short of the base reproach, the Cynic sneer,
And boasted fondness for a lovelier fair,
Closing the trial, needless and severe.
With Emma's softness, Eloisa's fires,
Has deem'd my rack'd affection's guardian fear
To snatch thee, from thy calm, and sunny sphere,
A faithless scruple, and a coward dread;
That thou for me would'st every ill endure,
When, drear as Winter, as its tempests sure,
Reproach and penury, around us flow,
And quench our marriage torch in floods of woe.
Of the proud scorn devoted Hammond met,
Who, when he own'd his terrors to involve
Her he adored in selfish love's resolve,
Till the depriving frowns of Fate should cease,
And his walls glow with competence and peace,
Heard her impute to dull indifference' power
The generous scruple of that ill-starr'd hour;
Saw her their long-twined bands of fondness tear,
Rush to another's arms, and leave him to despair.
Of female pride, and causeless vengeance born.
I feel the latent meaning most unkind,
And thee, injurious maid, in turn, remind,
That poor, forsaken, ruin'd Hammond died
The victim of his Delia's faithless pride.
Steel every thought with Delia's proud disdain,
The doom congenial of my last despair;
Feel that remorse no pang'd regret shall raise,
To blast the quiet of thy future days.
ELEGY.
EVANDER TO EMILLIA.
[Why dart those eyes their scornful fires on me.]
What is my crime, unjust Emillia, say?—
Yes, I am guilty!—but no guilt towards thee
My conscious sighs, my starting tears betray.
Too beauteous despot, at an higher shrine,
Lost, as I seem, in life's meridian hour,
To all created excellence but thine.
For me the moon's soft, shadowy shining vain;
Me, nor the rose delights, in bright array,
Me, nor the silver lily of the plain.
A love delirious, with tyrannic sway,
Thy frown my darkness, and thy smile my day!
Far from thy heart, and all its peace return!
Instruct me to reform my crime to Heaven,
But love me dearer for the guilt I mourn!
EPISTLE.
EVANDER TO EMILLIA.
[O! thou art absent, and resentment's power]
O! thou art absent, and resentment's powerForsakes Evander in this lonely hour;
His weak resolves dispersed, he sees not now
The angry knitting of thy scornful brow;
Forgets that its dear curves, by Nature made
Those beamy eyes to soften and to shade,
And graceful, in that kind assignment, look
As alders bending o'er the glassy brook,
To his afflicted sight so lately rose
Deform'd by fancied wrongs, and causeless woes.
Now present only to his mental sight
Those orbs, that roll in floods of dewy light,
Tempering beneath his gaze their dazzling ray,
Like bright stars waning at the dawn of day;
To his internal ear, from that sweet tongue,
No sounds less melting than the syren's song,
Through every thrill'd perception of his soul;
Yes, only such, thy boundless power to prove,
Brings the recording spirit of his love.
ELEGY.
EVANDET TO EMILLIA.
[I wish in vain!—too distant thou]
To hear thy lover's plaintive voice;
Enchantress, wert thou present now,
To urge his oft repeated vow,
Would'st thou his drooping soul rejoice?
And clasp him to thy fragrant breast?
Sooth every dread that yet alarms
From cruel Fate's impending harms,
And lull corroding cares to rest?
Come, Angel, come, with look benign,
Come to the heart, whose warm disdain
Would spurn a crown and regal train,
Opposed to one soft glance of thine!
Against my peace, and sullen dwells
On my scant dole of all the charms,
Whose power eye-govern'd woman warms,
And her enamour'd wish impells.
Which thy transparent brow adorns,
Thy thrilling smile, thy graceful air,
A voice, to soften stern despair,
A cheek, that shames the summer morns.
Breathes o'er those orbs its jealous sighs;
Those orbs, that rays of genius dart,
That love's resistless powers impart,
Those smiling, chiding, fatal eyes.
EPISTLE.
EVANDET TO EMILLIA.
[O! never did thy glowing pen bestow]
To sooth my soul's inevitable woe,
So much by generous trusting faith inspired,
So much by ardent, banish'd love desired,
Free from the cold alloy of doubts and fears,
And all the sullying drops of jealous tears,
Since first our eyes those conscious glances cast,
That met dissolved and blended as they pass'd.
Falls on my sick, alarmed, and longing heart,
Like dews on flowers by sultry noon-beams dry,
Like balmy sleep on Labour's closing eye.
Sprung from the thought, how fast our being wanes,
Towards love, and life's dark and avoidless goal,
Ere Time the ravish'd happiness restores
To pass together some of those few hours,
Forming the short, irrevocable day,
Which stays for none, and fleets so swift away.
ELEGY.
EVANDET TO EMILLIA.
[Emillia, thou art far away]
And languid creep the vacant hours;
Yet, when the last mild evening chased,
With yellow light, the recent showers,
The green and shady lanes among,
That wind around the sylvan cot,
The cot with ivy curtains hung.
O'er the young leaves a sweet farewell;
But ah! to these delightless eyes
How vacant seem'd the bloomy cell!
Tho' linnets warbled in the gale,
A lone and wintry look it wore,
And silence seem'd to shroud the vale.
Saw him the circling lanes explore,
Rush down the glades, then up the steps
Spring to thy closed and silent door;
Snuff thro' each chink the passing air;
Ah! little wretch, I mournful cried,
Thy lovely mistress is not there!
His sullen head,—and nothing cared
How oft I call'd to tempt his stay,
And sooth the peevish grief I shared.
No more half-open'd to thy friend
When dull the clouds of Evening lour,
And fast her heavy dews descend;
When winds no longer bend the spray,
That shrinks from April's wayward day.
No social embers glow the while,
To us so kindly to disclose
The mutual glance, the tender smile.
From every influence unkind!
The rigour of inclement skies,
The rigour of th' unfeeling mind;
Authority's yet dreaded frown,
Whose chidings loud the gentle voice
Of Love's persuasive pleadings drown.
A tender mother's kind bequest;
Far from thy haughty father's power,
'Twill give us shelter, food, and rest.
I pleaded 'gainst my self to thee,
Opposing thy too generous love,
Which dared the last distress for me.
May meet us in this ivy bower,
Come to these faithful longing arms,
And scorn the curbs of Pride and Power!
Thy lover shall for thee resign;
For us the Winter's hearth shall glow,
For us the Summer sun will shine.
With thee, in ceremonial glare,
They would the pomps of life divide,
For that the world proclaims thee fair.
That bids them prize thy matchless charms;
But love alone, and love like mine,
Deserves the heaven of those soft arms.
Its generous warfare long maintain,
Defy constraint, and haste to seek
The shelter of these arms again?
Her glowing images shall prove,
In thy dear breast, the constant guards,
When Force would disunite our love.
ELEGY.
EVANDET TO EMILLIA.
[Wild florets tremble o'er the shadow'd stream]
Low in the winding, and irriguous vale,
While, blazing at high noon, the solar beam
Flames on the mountain top, and fires the gale.
Here, then, in silence, through the summer day,
Glide, bright with hope, enamour'd hours away.
Hails all the lonely graces of the scene;
Hails them in soft, confiding fondness blest,
And leaves Ambition to her anxious spleen.
Her pomps, her triumphs, disregarded shine,
While fair Emillia's melting heart is mine.
Floating in golden threads upon the breeze,
For all they pine to see a rival seize?
Ah, no! dear pledge of Love and Hope, that pour
Their precious essence on this rosy hour!
As Spring's gay morning on the troubled sea,
That heaved and surged thro' the long, stormy night,
Like my tumultuous soul when far from thee,
By thy vain doubts disturb'd and jealous throes,
Darkening our perils by superfluous woes.
Trembling beneath pale Ruin's hovering wings,
Emerges from their shade!—O! may it prove
No meteor-fire, that now before us springs,
But a mild pole-star to the dear retreat,
Where Peaoe and Competence our steps shall greet.
Hear thy sweet accents charm the winter eve,
And through the hours of slumber's stealing sway
Thy balmy breathings on my cheek perceive!
What full reward for every woe, that shed
Gloom on th' impassion'd years, irrevocably fled!
EVANDER to EMILLIA.
['Tis o'er!—the bright star like a meteor fire]
An instant shone, then vanish'd from our sight!
Fierce, in unbaffled rule, paternal ire
Quenches its beams in everlasting night.
With guardian care a dying mother strove
To shield from penury resistless love;
But that kind care a father's proud disdain
Meets with derision's smile, and sternly proves it vain.
Ye weak complaints, ye unavailing groans!
Now, stung by Disappointment's madd'ning sway,
Scruples, and fears, my desperate love disowns.
Oft did they wound thee;—I abjure their crimes!
Extinct all hope of more propitious times,
Long years of wasted youth elapsed I see,
And former terrors curse—e'en tho' they throbb'd for thee.
Sought from the scourge of power our loves to save,
Shall see us meet,—now,—in this night's pale noon,
And lock our hands across her sacred grave.
There thy decisive vows my soul shall claim;
By the last silence of her mouldering frame,
By Death's dark shrines and unresisted power,
That only his dread stroke shall e'er divide us more.
Then Fate in vain may spread her direst loom;
Nor yet, if Persecution light her pyre,
Shall its fierce flames our destin'd joys consume.
A robe of pure asbestos we can wear,
And while the raging fires around us glare,
With arms entwined our solemn steps shall move,
Safe in the shielding garb, supplied by faithful love.
Reproach, with taunting lip, and scornful brow,
And shuddering penury, and fever'd pain,
To blast the powers of life, the spirit bow;
The bed of death, the dim funereal gloom,
A timeless pall, an unlamented doom,
Clasp'd in each other's arms, be firmly scorn'd,
Nor ought of wealth and pride, for love renounced, be mourn'd!
Through the long summer's day and winter's night;
Her smile my sun, her frown my only storm,
Her health and love, my sources of delight;
Her grave, my quiet bed of lasting rest,
Where power, and hate, no longer shall molest,
Reproach and penury no more dismay,
While undivided sleeps our earthly-hapless clay.
HONORA,
AN ELEGY.
With hasty step, as I should meet her there;
The hasty step and the disorder'd mien
Fond expectation's anxious semblance wear.
And frequent cull'd for me the floral wreath,
That tower, that lake,—yon willow's ample shade,
All, all the vale her spirit seems to breathe.
With mixture strange of anguish and delight;
I bend on vacancy an earnest gaze,
Where strong illusion cheats my straining sight.
Save that which silence, memory, hope confer;
Too soon the local semblance leaves my mind,
E'en where each object seem'd so full of her.
The dear enduring image to my view;
Has she not drawn thee, loveliest, on my heart
In faithful tints, and permanent as true?
Of evanescent likeness; or each grace
The breathing pencil's happiest effort throws
O'er the bright lines that imitate thy face.
The pencil but one look, one gesture brings;
But varying charms, each accent's thrilling sound
From Recollection's juster portrait springs.
Since perfect only can its magic prove!
O! rise with all Honora's sweetness fraught,
Vivid, and perfect, as her Anna's love.
Her waving locks, in soft luxuriance, play;
As lightly bounding down the dewy vale,
She pours her rival beauties on the day!
And scorn itself are lovely on her brow;
Like summer shades, that sweep the vale adown,
Pass o'er the flowers, and heighten all their glow;
In blest vicissitude, the cheering ray,
As Sensibility, quick veering, sheds
Its clouds and sun-shine o'er her April-day.
In many a magic smile and melting tone,
The varied accent through the pearly rows,
That proves the mental graces all her own.
Written on the terrace walk in the palace garden, Lichfield, the day on which Miss Honora Sneyd left that place for a month's residence in Shropshire, May 1769.
This celebrated willow of Stowe Valley, from its very uncommon magnitude, excites the attention of naturalists. It is of recorded dearness to Dr Johnson, whence a mistaken idea arose that he had planted it.
THE ANNIVERSARY.
In blended charms, peculiarly thine own;
Stately, yet rural; through thy choral day,
Though shady, cheerful, and though quiet, gay;
How interesting, how loved, from year to year,
How more than beauteous did thy scenes appear!
Still, as the mild Spring chased the wintry gloom,
Devolved her leaves, and waked her rich perfume,
Thou, with thy fields and groves around thee spread,
Lift'st, in unlessen'd grace, thy spiry head;
But many a loved inhabitant of thine
Sleeps where no vernal sun will ever shine.
That saw Honora's eyes adorn these bowers?
These darling bowers, that much she loved to hail,
The spires, she call'd “the Ladies of the Vale!”
To thy dear kindness my eternal debt?
Life's opening paths how tenderly it smooth'd,
The joys it heighten'd, and the pains it sooth'd?
No, no! my heart its sacred memory bears,
Bright 'mid the shadows of o'erwhelming years;
When mists of deprivation round me roll,
'Tis the soft sun-beam of my clouded soul.
First on these eyes when shone thy early ray!
Scarce o'er my head twice seven gay springs had gone,
Scarce five o'er thy unconscious childhood flown,
When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant frame
To our glad walls an happy inmate came.
O! summer morning, of unrivall'd light,
Fate wrapt thy rising in prophetic white!
June, the bright month, when Nature joys to wear
The livery of the gay, consummate year,
Gave that envermeil'd day-spring all her powers,
Gemm'd the light leaves, and glow'd upon the flowers;
Bade her plumed nations hail the rosy ray
With warbled orisons from every spray.
Purpureal Tempe, not to thee belong
More poignant fragrance, or more jocund song.
Gave “future years a tincture of thy white;”
Whose sweetest pleasures found their source in thee;
The purest, best that memory explores,
Safe in the past's inviolable stores.—
The ardent progress of thy shining hours
Beheld me rove through Lichfield's verdant bowers,
Thoughtless and gay, and volatile and vain,
Circled by nymphs, and youths, a frolic train;
Though conscious that a little orphan child
Had to my parents' guidance, kind and mild,
Recent been summon'd, when disease and death
Shed dark stagnation o'er her mother's breath.
While eight sweet infants' wailful cries deplore
What not the tears of innocence restore;
And while the husband mourn'd his widow'd doom,
And hung despondent o'er the closing tomb,
To us this loveliest scion he consign'd,
Its beauty blossoming, its opening mind.
But childish, womanish, ambiguous years
Find all their griefs as vanishing as keen,
Youth's rising sun soon gilds the showery scene.
Unknown the day, unheeded the event.
One sister dear, from spleen, from falsehood free,
Rose to the verge of womanhood with me:
Our pleasures blended, and our studies shared;
And when with day and waking thoughts they closed,
On the same couch our agile limbs reposed.
I gave to youthful gaiety the rest;
Considering not how near the period drew
When that transplanted branch should meet our view,
Whose intellectual fruits were doom'd to rise,
Food of the future's heart-expanding joys;
Born to console me when, by Fate severe,
The Much Beloved should press a timeless bier,
My friend, my sister, from my arms be torn,
Sickning and sinking on her bridal morn;
While Hymen, speeding from this mournful dome,
Should drop his darken'd torch upon her tomb.
Spread his gold skirts along the crimson west;
A Sunday's eve!—Honora, bringing thee,
Friendship's soft Sabbath long it rose to me,
When on the wing of circling seasons borne,
Annual I hail'd its consecrated morn.
Our home myself and gentle sister sought;
Our pleasant home, round which th' ascending gale
Breathes all the freshness of the sloping vale;
On her green verge the spacious walls arise,
View her fair fields, and catch her balmy sighs;
See her near hills the bounded prospect close,
And her blue lake in glassy breadth repose.
To the maternal room we careless walk'd,
Where sat its honour'd mistress, and with smile
Of love indulgent, from a floral pile
The gayest glory of the summer bower
Cull'd for the new-arrived,—the human flower,
A lovely infant-girl, who pensive stood
Close to her knees, and charm'd us as we view'd.
When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows?
So bloom'd the beauty of that fairy-form,
So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm,
Play'd round the timid curve of that white neck,
And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek.
Through the soft dusk of Summer's balmy sky,
Shed its green light, and in the glassy stream
Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam?
So look'd on us, with tender, bashful gaze,
The destined charmer of our youthful days;
Whose soul its native elevation join'd
To the gay wildness of the infant mind,
Esteem and sacred confidence impress'd
While our fond arms the beauteous child caress'd.
Dyed that fair cheek, and gleam'd from that young brow!
How early, Gen erosity, you taught
The warm disdain of every grov'ling thought,
Round sweet Honora, e'en in infant youth,
Shed the majestic light of spotless truth;
Bid her for others' sorrow pour the tear,
For others' safety feel th' instinctive fear;
But for herself, scorning the impulse weak,
Meet every danger with unaltering cheek;
And through the generally unmeaning years
Of heedless childhood, to thy guardian cares,
Angelic Friendship, her young moments give,
And heedless of herself for others live.
ODE TO CONTENT.
Soft as the tints of yon etherial bow,
That bends its bright arch o'er the dark concave,
And bids the storm its destined limit know,
Do thou, Content, with equal step sedate,
Rise o'er the mind's dim clouds, and break the storms of Fate!
Whose diamond eyes prelude a golden day,
Choir'd by the linnets from the blossom'd thorn,
The green hill yellowing in her dewy ray,
As o'er its timid bosom soft she glides,
Silvering the winding rill, that warbles down its sides!
Crowning with rosy wreaths the frolic hours,
And Hope reclines in amaranthine bowers,
Round thee, Content, health-breathing sweets exhale,
As crops thy gentle hand yon lilies of the vale.
For her thy cheek with purest blushes glow!
More does she prize one halcyon plume of thine
Than all that decks Ambition's jewel'd brow.
Near her may thy light steps perpetual rove
With the associate forms of Fancy, Truth, and Love!
EPISTLE
TO MISS HONORA SNEYD.
The spires high peering o'er their green arcade;
There see thy friend delusion's power employ
To bid one faithless moment gleam with joy;
For this thy name pervades the twilight gloom,
Borne by soft echoes round the sacred dome.
I call'd Honora in that cheerful tone,
Which oft pursued, when for an instant flown,
And always brought thee back, with lively air,
The rising thought, or sprightly song to share.
Ah! dearest, mark thou, with a pitying smile,
The flattering, soothing, self-deceiving guile!
And taught my heart to fancy thou wert nigh;
That, as thou'rt wont, at Love's alarm'd request,
Thou hadst return'd to seek a warmer vest,
To shield thee from the dangers evening brings,
Chill gales, and night-dews on her humid wings;
That I should see thee glide the steps adown
Fleet in the haste, with which thou still wert prone
Again to seek the friend, who never yet
Thy wish'd return with heart ungladden'd met.
A mimic joy, that must increase the pain
When Disappointment brings her sick chagrin
To lone Privation's melancholy scene?
But O! each varied species Sorrow knows
Endured for thee, Honora, welcome grows
More than or festal wit, or syren air,
Which thou, my life's adorner, dost not share.
Shed her white efflux thro' the noon of night,
And the long shadows of the spires were drawn
Distinct, with all their turrets, on the lawn.
Hail'd those loved witnesses of all my joys;
Beauty and wit, and elegance and truth;
Warm hopes and smiles gilding the happy years,
Dimm'd but by transient Sorrow's April-tears.
O! how those pleasures deck'd the rising days,
Winter's pale dawn, and Summer's kindling rays!
Shall e'er again, I cried, in thrilling strains,
Such orient mornings tinge yon golden vanes?
On the moist, silver'd ground my glances fell;
But still each thought with fair Honora staid,
Who late, enervate, from her Lichfield stray'd;
Seeking, where Bristol's tepid fountains rise,
The health that fled beneath our colder skies.
Then thus again, in half-formed accents, stole
Th' impassion'd dictates of her Anna's soul.
The strength that wasted on her favourite plain!
Their lenient power the fever's course shall break,
That dyed with hectic flash her lovely cheek;
Parch'd that moist lip, and from its vermeil hue
Exhaled energic Health's ambrosial dew;
And, banishing the Wood-Nymph's airy grace,
Sunk the light step in Languor's stealing pace;
And veil'd the facile smile of Youth and Joy.
Bright o'er its fears that dear dependence shines;
Return, with frame unclouded by disease,
With sense of pleasure, and the wish to please.
Fondness and Hope their glowing visions brought;
Charm'd to anticipate, with cheering powers,
The sweet revival of those happy hours,
When, brief or long, the ever-gladden'd day
Left on our pillows, as it stole away,
Not one regret, save for its rapid flight,
And not a fear, but lest some cruel blight,
From injured health, or accidental harm,
Deny the successor its power to charm,
And shroud that ardent Spirit which explores
Science' bright fanes, and Fancy's fairy bowers.
In the light chains, by Hope and Memory twined,
Up to those conscious spires I look'd once more,
Whispering my heart that Heaven would soon restore
Honora to her loved domestic scene,
With health's clear spirit glowing thro' her mien.
Dim, and more dim, receding as I gazed;
And scarce a minute passed, ere in a cloud
The mist convolving, form'd a total shroud.
Damp on my heart the dark'ning omen fell,
And rising tears within my eye-lids swell.
So late this moon-deck'd night, high o'er the fanes,
When not a breeze crept on the neighbouring plains,
Sat tracing their fair forms in state serene,
With shadowy pencil, on the silver'd green.
And now,—but let me not my peace resign,
Grim Superstition, at thy sable shrine!
Demon of Night, and baseless terror fly,
Nor charge with omens the capricious sky!
Vows not Honora that the vital flame
Relumes its course thro' her late languid frame?
Yes,—the light form, the fair expressive face,
Assume their pristine bloom, their nameless grace.
Soon shall my soul that fervid spirit find
Darting each varied effluence of mind;
And since in those dear veins the purple tide
Begins once more in even streams to glide,
My gladden'd eye, in Hope's perspective cast,
Sees future days enchanting as the past;
As blest a consciousness the sun illume,
And gild the dimness of the wintry gloom;
And deck in brighter glow her rising flowers;
While sweeter still the woodland pours its strains,
And morns as roseate tinge yon golden vanes.
ELEGY
WRITTEN AT THE SEA-SIDE. AND ADDRESSED TO MISS HONORA SNEYD.
The envious waves forbid the trace to stay:
Honora's name again adorns the strand!
Again the waters bear their prize away!
The cheek's light bloom, the lip's envermeil'd dye,
And every gay, and every witching grace,
That Youth's warm hours, and Beauty's stores supply.
Shall soon dissolve each fair, each fading charm;
E'en Nature's self, so powerful, cannot save
Her own rich gifts from this o'erwhelming harm.
Indelible the letters they shall frame;
They yield to no inevitable hour,
But will on lasting tablets write thy name.
EPISTLE
TO MISS HONORA SNEYD, MAY 1772.
WRITTEN IN A SUMMER EVENING, FROM THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.
Fond, fruitless plaints beneath the lonely bower,
Here, in this silent glade, that childhood fears,
Where the love-desperate maid, of vanish'd years,
Slung her dire cord between the sister trees,
That slowly bend their branches to the breeze,
And shade the bank that screens her mouldering form,
From the swart Dog-Star, and the wintry storm.
Music, and fragrance, light, and bloom, in vain,
While my sick heart thy smiles no longer cheer,
Nor melt thine accents on my listening ear.
An hour has finish'd its appointed date,
Since on this lone recorded turf I sate.—
How quiet is the green seclusion found!
How deep the solitude that broods around!
No labouring hinds on yonder meads appear,
No human voice, no distant step, I hear;
Yet the sweet linnets warble on the bough,
And tender ringdoves languishingly coo;
The nearly-meeting trees, with plenteous spray,
Arch o'er the darkling lane that winds away
Far to the right.—In front, the silent fields
Now shadows sweep, now evening radiance gilds;
While, to the left, soft sun-beams, as they wane,
Yellow the green paths of the lonely lane;
Where lavish hedgerows boast the wilding's bloom,
Where briar-roses shed their rich perfume;
And gadding woodbines, as their branches wave,
Waft all their fragrance to the hapless grave.
Unshared by thee, the rival of their bloom;
Hours that soft joys should thro' the heart infuse,
And steep the eye-lids in their balmy dews.
To thee be all their blessings as they roll!
And yet, at times, let kind regret be thine,
Steal o'er thy charms, and shade them as they shine,
For that thy Anna, from her friend away,
Sighs 'mid the glories of the summer day!
In the joy-hallow'd groves, and conscious plain,
Less irksome must our grieved disunion prove,
Than rise to thee the pains of absent love,
Torn as thou art, in all thy tender truth,
From the dear haunts of our long happy youth;
But sure, of parted friends, her lot we find
Pressing the heaviest on the mournful mind,
Who lingers where each object seems array'd
In the fair semblance of the absent maid;
Where bowers and lawns her stamp and image bear,
At once, alas! so distant, and so near!
And, to the aching heart, and tearful eye,
Stand the mute spectres of departed joy.
This spot is known to the inhabitants of Lichfield by the name of Bessy Banks' Grave. When the author walked thither, in the year 1791, she found the two trees, which stood on each side the tumulus, had been recently cut down, and deplored a devastation which she almost fancied sacrilegious.
TIME PAST.
Luxuriant Summer, nor the amber hours
Calm Autumn gives, my heart invoked, to bring
Joys, whose rich balm o'er all the bosom pours;
When ne'er I wish'd might grace the closing day,
One tint purpureal, or one golden ray;
When the loud storms, that desolate the bowers,
Found dearer welcome than Favonian gales,
And Winter's bare, bleak fields than Summer's flowery vales.
Beneath the blaze of wide-illumined dome;
Not for the bounding dance;—not to pervade
And charm the sense with music;—nor, as roam
The mimic passions o'er theatric scene,
To laugh, or weep;—O! not for these, I ween,
But for delights, that made the heart their home,
More than the sun invoked, that gilds the grassy lane.
My loved Honora, did we hail the gloom
Of dim November's eve;—and, as it fell,
And the bright fire shone cheerful round the room,
Dropt the warm curtains with no tardy hand;
And felt our spirits and our hearts expand;
List'ning their steps, who still, where'er they come,
Make the keen stars, that glaze the settled snows,
More than the sun invoked when first he tints the rose.
Is winter's glowing hearth;—and ye were ours,
Thy smile, Honora, made them all our own.
Where are they now?—alas! their choicest powers
Faded at thy retreat;—for thou art gone,
And many a dark, long eve I sigh alone,
In thrill'd remembrance of the vanish'd hours,
When storms were dearer than the balmy gales,
And the grey barren fields than green luxuriant vales.
LICHFIELD,
AN ELEGY.
Bellona's spears, and Phœbus' golden lyres,
Threw gleams of glory, whose unfading flame,
Amidst thy country's annals, gilds thy name.
Bade thee arise pre-eminently fair?
Or do remember'd days, that swiftly flew,
When life and all her blooming joys were new,
Illusions brighter than the shining Spring?
Around thy spires exclusive graces dwell;
For there alone the blended charms prevail
Of city stateliness, and rural dale.
High o'er proud towns where Gothic structures rise,
How rare the freshness of unsullied skies!
Oft cling to choral walls the mansions vile,
Unseemly blots upon the graceful pile!
Here not one squalid, mouldering cell appears,
To mar the splendid toil of ancient years;
But, from the basis to the stately height,
One free and perfect whole it meets the sight,
Adorn'd, yet simple, though majestic, light;
While, as around that waving basis drawn,
Shines the green surface of the level lawn,
Full on its breast the spiral shadows tall,
Unbroken, and in solemn beauty, fall.
Exemption from the city's mingled sound;
The iron rattling in the heavy drays,
The rumbling coaches, and the whirling chaise;
The clank of weary steeds, released the rein,
That slowly seek the neighbouring pond, or plain;
And the loud hammers of assiduous art!
Here (only when the organ's solemn sound
Shall swell, or sink, the vaulted roofs around,
While, from the full-voiced choir, the echoes bear
The pealing anthem through the circling air,)
No ruder voice the noon-day silence knows,
Than birds soft warbling 'mid luxuriant boughs.
For now in graceful freedom flow the trees.
That skirt the lawn, and wanton in the breeze.
Their light arcades in soft perspective throw
Stowe's shelter'd fields, that gently slope below;—
Th' embosom'd lake, that, curling to the gale,
Shines, the clear mirror of the sylvan vale;
While on its bank, to humble virtue kind,
Where still the poor man's prayers acceptance find,
The mouldering tower, that 'mid the shade appears,
Green with the gather'd moss of countless years.
As swells th' unequal turf with many a grave;
And there the suns of summer-evening look,
There tinge the waters of its huddling brook.
And fairer she, that 'midst the verdant brake,
From sultry gleam, and wintry tempest shrill,
Stands softly curtain'd on the eastern hill;
The suburb-cots, that to the right extend,
And, half embower'd in village-semblance, bend
Towards the lone, rustic spire, that stands serene
Upon the south-hill top, and awes the smiling scene;
While, save that to the left, o'er sloping fields,
Her soft, blue glimpse the distant country yields,
Closed are the gentle hills, that curve around,
And form the beauteous valley's early bound;
Throw every single feature it displays
Distinct and forward on the placid gaze;
Its silent graces in their sweet repose.
The blossoms, silvering 'mid their tender green;
With king-cups gay each swelling mead she fills,
And strews them yellow o'er the circling hills.
And vallies, winding in a richer maze,
But ah! 'tis those remember'd days that flew,
When life and all her golden joys were new,
That, beaming o'er the thrill'd remembrance, bring
Illusions brighter than the lucid Spring.
Compared with them, May's rosy morning spreads
No poignant sweetness from her violet beds;
Dim her bright noon, and rude her softest gale,
And June's purpureal evening cold and pale.
Why did ye hasten on so swift a wing?
Ye taught angelic Friendship to impart
Sweets from a lovely sister's feeling heart.
That ope the tender almond's blushing flowers;
And O! blest days of Pleasure's soft increase,
That rose in gladness, and that set in peace,
Ye saw Honora, loveliest of the maids
That deck'd our winter dome, our summer shades!
What sweetness beaming o'er that peerless face!
O'er that light form what animated grace!
How did that mind's warm energies disdain
Whate'er allures the haughty and the vain!
How spurn the tinsel claims of wealth and birth!
How cherish every gleam of wit and worth!
What varying charms, in turn, ascendance gain'd,
And in her voice, her air, her glances reign'd!
Ninon's gay spirit, gladness to inspire,
Lucretia's modesty, Cornelia's fire;
O! of all hours was she!—Those hours are past,
And the wide world contains her not!—such haste
Make happy times to join the vanish'd train,
That shadow'd o'er by grief, or rack'd by pain,
In mercy fled:—but you, in light array'd,
Why paused you not in Lichfield's bloomy shade?
Why set your suns so soon, whose kindling rays
Made all the summer of my youthful days?
Bathed the young cowslip in her sunny showers,
That met the bounds of Severn's wide domains.
As up the hill I rose, from whose green brow
The village church o'erlooks the vale below,
O! when its rustic form first met my eyes,
What wild emotions swell'd the rising sighs!
Stretch'd the pain'd heart-strings with the utmost force
Grief knows to feel, that knows not dire remorse;
For there—yes there,—its narrow porch contains
My dear Honora's cold and pale remains,
Whose lavish'd health, in youth, and beauty's bloom,
Sunk to the silence of an early tomb.
Whose name, and city-arms testify her military honours in ancient times. Addison's father being Dean of Lichfield, the infancy of that celebrated author was probably passed in her bosom; and it is well known what eminent men, in later days, were educated beneath her walls.
The trees of the cathedral walk at Lichfield are flowering limes, so beautiful when their branches are left to grow naturally. It is, however, only very lately that the tasteless custom has been renounced of lopping them to form a straight line at top. A barbarism, which existed when Major André was at Lichfield, and to which he alludes, with so much playful elegance, in the second of those charming letters subjoined to the Monody.
Two elegant houses, one at the foot, the other near the top of that umbrageous rising, which soon, but beautifully, bounds this valley to the east. They were built in the year 1756, by a lady of the Aston family, of whom frequent mention is made in Dr Johnson's letters to Mrs Piozzi, when she was Mrs Thrale.
Miss Sarah Seward. She died in her 19th year. The first poem in this collection is an Elegy to her memory.
To meet the lone memorial of my woes,
Honora's timeless grave;—then first beheld,
Since, in that little porch, beside the field,
It sunk neglected, while no stone remains
To guard the sacred relics it contains.
Indulged the rising luxury of woe;
With drooping neck, as they had shared my pain,
Lingering they passed the solitary fane.
And thus my Spirit whispered as I gazed.
Beneath that rude stone arch, thy lasting sleep!
With all her woodland choir, resounding clear,
The voice of Morning does not pierce thine ear;
Gay Evening Suns, in Summer-glory drest,
In vain look golden on thy bed of rest,
Since from those rayless eyes their splendours fail
To lift the dim impenetrable veil!
In bloom, in strength, that shamed maturer hours!
On that dear lip what mute attention hung,
As dropt the precept from the Sage's tongue,
While from his fruitful mind, in Science train'd,
She caught the sense, ere language half explain'd!
How soon did Genius all her soul engage!
How glow'd those eyes along the Poet's page!
What generous goodness taught that now cold heart
To bear in others' joys so warm a part;
Pour o'er another's woe the ready tear;
Watch by the couch of pain with tender fear;
Each wish prevent, each injury forgive,
“And, heedless of herself, for others live!”
O! wasted thus!—O! transient thus the date
Of every excellence, that e'er combined
To breathe perfection on the female mind!
Spring's lucid hues are glistening o'er the vale;
Blue gleams the lake the circling trees between,
And one sweet blackbird hymns the smiling scene.
Thus mildly bright the hours of promise shine,
But O! an all-resisting woe is mine;
My soul not e'en the hours of promise cheer,
And vernal music sickens on my ear;
Peace, little warbler! mute forsake thy spray,
Intrusive all the sweetness of thy lay;
Or cease thy strain that cannot sooth my woes!
Or wake Honora from her long repose.”
Swift from the silent hill and rustic fane;
Me to the life-warm scene they soon convey'd,
When glad'ning eyes the mists of grief pervade.
My dear Honora, seems so full of thee;
Where not indeed thy pale remains are laid,
But, warm with life, thou seem'st to deck the glade,
I half reproach my heart, that gayer hours
Beheld it yielding to the social powers;
When the kind glance, and smile of friendship stole,
At intervals, thy image from my soul!
Illusions brighter than the shining spring?
O! ere these eyes, that all our haunts explore
With fond affection's gaze, shall ope no more,
Lose not of her one consecrated trace,
Whose image gives you this exclusive grace!
Present it still, by Memory's potent aids,
Ye choral turrets, and ye arching shades!
Waft her remember'd voice in every gale!
Wear her etherial smile, thou lovely vale,
When Spring, in wayward April's veering days,
Shoots the spruce foliage from the naked sprays;
When Summer bids, thro' ev'ry splendid hour,
Consummate beauty glow in ev'ry bower;
When Autumn, turning back her golden eyes,
Of parting Summer asks his varied dyes,
Her saffron morning, her pellucid noon;
Nay, e'en when Winter sheds o'er the dim plains
His shrouding snows, loud winds, and beating rains!
Whisper that Talent blooms neglected here,
Lure to the circles where congenial fire
Might Emulation's generous warmth inspire;
Yet here the spirit of departed joy
Shall chain my step, shall fascinate my eye;
Chace with his local spells awakening powers,
Each languid consciousness of wasted hours;
And o'er the present all that lustre cast
That beams reflected from the fairer past.
INVOCATION
TO THE GENIUS OF SLUMBER.
In the soft dews of life-embalming sleep,
Our busy senses, canst restore the lost,
The loved, the mourn'd, from Death's mysterious coast,
Propitious lately to my votive lay,
And the lone musing of the joyless day,
From 'whelming years, and from sepulchral night,
Thou gav'st Honora to my slumbering sight:
Deck'd in those varied graces that array'd
In youth's first bloom, the fair ingenuous maid;
In all those pure affections gladd'ning powers,
That wing'd with joy the animated hours,
Alike when her sweet converse welcome made
Morn's rising light, and Evening's stealthy shade;
The vernal day, and e'en the wintry storm.
She look'd, as in those golden years foregone,
Spoke, as when love attuned each melting tone;
When, by my side, her cautious steps she moved,
Watching the friend solicitously loved,
Whose youthful strength, in one disastrous day,
Had fall'n to luckless accident a prey,
And needed much, to save from future harm,
The eye attentive, the supporting arm.
Remember'd looks, ye rays of Friendship's flame,
Long my soul's light, and guardians of my frame!
To the deprived, the life-retracing mind;
Withholding oft, 'mid thy obtrusive swarm,
My day-dream's idol, fair Honora's form?
O! when thou giv'st it, then, and only then,
Lost to my woes, I live with her again.
Again on me those soft'ning eye-balls shine!
I hear her speak! I feel her arm on mine!
Real as fair, the tender pleasures glow,
Sweet, as the past was potent to bestow,
Freed from that sense which shrouds with dire controul
Volition's image in a cypress stole;
My dear Honora I shall find no more;
That on her lonely grave, and mouldering form,
Six dreary winters poured the ruthless storm,
Violent and dark as my soul's primal woe
When first I found that beauteous head laid low.
On that unshrined, yet ever-sacred spot,
By faithless Love deserted and forgot,
Six bloomy springs their crystal light have show'd,
Their sun-gilt rains in fragrant silence flow'd,
Mild as my sorrows (calm'd by passing years)
Time-soften'd sighs, and time-assuaged tears.
Upon the white expanse the graceful shade
Of sweet Honora's face, the traces fair
My anxious hand pursued, and fixed them there;
To throw, in spite of Fate's remorseless crimes,
Soft soothing magic o'er succeeding times.
For this dear purpose, near my couch I placed
The shade, by Love assiduously traced;
And, while no sullen curtain drops between,
The image consecrates the sombrous scene;
Serenely sweet it stands,—at morn, at eve,
The first, last object these fond eyes perceive:
And still my heart, and oft my lips address
The shadowy form of her who lived to bless.
With the faint flash of half-expiring beams,
And soon that lovely semblance shall recede,
And Sleep's dim veils its thrilling powers impede.
I feel their balmy, kind, resistless charms
Creep o'er my closing eyes,—I fold my arms,
Breathing in murmurs thro' the paly gloom,
“Come to my dreams, my lost Honora, come!
Back as the waves of Time benignly roll,
Shew thy bright face to my enchanted soul!”
MONODY ON MRS RICHARD VYSE,
ADDRESSED TO HER HUSBAND, SINCE GENERAL VYSE.
I.
'Tis gloom, and silence all!—where late so gayThe strains of pleasure in each gale were borne;
Where white-robed Truth had fix'd her stedfast sway,
And love's bright florets deck'd the rising morn.
How constantly, beneath yon shade,
The little, rosy Comforts play'd!
While to the warblings of the plumy choir
Responsive transport struck her golden lyre!—
Thou dashing stream, swift hurrying down the glade,
Oft has thy clear and sparkling wave convey'd
As shed the bridal star its gay enamour'd fire.
II.
Now through the vale a sullen stillness reigns,The shades embrown'd by woe,
Frown o'er the house of death!—the blasted plains
No more with beauty glow!
Or is it Sorrow's misty shower
That dims the hue of every flower,
Draws from the lake the livid gleam,
And hears the ominous raven scream?—
Round Anna's bower the damps of horror rise,
And shroud the splendours of the azure skies,
Since she, who brighten'd summer's charms,
Is torn in life's gay bloom,
From young Ricardo's widow'd arms,
The victim of the tomb.
To that loved bower she shall no more return!
Bend your dark tops, ye pines, and guard her sacred urn!
III.
Ah! gentle pair, your bliss was too refined,Too subtly sweet, too exquisite to last;
For ne'er shall man unfading pleasures find,
Where Grief, and Pain, may breathe the withering blast.
When sunk, beneath their baleful power,
Each joy, bright springing from congenial taste,
From warm impassion'd Love, from Friendship chaste;
From Plenty, summon'd by approving Fate,
To glide serenely through your open gate;
From all that softens life, from all that cheers,
And nurses Eden's rose in this chill vale of tear.
IV.
Rash man was made to mourn:—exempt aloneWho transport ne'er have felt;
Whose hearts, girt round by Dulness' leaden zone,
Nor Love, nor Pity melt;
On whose dead calm of vacant hours
Nor Rapture beams, nor Anguish lours.—
Lone mourner o'er thy Anna's grave,
Since Youth and Love were weak to save,
Thy fruitless sorrows with this truth controul,
Soft whispering to thy fond, thy faithful soul,
That all the woes, which shroud thy noon-tide rays,
Bend thee to earth, and lay thy prospects waste;
Are borne for her, whose fair, unclouded days
Of wintry storm had never felt the blast;
The large arrears of grief she must have paid,
Had she not early sunk in death's eternal shade.
V.
O! think, had fell disease assaulted thee,The rushing fever, or the slow decline,
These sufferings had been hers—this agony
Wrung her mild bosom, that now tortures thine;
And shall not her far happier doom
Gild, with its seraph rays, thy gloom?
Since sun-eyed Faith empowers thee to pervade
The dreary grave's incumbent shade;
Lift its dark curtains from the regions bright,
And see thy love ascend her throne of light,
Where bliss, that ne'er shall end, and ne'er can cloy,
Succeeds your nuptial year of seldom equall'd joy.
This poem was written the day before that lady's funeral, and in view of the villa where she died, in the Vale of Stowe, near Lichfield.
TO MRS COLTMAN OF HULL.
Fair as the lily by the fountain side,
Sweet as the damask rose-bud, newly born
On verdant banks, where glassy rivers glide,
Far from Ambition's paths art charm'd to stray,
Shunning the haunts of pride and envious strife,
Each Muse, each Grace, companions of thy way.
May attic wit and virtue still adorn!
Brightning thy destin'd hour-glass as it runs,
Crowning thy night with peace, with joy thy morn!
And with full draughts thy glowing lip bedew!
And while Prosperity her garland brings,
May nought that blesses bid thee once adieu!
RECEIPT
FOR A SWEET JAR.
With each fine odour of the summer-blooms,
Learn from the Muse to form the fragrant spell,
And bid her rhymes its artful process tell.
Strew, with unsparing hand, that lovely flower;
When Fraxanella's spicy sighs exhale,
And pale Syringas languish on the gale;
When all the aromatic tribe entwine
Their vernal garlands round Hygeia's shrine,
Crop the rich spoils beneath the noon-day sun,
And be with these thy grateful task begun!
Then when the nymph, that decks the glowing year,
Bids to the day her loveliest boast appear,
Of the bright offspring rob the parent stems;
From noon to noon the splendid foliage lay,
The added heaps shall added sweets convey;
And scarce less liberally, to swell thy hoard,
Her spikes let azure lavender afford;
From orange-groves be silvery blooms consign'd,
With starry jessamine of scent refined.
From the soft umbrage of Idalian bowers
Bid graceful myrtles shed their blossom'd showers;
And, emulous of raspberry's tempting sweet,
Let mignionets their floral sisters greet.
With cinnamon let cloves and mace descend,
And in the marble vase their virtues blend,
One ounce of each;—and then, with sparing hand,
Bid luscious musk his potent scent expand,
A few small grains;—dispersing 'mid the rest,
No sick'ning odours shall the sense molest,
But, when time mellows their too cloying power,
They shall increase the sweets of spice and flower.
Between each layer, in sparkling plenty shed,
Since where bright Salt her crystalines extends,
She brings an active host of powerful friends,
To whose pervading and protecting sway,
Fell Dissolution yields his languid prey.
With scent primeval, on December's skies,
Still, as you spread them, every layer between,
Profusely let this white preserver gleam,
While scantier sprinklings of the spicy dust,
By art thus blended, aid the poignant gust.
Thy busy fingers mix each former layer;
And be that task renew'd when setting light
Resigns her faded empire to the night.
No must offensive foil their fragrant powers;
But odours, rich as those of Saba's vale,
Rise on hybernal Albion's bleakest gale,
Sweets, which the breath of her gay months excells,
While in thy vase eternal summer dwells.
INVOCATION TO THE SHADE OF PETRARCH, AND TO THE SPIRITS OF THE PERSIAN POETS,
ON THEIR COMPOSITIONS BEING TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH, BY SIR WILLIAM JONES.
Where lucid Sorga leads her winding wave
From its deep fountain in Valclusa's grove,
Whose lavish laurels in her waters lave,
To hopeless Love, and wedded Laura's charms,
See passing ages yet enchanted dwell,
On thy sweet verse, and feel thy soft alarms!
Still shall thy myrtles bloom with fairest hue,
Again each fading blossom to renew.
Whose skill afresh hath strung thy silver lyre,
And taught the echoes of his native land
The plaint harmonious of thy fond desire.
You that awaked the song on Mithra's plains,
Breath'd your wild warblings on the fragrant air,
And at the fount of light illumed your strains.
From European eyes, are torn away,
And all the fire of oriental rhyme
Glows in our isle with undiminish'd ray:
Your British guardian, from your musky vales,
Sun-hallow'd hills, and each odorous grove,
Bring the rich incense that perfumes your gales!
And from your brightest gems a crown obtain!
On him may all the tribute stores descend
Who hung with Persian wreaths the Albion Muses' fane!
ODE TO WILLIAM BOOTHBY, ESQ.
The Peak's rude rocks and devious vales among,
O! may he pause, and, listening to my lay,
Accept the moral precept of the song!
And ye, blest sisters of th' inspiring spring,
Too partial, cease to wander and to sing
Where Arethusa's silver fountain flows!
Or, if Castalian plains ye haunt, ah, bend
Your steps where rival scenes extend,
And every varied tint of beauty glows,
Mix'd with the spirit of the mountain gale,
Whose stolen perfumes float and wanton o'er the vale!
As Hebrus swift, impetuous Derwent pours;
And now, beneath the broad, incumbent wood,
Silent and smooth and deep, he laves the shores;
Till, gaily rushing from his darksome way,
His foamy waters glitter on the day,
Resistless, dashing o'er each rugged mound;
And still, on his umbrageous bank, he shows
Woodbines and harebells and the musky rose,
The heavy, velvet wild bees murmuring sound.
His every grace that decks Pieria's clime,
Green vale, and steepy hill, and broken rock sublime.
Wantons around the Naiads of his wave,
Thro' scenes, where mighty Nature's spirit free
Each coy and wood-wild grace luxuriant gave.
Behold, in lucid beauty, from the tide
Rise his kind nymphs, and for the race that glide
Ask mercy!—Wilt thou then, with barbarous care,
Th' unreal insect, false and fair,
Seductive fling along their glassy way?
Hasten, ye Muses, from Sicilian glades,
The guiltless tenants guard of these all-lovely shades!
And cruel purposes in pity melt!
Humane of song! O steal into his heart,
Till life-destroying hopes no more are felt!
Tell him how much profaned that eye benign,
By Nature form'd with other fires to shine,
Love's ardent beam, and Mercy's dewy ray,
How much profaned, when, with inhuman lour,
Its deathful level streams!—ah, pour
The sacred strain, and save the tender prey!
Avert each cruel, unresisted blow,
Tell him, no laureate meeds for such achievements grow!
Nor fatal be their strength, their skill, their speed!
Link'd with the Graces, lo, the Nine appear!
Hark, how they warn thee from each ruthless deed!
Now, while thy life's purpureal moments reign,
Rove with these guardian nymphs, hill, dale, and plain!
Storing each sense with permanent delight;
That, when thy youth has wing'd its flight,
When faded all the tints of gay desire,
On the mild evening of thy vital day
Science and Taste may shine with cloud-dispelling ray!
The river Wie runs through Mensaldale, the loveliest of the Peak Vallies, and through the rich meads below Bakewell, where it winds and curves with capricious wantonness. The waters of the Derwent have a tint of amber, which seems to suit the dark and luxuriant foliage on their banks, and is well contrasted by the white foam, almost perpetually formed by its rocky channel. The clearness of the Wie is still more beautiful. Hence it becomes the mirror of the exquisite scenery on its borders.
ODE TO BROOKE BOOTHBY, ESQ.
AFFERWARDS SIR BROOKE BOOTHBY.
If, with humane accordance to my lay,
Ye rear'd, in Peak's sweet vales, your rocky shrine,
And lured Alexis from the sylvan prey.—
That late his brother's chorded shell
Ye struck, its charming numbers tell;
They bear the symbols of your quire,
Aonian sweetness, Attic fire;
So prompt with happiest melody to flow
When your Hilario strikes the lyre;
And with the clearest light to glow,
As gay or pensive themes his song inspire.—
Each rival Muse and Grace her loveliest garland throws.
From gales, that breathe the essence of the spring,
From streams, where pearly-wristed Naiads play,
From echoes, faithful to each tuneful string,
The muses seek yon garish plain,
Haunt of the frolic and the vain.—
Forsaken Nine! Hilario there
Leads in light dance a mortal fair,
And all your soft and silver harps are drown'd
Amid the viol's scrannel noise,
And hautboy's loud, metallic sound,
Skilless, yet suiting well such vulgar joys,
As, with the wanderer, ye reluctant rove
Far from poetic plain, or Learning's hallow'd grove.
Sloping and trembling on the mazy rill,
The splendours of the white meridian beam,
That warms the vale, and flames upon the hill,
Eve's crimson throne, and golden rays,
The lustre's many-pointed blaze
Of gaudy violated hours;
And for the shining locks, the rural crown,
The wavy robe, so light and free,
That flows thy agile limbs adown,
And decks thy smiling brow, Simplicity,
Quaint Fashion, by her own trim fingers drest,
Pranks, with a vacant smile, her stiff, fantastic vest.
Since Folly can a heart like thine ensnare!
While kindred Genius views thee with disdain,
Loit'ring, and listening to each idiot fair.
Resigning thus thy wasted day,
Exclusive own Love's magic sway,
If thus his fires delusive lead
Thy charmed foot to marshy mead,
Where sinks its languid step, tho' form'd to gain
The height sublime, where brightly glows,
Above the gems that deck the vain,
The sweet, unfading, scientific rose:
But thou, since meaner garlands bind thy brows,
Boast not those rival claims thy despot disallows!
Love's dark magnetic instantly can turn;
Behold the Bacchanal forsake his bowl,
The fierce grow gentle, and the stoic burn!
Sylvan Diana's cruel sports
Too long thy graceful brother courts;
But ah! though deaf to Julia's lay,
Had one bright nymph adjured his stay,
Would the warm youth have sought the buskin'd train?
Ah no! attentive to her sigh,
Their echoing horns might wind in vain;
No shaft of his had fleeted thro' the sky;
The victim in the sacrificer found,
Pierced by a keener dart, had spared the purposed wound.
From scenes, where only syren pleasures sing,
Hilario's steps they might assiduous lead
Back to his wonted haunt, their hallow'd spring?
In vain applause her pæan breathes,
And ardent knowledge twines her wreaths;
For him extracts each pedant thorn,
Ere yet his brows those wreaths adorn.
Ah me! the magic of enamour'd smiles,
The tender glance, disorder'd air,
That wind round lofty souls the fatal snare,
Shall mock thy late proud boast, and force thee own
Thy baby Godhead sits despotic on his throne.
This Ode is an answer to Mr Boothby's verses on the preceding Ode, which verses he sent to the author from Tunbridge.
In allusion to his verses which maintain that love may subsist with rival passions. See the elegant edition of his Poems, published 1796, by Cadell, page 59.
These little poems were written in the early youth of the author. They describe an attachment between a lady of birth, rank, beauty, and talents, the daughter of wealthy parents, and a gentleman, much her inferior in family and station, without fortune, and her equal only in intellect, merit, and affection. Nor is the situation entirely imaginary; the author was entrusted with the perusal of a prose correspondence between that unhappy pair, which bore the same sort of relation to the ensuing poems, as the real letters between Abelard and Eloisa bear to Pope's Love-Epistle, “Eloisa to Abelard.”
SONGS.
THE COUNTRY MAID,
A PASTORAL BALLAD.
And gilds the lonely plain;
No sighs of mine increase the gale,
No peevish tears the rain.
From happy dreams, the orient beams
Awake my soul to pleasure;
With cheek that glows, I milk my cows,
And bless the flowing treasure.
Is surely no disgrace;
Defends my shaded face.
Industrious heed the hours shall speed
On pinions gay and light;
The rising thought, with virtue fraught,
Shall consecrate their flight.
Seem fair and sweet to me,
When, on a violet bank, at noon,
I sit, and dine with glee.
From crystal rill my cup I fill,
And praise the bounteous giver;
Nor with the great would change my state,
But dwell in vales for ever.
When Phœbus ardent glows,
How deeply still are plain and bower
In undisturb'd repose;
All but the rills, that down the hills
Their glittering waters fling,
And round the bowers, on sweet, wild flowers,
The bees, that murmuring cling.
And hill's late gilded height;
Sheds wide her milky light,
I mark the vales and shadowy dales,
In soft perspective showing;
Their winding streams, beneath her beams,
In trembling lustre flowing.
To yonder ivied cottage,
Where parents dear and gentle friend
Prepare the savoury pottage.
The wholesome fare, the pious prayer,
Conclude my day so pleasant!
Ye rich and proud, confess aloud
Right happy such a peasant.
SONG.
[Florio, by all the Powers above]
“Plighted to me eternal love;
“And as a rose adorn'd my breast,
“He on its leaf the vow impress'd;
“But, while the winds did round us play,
“Vow, leaf, and promise blew away.”
O! shall I veil their beams in woe?
And 'mid the rosy hours of youth,
Weep and repine o'er vanish'd truth?
No! let me hail the shining day,
Blithe as the lark, that meets its ray.
Balm for the wounds of slighted love;
The heart, a false one now disdains,
Ungrateful Damon may deplore
What vain regret shall ne'er restore.
“Vow, leaf, and promise, blew away;”
And to those winds I gave my grief,
That bore the love-recorded leaf;
Nor do I chide the gales, or thee,
Since thou art false—and I am free!
Borne on the onward stream of time;
Yes, till the spring restores to me
That very leaf inscribed by thee,
Scorning thy sighs, shall Celia say,
“Vow, leaf, and promise, blew away!”
ACHILLES,
A CANZONET.
RECITATIVE.
Achilles roams the damp and sounding shore,Nor hears th' approaching tempest's sullen roar;
Indignant mourns, by rage and anguish toss'd,
His honour stain'd, his fair Briseis is lost!
AIR.
—Bass.
Mix'd with the rising wind his groan;—Mark it, proud Troy! the welcome sound
Respites thine altars and thy throne,
Tho' fierce Tydides thunder round.
AIR.
—Amoroso.
“My Maid, my black-eyed Maid,” deprived of thee,Life has no joy, and love no charm for me!
AIR.—
Bravoura.
Tyrant, 'tis well!—in baffled combat longThy vanquish'd myriads shall avenge this wrong!
PRECEDING AIR RESUMED.
But ah! nor love, nor glory, now I boast,Brightly they shone, now darken'd each, and lost.
CHORUS.
Hero, to thee shall great revenge remain,
And Grecian armies strew the Trojan plain!
SONG.
[The, mute grey fields, and leafless bowers]
Now vainly wait the vernal hours;
Yet vernal hours to them will come,
Awake the song, and ope the bloom.
To mute grey fields and leafless bowers,
Were Damon's accents, Damon's strain,
But Damon speaks, nor sings again!
Shall never, never open more,
And on my heart, by nought consoled,
The trembling hand of Hope is cold!
And bleak fields suit, and suits this iron sky
The lonely spirit of departed joy.
SONG.
[My Stella sleeps, the sultry hour]
Recitative.
Seals her soft eye-lids in the bower,
And see, the snowy rose she wore
Is fallen upon the verdant floor.
Air.
Where thy fairness and scent are out-done,
And the graces that rival thy own
Thy envy has taught thee to shun.
A breast all the graces adorn,
To the mansion of love and of joy,
Pale Rover! thou shalt not return.
SONG.
[On a mount a cottage stands]
Half way down the sunny side,
And a little vale commands
Where the glassy waters glide.
There ascends a curtain'd hill,
From the stormy north it shields;
At its foot a church and mill,
Clustering hedgerows, narrow fields.
When the spring and summer shine,
Yet within that cot, I ween,
Dwells a fairer love of mine.
Her sweet smile a spirit pours
Which, when blooming seasons fail,
Lovelier makes than summer bowers
Winter's grey and naked vale.
BALLAD.
[I wake and weep, when wintry winds]
Are howling loud upon the lea,
And louder blasts my fancy finds
For William, on the foaming sea;
But, calming soon the pictured storm,
Sweet hopes into my bosom creep,
And tell me, summer breezes warm
Shall waft him safely o'er the deep.
Has war's rude voice my love detain'd;
While here, to every pleasure lost,
His Mary's languid form remain'd;
And o'er the steep rock still to lean,
Still eager watch each gliding sail,
That languid form is duly seen,
At ruddy morn, and evening pale.
Stream from the deck in crimson dye!
Dear signal! wanting thee, the bark
Is hail'd by many a mournful sigh.
Its shouts discordant seem to me,
That echo from the stony pier,
Since William's face I cannot see,
Since William's voice I cannot hear.
SONG OF THE FAIRIES TO THE SEA-NYMPHS.
Every nymph that sportive laves
In the green sea's oozy wells,
And gilds the fins, and spots the shells!
Hasten, and our morrice join,
Ere the gaudy morning shine!
Instant now your aid we crave;
Come, and trip like our gay band,
Traceless on the amber sand.
Haste! or we must hence away,
Yet an hour, and all is day!
Shall the ocean monsters fleet,
Back upon the refluent tide.
Haste! the dawn has streak'd the cloud,
Haste! the village cock has crow'd.
Hesper gleams with languid fire!
Quickly then our revel join,
The blush of morn is on the brine!
Loiterers, we must hence away,
Yonder breaks the orb of day.
SONG
[Bleak gloomy winds will surely rise]
When autumn hastes away;
Ah! so shall swell my rising sighs,
So wintry grow my day.
No more adorns this shade;
Then, O then, must Sorrow's storm
My drooping soul invade.
When dark November lours,
Nor yet less lavish will be found,
These eyes' descending showers.
To wail its vanish'd joys;
Now, e'en now, the dreaded smart
My present bliss destroys.
Of Love's delights to veil;
Cease to present the cruel time
When every joy must fail!
And shun the thought that mourns!
Crown with roses life's short span,
But lean not on their thorns!
SONG.
[In sylvan scenes, when Laura hails]
The flowers that deck the grove,
Ye Dryads, in the passing gales,
O! whisper to my love!
And tell her, as she smiling views
The beauteous vernal train,
How short a time their splendid hues
And breathing sweets remain.
From bubbling fountains stray,
Ye Naiads, guide the waking dreams
That o'er her fancy stray!
And when she sees, thro' meads and groves,
The waters swiftly glide,
Inspire the thought, that youthful hours
No longer tarriance bide!
Those rosy hours are thine;
And bid her snowy hands prepare
The marriage wreath to twine.
Since flowers and streams, and youth and love,
So rapid fleet away,
O teach my Laura to improve
The time that will not stay!
BALLAD.
[Hast thou escaped the cannon's ire]
Loud thundering o'er the troubled main?
Hast thou escaped the fever's fire,
That burnt so fierce on India's plain?
Then, William, then I can resign,
With scarce one sigh, the blooming grace,
Which in thy form was wont to shine,
Which made so bright thy youthful face.
By watching dim those radiant eyes;
But Valour gilds the wrecks of Time,
Tho' youth decays, tho' beauty flies;
An honest heart is all to me,
Nor soil, nor time, makes that look old;
And dearer shall the jewel be
Than youth, or beauty, fame, or gold.
SONG.
[The stormy ocean roving]
I
The stormy ocean roving,My William seeks the foe;
Ah me! the pain of loving,
To war when lovers go!
II
O! why my locks so yellow,Should rosy garlands bind,
When trembles yonder willow,
As blows the sullen wind?
III
Ye nymphs, who feel no anguish,My garlands gay ye wove,
But I in absence languish,
And fear for him I love.
IV
Nor yet the sprays of willowShall wave my temples o'er,
But weeds, that ocean's billow
Leaves dark upon the shore.
V
Pale willows suit the sorrowThe fair forsaken knows;
Fierce War has wing'd the arrow
That wounds my soul's repose.
VI
Sad on the beach I linger,And watch the altering sea;
But no cold doubts shall injure,
My love is true to me!
VII
Yet, till rest crown my pillow,Till peace my love restore,
Be mine the weeds yon billow
Leaves dark upon the shore!
ADDRESS TO HOPE.
SONG.
When the sad sense of danger my bosom would shroud,
Not Spring, as she chases the Winter's loud storm,
Ever blest the chill earth with a lustre so warm.
O! how had I borne the dire thoughts of the fray,
When War's cruel voice call'd my lover away,
Had'st not thou, gentle Hope, veil'd the battles' increase,
And bent thy soft beams on the harbour of Peace!
Can the splendour of Glory be potent as thine?
It plays on the crest of the hero, but shews
Red traces of danger thro' legions of foes;
But to love, what can brighten the gloom of the grave?
Then do thou draw a veil o'er the battle's fierce gleams,
And on Safety's dear harbour O! bend thy soft beams!
Not false were thy fires while they shone on my mind;
My hero returns!—the dread danger is o'er,
And, crown'd with new laurels, he speeds to the shore;
Yet to light the dim Future, sweet Hope, do not cease,
Thro' life let thy torch be the guard of my peace;
That still it may gild the warm day-spring of youth,
As it shone on his safety, now shine on his truth.
SONG.
[My Celia vow'd, at early dawn]
To meet me on the blossom'd lawn;
And now the dewy light of morn,
Arising, gems the silver thorn;
But, hush'd in sleep, my fair one now
Forgets, alas! her tender vow!
And sparkling flows the mountain rill;
Wild rose and woodbine scent the gale,
And breathe their perfumes thro' the vale;
But, hush'd in sleep, my charmer laid,
Forgets the tender vow she made.
Adorn with us the rising day!
The joys that crown the breathing Spring;
In vain her songs, her beauties rise,
If faithless Slumber seals those eyes!
SONG.
[Here is the bank I loved so well]
But all its flowers are shrunk away!
And here the lately verdant dell,
Where I and Henry used to stray!
No marks of what it was remain,
Save yon rude rock, that wept and frown'd,
When gay the bower, and green the plain!
We gazed upon its dropping brow,
I little thought how soon these eyes
With as perpetual tears should flow.
And man's base falsehood could divine,
O! I would sell my youth for gold,
My marriage vow at Plutus' shrine.
The faithless glance I should not see;
The false one leave me, or return,
'Twould then be all the same to me.
'Tis not the rains, that beating pour;
I mourn not what their rage may do,
To thin my flock, and blight my bower.
To all their wild inclemency,
I would not shed this bitter tear,
But Henry's love grows cold to me!
Time lead again the blooming Spring,
But ne'er shall Time to hearts grown cold,
Again the vanish'd kindness bring.
SONG,
FROM METASTATIO.
[Mild breeze, when thou shalt fan my fair]
Tell her a sigh augments thy gales;
But to reveal the source forbear,
From whence thy gentle breath exhales.
Say, with a tear thy currents swell,
But do not to the nymph repeat,
From whose enamour'd lid it fell.
SONG.
[In the mid-day of summer, and far from the shade]
Beneath a steep rock, a young shepherd was laid;
The roses of beauty had paled on his face,
Yet each look was expressive, each motion was grace.
Thus flow'd his soft numbers;—and strange that a swain,
With such eyes, and such numbers, should languish in vain!
How languid your heat to the flames in my heart!
The breezes attemper the fervours of day,
But what can my passion for Chloris allay?
Not the wild breath of Anger its fires can assuage,
Not the ice of Indifference extinguish its rage.
Neglected I leave her, unmark'd I return;
No transport can melt her, no anger annoy;
Yet still, self-supported, tho' hopeless my flame,
Like the lamp monumental, 'tis ever the same.
SONG
OF A NORTHERN LOVER, IN WINTER.
And the ice of the evening has crusted the rill;
Thy waves, O Loch Lomond! can glitter no more,
But in dim, stony fragments incumber thy shore.
Swift lights of the north thro' the zenith are struck;
Those flashes, pale streaming, will guide my lone way,
And the steps of a lover in safety convey.
And the frost's cutting arrows dart keener around,
So the white shrouding flakes of the snow are withheld,
From the mine of the heath, and the lake of the field
Snow, covering mines, pits, and pools, slightly frozen, in mountainous countries, is imminently dangerous, especially where there are no turnpike roads.
SONG.
[If stormy, o'er enamell'd vales]
Keen Eurus sweeps with blighting sway,
When Zephyr's mild and balmy gales
Had waked the bloom of orient May,
She droops forlorn in silent bowers;
And sighs, amid untimely frost,
For glowing suns and silver showers.
The power of Stella's icy scorn;
Each rising joy her frown repels,
And wintry grows my summer morn.
Eternal shall that winter prove?
And wretched in the lonely glade
Must injured Truth despair of Love?
PASTORAL BALLAD.
Beneath a mountain, wild and high,
It nestles in a silent glade,
And a clear river wanders by.
Each tender care, each honest art,
Shall chase all future want from thee,
If thy sweet lips consent impart
To climb these craggy hills with me.
No scornful brow shall there be seen;
No dull Impertinence invade,
Nor Envy base, nor sullen Spleen;
The shadowy rocks, that circle round,
From storms shall guard our sylvan cell,
And there shall every joy be found
That loves in peaceful vales to dwell.
And faintly gild you little spire;
And our clean hearth is bright with fire,
Sweet tales to read! sweet songs to sing!
O! they shall drown the wind and rain,
E'en till the soften'd season bring
Merry spring-time back again!
Shall guard the warbling feather'd throng;
Nor boast the busy haunts of men
So fair a scene, so sweet a song.
Thy arms the new-yean'd lamb will shield,
And to the sunny shelter bear,
While, o'er the rough and breathing field,
My hands impel the gleaming share.
And full their yellow harvest grow;
Then taste with me the sprightly joys
That Love and Industry bestow!
Their jocund power can banish strife,
Her clouds no passing day will see,
Since all the leisure hours of life
Shall still be spent in pleasing thee.
SONG.
[From thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly]
From the rocks, that are lash'd by their tide;
From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they,
Has wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride!—
Yet lonely and rude as the scene,
Her smile to that scene could impart
A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vale—
But away, thou fond dream of my heart!
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly!
And the waters grow dark as they rise!
But 'tis well!—they resemble the sullen disdain
That has lour'd in those insolent eyes.
Sincere were the sighs they represt,
But they rose in the days that are flown!
Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My spirit is proud as thine own.
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly!
To escape the loud storm by their flight;
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat
From the winds and the billows of night;
Like them, to the home of my youth,
Like them, to its shades I retire;
Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves,
From the pangs of insulted desire!
To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!
GLEE.
Calls the lark to the sun-beam, the bee to the flowers;
Calls Youth, Love, and Beauty to hail the new day,
And twine their gay garlands in honour of May;
Yet hope not, amid the soft pleasures they bring,
That moments so jocund will pause on their wing!
In the hue of the trees, in the scent of the wreaths,
In the song of the woodlands, for love is the lay,
And lustre and perfume are types of his sway;
More tuneful his accents, more rosy his spring,
And O! not less rapid the flight of his wing!
ODE TO EUPHROSYNE,
AN EPITHALAMIUM ON THE MARRIAGE OF DOCTOR D--- AND MISS M---.
Who fear'st no cloud upon thy rosy light,
Parent of Health, and Wit, and Mirth,
Dispensing permanence to gay delight,
Euphrosyne, this sacred hour,
Consecrate the mutual vow!—
Impassion'd Love must twine his wreath in vain,
And vainly gild the nuptial chain,
If thou should'st rove more favour'd scenes among,
Goddess of my rising song!
Of texture frail then would each joy be form'd,
And care must chill the hearts enamour'd transport warm'd.
Thy influence on the bridal garland breathe!
Beneath the sprays of that envermeil'd wreath,
Too prone are Grief, Disease, and Care,
To slide those mournful emblems there;
And oft, with pallid lip and furrow'd brows,
Jealousy remorseless throws
Fires on the marriage flame, which soon expand,
And change it to a livid brand;
But thou, gay Goddess, with auspicious mien
Hymen's bright torch can'st guard, his blooming garland screen.
Chasing every demon pale!
So flies the mist when Phoebus gleams,
Pierced thro' and thro' with arrowy beams
Come then, and the lovers hail,
Worthy all thy dear caressing,
Liveliest smile, and fondest blessing!—
Venus bade the youth inherit
Love, and virtues that endure;
Flames, which fired the lover's spirit,
When time was young, and faith was pure.
Not gay Leander with more ardour warm
When his firm nerves each rising dread withstood;
When, braving night,—the sea,—the howling storm,
He plough'd the billows of the Euxine flood.
As bold an arm would stem the loud, conflicting tide.
The tender flower of that sequester'd vale;
In the sweet lily's charms array'd,
When from the sun its folding leaves conceal
The bending cups of purest snow,
Whence its lavish perfumes flow.
So dwells, beneath that modest air,
A soul, as her complexion fair,
As her quick blush, and sunny tresses warm;
Mindless to fear, or practise harm,
No cold distrust repels its fervent glow,
Closes her liberal hand, or shades her smiling brow.
With the swift-springing drop of pity's dew,
In mild simplicity, adorn,
And shed o'er her ripe youth their freshest hue;
While Taste, arranging Fancy's stores,
A clear libation gently pours
Incessant on the texture of her mind;
By the sparkling streams refined
From rust opake, and from the misty stains
Which languid indolence retains.
Haste then, Euphrosyne, and bless the shrines,
Where the dear artless maid her plighted hand resigns!
Goddess, thy incessant care!
Wave thou still, with jocund mirth,
Thy light wand o'er their glowing hearth,
Where drops no briny tear!
Wave it, when wintry storms are yelling
Loud around their cheerful dwelling;
When summer rays, the year adorning,
Bless each mountain, dale, and plain,
Light again the crystal morning,
Gild the splendent noon again;
Or tinge the purple clouds of beauteous eve,
Slowly that fade into the stealing night.—
O! may each veering scene from thee receive
White tints of peace, and pleasure's ruddy light!
Since absent thou, how dim our youthful days,
Thou, who canst more illume the gorgeous, solar blaze!
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN FOR THE TRAGEDY OF BRAGANZA.
And female grace with manly courage arms,
Each sex alike her daring virtues fire,
The fair exult, and all the brave admire.
Beyond her Brutus' life the public weal
Nobly she loves, and animates his zeal,
But soon the o'er-strain'd cords of courage break,
And fatal madness triumphs o'er the wreck.
Louisa's radiance gilds the historic page,
Her portrait here, display'd in faithful light,
A virgin muse exhibits to your sight.
She pleads the unpractised hand of truant Youth,
But boasts the sacred patronage of Truth.
Charm'd with each virtue that her bard bestows;
While Truth indignant fled the varnish'd theme,
He cloth'd the faithless fair with worth supreme;
Each shrinking voice confess'd the touch refined,
That chased the Ethiop blackness of her mind.
O! let those tears for bright Louisa stream,
Around whose brows the genuine virtues beam!
By sterner manhood shown, demands applause;
Such glorious heights when softer woman soars,
Awaken'd Sympathy her tribute pours;
The heart's quick throb, sweet sigh, and raptured tear,
For Love and Beauty, that so greatly dare.
When graceful Cleopatra spoke and charm'd.
Still the imperial criminal inspires
Some kind compassion for unhallow'd fires,
Tho' worlds ill-lost o'erwhelm her hero's fame,
And victim millions curse the guilty flame;
Yet still, beneath her self-inflicted fate,
You feel her guilty, but confess her great;
Stampt with no dire reproach, no impious crime.
Long years of error thus the generous mourn,
When Courage clasps the expiatory urn.
True patriot virtue in a female frame,
And more than Roman firmness.—In that cause,
Ye Britons, mitigate the critics' laws!
For her dear sake, who your own spirit breathes,
Adorn her poet with your honour'd wreaths!
On you his hopes, on you his fears await,
Your smile is glory, and your frown is fate.
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN FOR MR PENN.
By turns, each passion's varied form to wear;
Assume the joy, the grief, the fear, the rage,
That charm, and thrill, and fire the scenic page;
Bid Rowe, bid Otway's magic softness rise,
Steal o'er his form, and languish in his eyes;
Melt in his voice, till Memory hints no more
The woes unreal; but, with forfeit power,
Resigns her empire o'er the yielding soul
To sighs and tears she ceases to controul.
Imbibe the meteor-fires of gloomy Young;
When, as scorn'd love paternal envy goads,
Fierce Perseus invocates the dire abodes;
To aid grim Vengeance, calls their demon hosts
From the red confines of sulphureous coasts;
Or, when fell Zanga's sable hand shall spread
“Eternal curtains round Alonzo's bed.”
And Jephson glows along his nervous line,
Ne'er may unskilful acting cloud the rays,
Inferior only to his Shakespear's blaze!
Whether, with every anguish Love can feel,
Braganza tremble at th' impending steel;
Or the devoted Narbonne's passions lead,
Headlong and fierce, to the accursed deed,
While rolls the thunder, and the lightnings glare
On the proud Filiacide's upstarting hair.
The fixed attention, and the mute applause;
Yet most his powers enkindle rising fame
From mighty Shakespear's orb of solar flame.
Will blunt the mimic joys, the mimic woes.
The monarch's dignity, the warrior's fire;
The phrenzied passion, in its dreariest glare,
Love's tender grace, and Hope's energic air,
When sharp Distress, the bane of studious Art,
Sits, like a vulture, on the bleeding heart.
Yet, unrepining, every pang conceal;
But, at the public smile, the bird of prey
Spreads his dark wing, and swiftly flies away.
Warmly to praise, and nobly to bestow,
My honour'd patrons, your protecting power,
So kindly active in this anxious hour,
Soft in my recent wounds pours oil and wine,
And bids the health of peace once more be mine!
An itinerant performer of great ability, whom indiscretion, and an extravagant wife, had prevented from attaining better situations, which his talents would have adorned. This prologue was spoken by him very finely, for his benefit, at Birmingham, in the spring 1782.
PROLOGUE
TO THE CIRCASSIAN,
A beauteous form glides mournful on my sight,
The floating purple, and the lofty mien,
Proclaim the empress of the tragic scene;
Divine Melpomene!—aggrieved she stands,
Tears fast descending on her folded hands;
The showery clouds thus dim the azure skies,
Thus round the moon the misty halos rise.
Faint on my ear the murmuring accent breaks;
Low hollow gales the plaintive sounds convey,
And thus the mourner says,—or seems to say:
“A keener pang than disappointed love?
“My darling Sheridan's devoted cares!
“On her vain brows his lavish wreaths are thrown,
“His thousand radiant gems emblaze her zone.
“O'er each gay grace of wit supreme command,
“Yet, with sublimer force, my chemic fire
“With proud distinction deck'd his sacred lyre;
“To purest gold its warbling wires I turn'd,
“When their sweet lays o'er lifeless Garrick mourn'd.
“My charms superior, and my right to reign;
“When, with the majesty my impulse throws
“In chasten'd splendour, on the poet's brows,
“He bade the tears, that stream'd o'er Asia's Queen,
“Flow soft in real Sorrow's lonely scene:
“And, while they melt the heart, inspire its zeal
“To sooth by pity, or by bounty heal.
“Ah! soon he smiled those graceful tears away,
“And for my frolic Rival wore the lay.
“Alone has warpt from me his love and truth;
“That soon the rover may again be mine,
“And with unfading laurels deck my shrine.
“And on my shrine the cypress garland throws.
“O! may the fost'ring breath of public praise,
“Preserve from cruel blight the votive sprays!”
Slow glides the Muse down yonder winding isle.
Fulfil, with suffrage kind, her fervent prayer!
And since no force of wit, or comic art,
Can shut to Sorrow's plaint the British heart,
Hope whispers that your praise may bless the Bard,
His first ambition, and his bright reward.
PROLOGUE
TO THE FORTUNATE DISAPPOINTMENT.
Whose powers persuasive steal into the heart,
When graceful motion, and when accent just,
Prove faithful ever to the writer's trust,
No idle aim, no light design betrays,
For virtue smiles on generous thirst of praise:
And oft exterior elegance we find
Give added influence to the noble mind!
Since warmest glow the emulative fires,
If, while our sense approves, our taste admires.
Prompt the kind efforts of our moral muse.
Of cold reserve, or baser malice born)
Bid fair Ingenuousness each thought reveal,
To the mild guardians of her studied weal,
Whom long experience has empower'd to know,
When fleeting pleasures lead to lasting woe.
Where serpents lurk beneath the gaudy flowers,
Oft will their cares the passing hour employ
To ope for you the springs of genuine joy;
Point the safe track where Life's worst perils cease,
The ways of pleasantness, the paths of peace.
EPILOGUE
TO THE FORRUNATE DISAPPOINTMENT.
What self-reproach must wound the virgin's heart,
Rashly who dares from monitory eyes
Veil her increasing passions, as they rise!—
Ah thankless!—cold!—she has no middle choice,
But long repentance, or enduring vice,
Eliza's tears, or the detested guile
Of artful Caroline's betraying smile;
Fault leads to fault, till all the soul's defiled,
And in base woman, ends the cunning child.
That, while each sister-bud in beauty blows,
Deep in its core the cankering worm receives,
Whose sickly slime cements the yellowing leaves.
Contracts the worth, the gladness of the soul;
Dims all the rays that light the artless eye,
Pales the soft cheek, and prompts the secret sigh.
Like the fell spider, weave her treacherous clue.
Emblem of hearts, where Envy's venom swells,
That dark, sly, solitary reptile dwells;
Bane to the heedless insect of the meads,
That near the gleaming maze of viscous threads
Waves the light wing, which now no more shall bear
The entangled victim thro' the sunny air.
Joys, or of sisterly, or social love,
Stung by their conscious worthlessness, prepare,
For others' peace, the smooth insidious snare.
Ere errors grow, by habit, into crimes!
To think the counsels guardian friends impart
Best shield from ill the inexperienced heart;
Cherish each virtuous impulse, and improve
To fairest flowers the seeds of duteous love!
Grace our gay prime, adorn our fading age,
And in unfading colours tint their gems,
Enlivening Gratitude, and generous Truth,
Shine the warm day-stars of our rising youth.
COMPLAINT OF AN ARABIAN LOVER.
ODE.
Sullen and drear, his sable wing has spread!
The waning moon, with interrupted light,
Gleams cold and misty on my fever'd bed!
Cold as she is, to her my bursting heart
Shall pour its waste of woe, its unavailing smart.
My restless limbs no balmy languors know;
Grieved tho' I am, yet grief's assuaging showers
From burning eye-balls still refuse to flow;
Love's jealous fires, kindled by Aza's frown,
Not the vast watery world, with all its waves can drown.
Still in their destined sphere serene they move;
Nor does their mild effulgence shine in vain,
Like the fierce blazes of neglected love:
But this—this pang dissolves the galling chain!
Aza, a broken heart defies thy fix'd disdain!
A critical friend of the author's seemed to doubt whether a frown kindling fire was just metaphor; but, since it is poetically orthodox to say that the flame of love is lighted by the sunny ray of a smile, that of jealousy may certainly be said to enkindle from the lightning ofa frowning eye. There are lurid and dismal fires, as well as bright and cheerful ones.
BLINDNESS,
A POEM.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF AN ARTIST, WHO LOST HIS SIGHT BY THE GUTTA SERENA, IN HIS TWENTY-EIGHTH YEAR, AND WHO WAS THEREFORE OBLIGED TO CHANGE HIS PROFESSION FOR THAT OF MUSIC.
Illumed creation with his glorious ray;
And long of youth and health the rosy hours
Saw liberal toil, with promissory powers,
Preparing, against faded age, the peace
Of modest competence, when strength might cease.
Then,—as with cheerful hope my earnest sight
Imbibed the blessings of the sacred light,
Slow on that sight the mists preclusive stole;
Dim and more dim the gathering shadows roll,
Sunk into darkness 'mid the blaze of noon!
Each laughing beauty, each terrific grace;
To see warm Spring her vital influence pour,
Green the bleak field, and gild the balmy shower;
Tint the young foliage with her tenderest hue,
And feed the opening flowers with richest dew!
Leave half the river's pebbly channel dry,
On breathing meads the fragrant haycocks pile,
Till the ripe Year's consummate glories smile:—
With gold and purple tip the unfaded leaves;
Crown amber morning with serenest noons,
And night's dark zenith with protracted moons;
Shake the rich fruit from every loaded bough,
And with the wheaten wreath adorn her brow;
Till colder gales the paled horizon roam,
And stain and smear the gold-empurpled bloom,
While sweeping fogs, conglobing as they pass,
Bend with their silent drops the long coarse grass,
And change, as on screen'd plat it timid blows,
To livid hue the lone and lingering rose;
And crust with ice the borders of the rills;—
Pensive I mark'd, when, with reverted eyes,
Disorder'd garments and foreboding sighs,
The last fair season left hill, dale, and plain,
The yielded victims of the iron reign:—
Swoln floods arresting with petrific breath,
Send round the mountains all his winds to howl,
Pale the slow morn, and bid the long night scowl;
But ah! the glowing hearth, the neat repast,
Derided oft the despot's power to blast,
Since, if without his furious storms might pass,
Boom thro' the vales, and rattle on the glass,
Within was the gay talk, the flowing bowl,
And Friendship's smile, that summer of the soul!
Only on memory's record;—yet ye give
The retrospective pleasure, ne'er to rise
To the sad few, of ever-rayless eyes,
Whose infant orbs, not opening on the light,
From night maternal sprung to ceaseless night;
Lost to their sense each charm kind Nature shews,
That dawns and spreads, that varies and that glows.
Exemption from those pangs which rack the mind,
Springing from foil'd solicitude to reach
What Genius cannot paint, nor Wisdom teach;
Pangs which the fruitless thirst to know inspires
With ever-craving, never-fed desires!
Arrested by my groan, exhaled my tear!
Yet, yet Creation stands a blank to me,
Her face now cover'd with a sable sea;
Still am I doom'd thro' life's rough paths to stray,
A long, deprived, and desolated way.
To my internal sight auspicious rose
A beauteous pair:—Music, the nymph sublime,
With stores increasing from the morn of Time;
Such melodies as, slowly rising, stole
On Saul's distracted sense with sweet controul,
Till frantic Rage and fell Despair were flown,
And Hope resumed her abdicated throne.
To charm and tranquillize the stormy breast,
Ere harmony began her mazy rounds,
Blending accordant with discordant sounds,
Till thro' the ear the mingled currents roll,
One sweet, one perfect, one revolving whole;
And bade thee, Music, reign o'er every mind.
Rebellious only theirs, who breathe and move,
Palsied to sympathy and dead to love;
Dull as the rank, gross weeds, that feed and sleep,
Where silent Lethe's opiate waters creep.
By Art invented, thro' the wide abode
Of civilized existence, power obtains
Social to spread th' intelligible strains.
While varying language, in each foreign clime,
Is only known by study and by time,
One are thy symbols, and where'er they come,
At once perceived, escape the Bable doom.
“Sphere-born,” thou com'st from black Despair to save,
And sooth me fall'n into a living grave.
In mortal semblance, tho' with soul divine!
And whose the form the gentle Seraph wears,
Scattering her roses o'er this vale of tears?
Example bright to these degenerate times,
Dark with the Ethiop stains of female crimes;
She, whom no levity allures to stray
Near e'en the confines of the faithless way;
Heaven calls her Mercy, but Earth names her Leeds;
This morning star, this fair, diffusive light,
That sparkles by, and gilds my live-long night.
VERSES,
SENT WITH SOME ORNAMENTS FOR THE HAIR TO MISS MARGARET KNOWLES,
ON HER RECOVERY FROM INOCULATION FOR THE SMALL POX, IN HER 17TH YEAR.
With these slight tokens of her wishes kind,
Mix'd with her praise for having dared disarm
The dread contagion of its power to harm,
Furrow the cheeks, and blast their rising bloom,
Or prove the loathsome escort to the tomb.
Now, blithe as morning larks, thy steps shall stray,
Fearless, tho' beauty's demon cross thy way.
His fell effluvia, when it loads the gale,
Thy rosy breath untainted may inhale,
And waft thy pious gratitude to Heaven,
Who with the bane, the antidote has given.
The Poetical Works of Anna Seward | ||