Original poems on several subjects In two volumes. By William Stevenson |
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ELEGIES. |
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Original poems on several subjects | ||
ELEGIES.
Multa? ------
Hor.
AN ELEGY ON THE Cutting down of an Oak.
In Three Parts.
------ Nemorisne sacri vastabit honores,
Facundam violans umbram ------
Nempe focum ut cumulet pretioso robore vilem?
Anon.
I. PART I.
From eastern climes to usher in the day,
On Night's dark face reflects a transient glance,
Which scarce perceiv'd spreads through the murk expanse;
Till, from the dewy radiance of her eyes,
Another ray, and yet another, flies.
Succeeded still to infinite by more;
Till all the air, unbounded to the sight,
Seems one continu'd stream of orient light.
Meantime, the forest dun, and mountain blue,
Rise in uncouth magnificence to view;
The city next, the villa, cottage, fold,
And landscape, far as eye can well behold;
The cottage, villa, forest, landscape wide,
Stript by the rig'rous North of all their pride.
No jocund call of music loving Spring
As yet invites the feather'd tribe to sing.
Winter his frown delights still to assume,
Wrapt dreary round in congregated gloom.
A sullen stillness universal reigns,
And hushes all the mirth-abandon'd plains.
A lifeless torpor, centre-felt, invades
The woods and groves, unconscious of their shades.
With ev'ry blast unusual coldness chills,
And deep-form'd mists invest the naked hills.
The landscape round stretch'd to a vast extent;
An ancient Oak its infant juices drew,
And to full majesty of stature grew.
In leafy pomp the celebrated tree;
Charm'd to contemplate Nature's giant-son,
Fed by the genial seasons as they run.
Here dancing round their little-bodied queen,
In antic measures and vagaries light,
While conscious shines the kindred orb of night;
Of rites perform'd, with odd romantic signs,
Mysterious circles, and fantastic lines:
Others, of voices heard, and accents strange,
Confus'dly mix'd in busy interchange,
Still render'd stranger by invention's pow'r,
Assisted by the silent, solemn hour.
As if the rage of tempests to defy!
The circuit of its branchy arms how wide,
In leafless pomp diffus'd on ev'ry side,
Which now thrice thirty summer-suns have seen,
O'erspread luxuriant with returning green!
Vain ostentation! unavailing state!
Which serve but to accelerate its fate!
The hind, unconscious, from his hostile stand,
Whirls round the guilty hatchet in his hand,
The trunk that severs from its root below.
So, when his stern commission Death receives,
When hope itself the sick man's pillow leaves;
In vain would Fortune her first offers make,
No bribe the king of terrours deigns to take.
The pomp of palaces, the glare of state,
And all the proud regalia of the great,
May add distinction to Death's gloomy hour,
But not prevent the triumph of his power:
His dart once pointed, must unerring fly,
One victim perish, or a thousand die.
As to the prize, his arrows love the dark,
To him alike the mean and noble mark,
The lowly cottage, and the lordly dome,
Which kings or simple peasants make their home.
Through its firm vitals cuts the keen-edg'd blade;
Or in its side, drawn by alternate toil,
The sharp-tooth'd saw sinks deep with slight recoil.
A thousand echoes, from their slumbers woke,
Lend their reluctant ears to ev'ry stroke;
And mix their voices sad, to tell around
The woods, what means each unaccustom'd sound.
By rocks and hills repeated o'er and o'er,
While all abrupt afford it ampler swell,
Struck from each cliff, and shook in every dell.
Each woodland youth the din confus'd enjoys,
And with redoubled pith his axe employs.
Let those receive who justly merit blame—
The plexus spun so admirably fine,
The net-work pipes, and tubes in artful twine,
Through which Earth's vegetative fluids glide,
By heat fermented to a living tide;
The strongly-woven tunics wrapt about,
And exquisite contexture form'd throughout;
These hid from common observation lie,
Nor court the wonder of the vulgar eye.
Few daring minds are born sublime to range
Yon argent fields, where orbs successive change;
On ev'ry planet's fiery axle hurl'd,
To make the tour of the celestial world:
Few chosen spirits form'd divine to know
The secret wonders of our earth below;
Surpassing wonders, wisdom's nicer work,
That through the vegetable kingdom lurk!
The lofty stems with clouds aspiring mix'd,
To try what strength still unsubdu'd remains,
What vigour swells its yet unmangled veins,
Convuls'd throughout, it totters on its base,
Reluctant to forsake its native place,
That airy station it enjoy'd so long,
A kind asylum to the feather'd throng,
Where ever their Vertumnal strains began,
Safe in its bosom from the grasp of man!
Where oft beneath its mantle hung of green,
From noon's intrusive glance a present screen,
The shepherd wander'd with his fleecy care,
To breathe the cooly fragrance of the air!
Softly to warble, on sylvestran reed,
While round his lambs, as if attentive, feed,
Such simple notes as rural love inspires,
The blooming lass his witless heart admires;
Perhaps, in some close shelter out of sight,
By her regarded with a fond delight.
Can it the rage of furious axes stay?
Alas! expectant of its speedy doom,
The frighted birds depart with undress'd plume.
Their former stated haunts at noon forgot.
Men too predictive prudently withdraw,
Waiting the final stroke with silent awe.
What then remains, abandon'd thus by all,
But a mark'd victim in despair to fall?
The supercilious eye looks meanly down,
That once (so Fortune's changing wheel requires)
Sparkled with Adulation's partial fires.
Amid the sunshine of a monarch's smile,
While slaves approach'd his seat with fulsome style,
How did each sycophant dance in his train,
Of but a look's unguarded wafture vain!
With what respectful air each dangler trips!
What smooth-form'd speeches flutter on his lips!
How shines each Proteus-feature with esteem!
What he is not the labour great to seem!
But lo! the tide of royal favour ebbs,
A passing breath breaks Grandeur's court-spun webs;
Where now the venal tribe, the courteous race?
Gone to the levee of the next—in place.
Long anxious the declining top to spy;
The feeble structure seems to lean aside.
From the pent clouds a sudden gust descends,
And full among the boughs its fury spends;
Weak and more weak the wounded fabric grows,
Strong pulls the rope, and blows succeed on blows:
The shock conjoin'd unable to sustain,
It stoops, it groans, it thunders to the plain;
A cumb'rous ruin wide extended lies,
Thrown from the middle region of the skies.
Nor mourn its fate in elegiac strain?
To verse still consecrated trees have stood,
And oaks are styl'd the monarchs of the wood.
Let then in pity her sad numbers flow,
And heave her bosom with ingenuous wo.
Late trembling she essay'd the Dorian lyre ,
By Thomson erst wak'd to unusual fire;
With trembling pencil, caught on Fancy's wing,
Sketch'd an imperfect landscape of the Spring.
Delightful task! to mark the new-blown flow'r,
The fragrant herb, and plant of healing pow'r;
Sparkling with dew conglob'd in many a gem;
Prolific clouds in kindly rain dissolv'd,
Soft months return'd, and genial suns revolv'd!
Delightful task! with curious eye to trace
Each change progressive on Creation's face;
In numbers art to make like nature look,
To imitate the murmur of the brook;
The love-sigh wafted through the green alcove,
The zephyr's plaint, and warble of the grove!
Delightful task! attentive to survey
Winter as he from earth directs his way;
To see him all his icy chains unloose,
And lessen his impetuous rains to dews;
To hear his storms, still'd their sonorous roar,
Sink to the breeze that pants along the shore;
To see gay Spring, invok'd long to appear,
Succeed the gloomy tyrant of the year;
Beauty and Youth her handmaids from the sky,
Health in their look, and radiance in their eye:
While sun-warm'd gales shed odours from their wings,
And ev'ry thicket, clad in verdure, sings.
Ah! now, a sad reverse her strain demands,
Not plenty lavish'd with unsparing hands,
But her first glory levell'd with the dust!
Catastrophes far other we deplore;
Things animate alone engage our sigh,
Or draw the tear impassion'd to our eye.
Yet shall the Muse a rule establish'd break,
And boldly teach Creation dumb to speak;
Converse with Nature's silent offsprings round,
And tread, though cautious, on forbidden ground.
Nor rashly blame, upon a slight review,
Uncommon things seem censurable too.
To touch the noblest springs that move the heart;
Finely instruction with delight to mix,
Convince the judgment, and the fancy fix;
Who bade, though dead some thousand years before,
Mæonides revive on Albion's shore,
Mæonides, whate'er fam'd test we seek,
Not less renown'd a Briton, than a Greek!
Or could I soar, like his rapt muse sublime,
Unfetter'd by the stiff restraints of rhyme,
Who, with the swell of music on his tongue,
The Pleasures of Imagination sung;
Which, tracing out, we wish devoutly ours;
Virtue's own feelings to our sense conveys,
His polish'd diction but his second praise!
That still befriends us in the pressing hour!
Fir'd by whose beauty, and beneath whose smile,
Would I my thoughts improve, correct my style.
He merits fame, who writes on Virtue's plan,
The friend of Virtue, is the friend of man.
O Virtue! source of chaste refin'd desire,
Thee when I cease to honour and admire;
Cease, though in poor endeavours, to practise
Thy laws, and recommend them to the wise,
Or, when with doubts perplex'd, from Reason stray'd,
Cease to implore thy guidance and thy aid;
May my ungrateful heart forget to throb,
And life end in one agonizing sob!
Shall that vain thankless being be prolong'd,
By whose existence Thou art basely wrong'd?
—But let the elegiac strain begin,
At least the prize of meaning well to win.
That gave thy aged form the mortal stroke,
Unwhetted for so cruel a design;
Far other scenes the Muses now had sung,
To sadness the according lyre unstrung:
Of Nature, form'd in all her works alike
To fix the judgment, and the fancy strike;
Of Merit, plac'd in infinite degrees,
Such as the eye by Truth's fair optics sees;
Of Friendship, manly, gen'rous, and refin'd,
The gentle inmate of the noble mind;
Of Beauty, heighten'd by the blushing charm
Of Modesty, which tyrants must disarm;
Of Fame, dispensing to her votive croud
The laurel crown, with sound of clarions loud.
But though a mangled carcase on the ground,
Thy honours scatter'd in disgrace around;
Immortal shalt thou live, renown'd in song,
If to the verse immortal can belong—
For here the Muse would intermit her grief,
A glorious scene supplies a kind relief.
To Britain sacred be the patriot strain,
And who in Britain's ear would dare complain?
Through ev'ry age invincible by thee,
Unrivall'd empress of the watery plains;
In floating bulwarks, Freedom's flag unfurl'd,
Points the wing'd thunder, and o'erawes a world.
Hence to her sceptre kings shall subject be,
And haughty tyrants bend on suppliant knee.
Hence shall her empire through the earth extend,
And only with time's latest period end.
Her chief defence should claim her chiefest care.
The naval pillar that her throne supports,
Her wave-built castles, her breeze-wafted forts;
Her magazines of death, with canvas wings,
Should still to Britons be momentous things.
While other nations lie expos'd a prey
To tyrants bent on universal sway;
Nature bestow'd, rais'd at her own expense,
To Britons wooden walls for their defence.
Let Britons then within these walls reside,
Their strength combin'd no factions to divide;
Defend with valour, guard with watchful eye,
As if an angel, beck'ning each, stood by;
Valour with unanimity, that boast
The noblest deeds, where dangers threat the most.
May with her oak her diadem resign;
As heroes by some vulgar shaft may die,
When, too secure, their armour they lay by;
Fate wills them on each other to depend,
As one at first, to meet one common end.
The sov'reign's safety, and a kingdom's fate;
That glory which prosperity attends,
Which age to age, increasing still, extends!
As thou art timely summon'd to our aid,
Fame's circling laurels bloom afresh, or fade;
The gem in Albion's crown looks doubly bright,
Or foully tarnish'd to the Patriot's sight
Once too, within thy hospitable trunk,
Faint thro' fatigue, and with misfortunes sunk,
A monarch rested, friendless and alone,
A solitary exile from his throne.
A kind retreat thy loyal arms supply,
Where injur'd Majesty secure may lie;
Hither no traitor foe his step directs,
No hostile eye the royal shade suspects.
Who haughtily Europa's states divide!
Your lordly claims, your boasted triumphs o'er,
Whose shall the empire of the ocean be,
Bestow'd on Albion, by divine decree.
And justly too the diadem she craves,
Who dwells, her native clime, amid the waves;
Guarded by rocks projecting o'er the deep,
Banks inaccessible, and mountains steep;
Tremendous bulwarks rear'd by Nature's hand,
Against Ambition's proud assaults to stand;
To check each tyrant's insolent approach,
Who would on Freedom's darling spot encroach;
A spot mark'd out by Heav'n's approving eye,
To share the choicest blessings of the sky;
Albion the just, whom Fate below employs,
To keep the interests of a world in poise;
No diminution e'er her power to know,
Till oaks themselves in forests cease to grow.
Thus would thy praise in faithful numbers tell;
Thy praise, that must descend through ev'ry age,
While British deeds adorn the lib'ral page.
But ah! how short the respite now enjoy'd!
The plaintive lyre must be again employ'd
Pity renew'd demands the mournful strain.
For, whether youthful in Vertumnal bloom,
Wisdom solac'd beneath thy solemn gloom;
Or stretch'd the earth, a rootless trunk, along,
Still art thou form'd alike to live in song.
Who practises her precepts o'er and o'er;
Whose bright example daily shows mankind,
How near perfection brought the human mind;
Alive or dead, with equal merit draws,
Claims our esteem, and rivets our applause;
For though depriv'd of temporary breath,
He speaks in silence, and he lives in death.
Pervious thy tubes, thy dormant sap alive.
No more expand thy cold-contracted pores,
Pointing the ray thy freshness that restores.
No more shall moisture through thy bark transude,
Or summer-heats thy infant stems protrude.
No more soft foliage mantle thee around,
To cast refreshing shadows on the ground.
No more the bees thy close recesses haunt,
With honey homeward bound for future want.
To cool the fervours of the noontide sun.
Music no more attentive nature charms,
From the hid centre of thy circling arms,
While Echo, mindful of the list'ning swain,
Repeats the dying cadence of each strain.
No more the rook, returning home, shall see
Far off her airy build aloft on thee,
Lin'd warm within from incommoding air,
A fit example of parental care;
No more her down-cloth'd young with rapture view,
Agape for food, her labours to renew;
Now, taught their nests instinctive to forsake,
Around its edge the offer'd morsel take;
Now hopping, half afraid, from spray to spray,
Ere through mid-air they dauntless wing their way.
Pattern to man, ere launch'd out any length
In bold designs, to estimate his strength.
To learn from instinct, though despis'd so oft.
Instinct, howe'er fam'd moralists define,
Is reason, but a little less divine,
More circumscrib'd, or languid in its power,
Though not less steady in the trying hour.
It differs in degree, but not in kind;
As stars, of various distance through the skies,
Or diamonds, not in water, but in size.
Descend then, man, from insolence and scorn,
Reason, your boast, is but the elder born;
One common parent both respective claim,
Alike in nature, though distinct in name;
For though vain man so arrogantly wise,
Instinct itself may reason oft advise.
Nor instinct only, trees may silence break,
And to mankind's confusion learn to speak.
Beyond the vulgar daubings of the pen.
Spread out in full luxuriancy of shade,
Which vainly storms and hurricanes invade,
We in the oak's strong lineaments behold
The brave, unshaken, masculine, and bold.
The flexile, wav'ring, and enervate heart,
Subject at ev'ry accident to start,
At trifles scar'd, as at death's final stroke,
Boast no resemblance to the manly oak.
When the warm sun advances in his signs,
And with invigorating radiance shines;
Last of the grove his raiment he puts on;
Or when the lord of day his heat withdraws,
And seasons change by universal laws;
Last of the forest too, with decent pride,
His robes of shining green he lays aside.
Thus he, the rational consistent man,
Who acts on Virtue's fair and steady plan,
Feels no abrupt elation in his mind,
When Fortune, fickle favourite, is kind;
Nor mean depression, though her wheel cast up
Some evil to embitter life's sad cup.
Some men, quite soft and feminine in make,
At common things prophetically quake.
If but disease attacks his neighbour's fold,
Or on his barns the casual flame takes hold;
If an eclipse (foretold) the welkin shrouds,
Or thunders burst from agitated clouds;
If but a meteor shoots across the sky,
Or some untimely funeral passes by:
His mind with omens and forebodings swells,
And ev'ry look his superstition tells.
Such in the Oak no pleasing likeness find,
Foes to themselves, nor friends to humankind.
II. PART II.
To view his noble group of objects nigh;
The time-rent ruin, with huge turrets fac'd,
The temple on some elevation plac'd;
The woody lab'rinth planted without bound,
The costly buildings scatter'd all around;
From smoke the city rising by degrees,
The hamlet shaded by surrounding trees;
The lofty bridge, whose arches proudly rise,
The distant ocean mixing with the skies;
The round fir clump, cloth'd in perennial green,
The cloud-topt mountain, through perspective seen;
The gilded steeple far-remote beheld,
The river in broad sheets of water swell'd;
—The well-known oak—but ah! no oak appears,
Beneath the load of venerable years—
“What! gone?—impossible!”—amaz'd he cries,
“Sure some unusual languor dims mine eyes;
“Say not, admir'd but some few hours before,
“The beauty of the landscape is no more.”
Too soon convinc'd of thy untimely fall,
A solitary prospect only left,
Of every wonted ornament bereft.
He shuts his window with indignant haste,
Disgusted at man's poverty of taste;
Whose narrow views still point at sordid pelf,
Of mankind fond, but fonder of himself.
With bended neck, or proud head toss'd aloft,
Has the young steed, of gen'rous birth, regal'd
On succulent repasts that never fail'd?
From hence led forth, obedient to the sign,
To form in rich caparison the line;
Unmov'd from stern disdain and martial pride,
Though cohorns burst in thunder at his side;
The coronet-adorn'd machine to grace,
With lordly port and art-conducted pace;
To run the stated course's crouded round,
Scarce left a foot-track loit'ring on the ground;
Or stretch, o'er yonder heath's unmeasur'd space,
Each swelling muscle in the jovial chace,
While hopes of triumph strange delight impart,
And with big tumults heave his bounding heart.
The noblest animal that feeds the plain.
How his brac'd nervous sinews swell with strength!
How graceful in his shape, his height, his length!
How elegantly careless flows his mane!
How sweeps his tail luxuriant on the plain!
How smooth the glossy polish of his skin!
How prompt each various gait he wantons in!
How vigour his broad turgid chest expands!
How swiftly he careers! how firm he stands!
His ears how exquisitely pair'd alike!
How equally his limbs in motion strike!
How from his nostrils, in successive wreaths,
Efflux of life, the fire ethereal breathes!
Beyond whate'er resemblance can imply,
How bright the vital fluid of each eye!
How airy, how vivacious, how alert,
His fearless spirit, and unconquer'd heart!
Ah! now, around the well-remember'd tree,
No more to frisk, from the rude snaffle free!
No more, with heat and food luxurious cloy'd,
Prefer its shade to suns and meads enjoy'd!
With passions all of one attemper'd mold;
To feast beneath this hospitable shade;
Where, gather'd in the produce of the soil,
They erst relax'd themselves from annual toil;
Where peals sonorous of broad laughter rung,
Each told his tale, and each his sonnet sung;
Where inoffensive jokes ran quick as thought
From mouth to mouth, as by infection caught;
Where copious draughts dissolv'd each heart in mirth
And gave a thousand pleasing frolics birth:
Where shall the reapers now, at noon, resort,
To share returns of such unenvy'd sport?
Of all that once to merit could pretend,
(If we may here, licens'd by critic's law,
From things inanimate resemblance draw)
The social circle thus were wont to sit,
Charm'd with his manly eloquence and wit;
To hear him, not like learning's pedant tribe,
Virtue in her own native form describe,
Which ravishes the more, the nearer seen,
No veil scholastic, no disguise between.
With what a graceful ease his language flow'd,
Which not by starts, but uniformly glow'd!
In pomp of words whose only merit lies.
Now all the senses seem an eye ingross'd,
Now in an ear with equal wonder lost.
His style by study haply might be caught,
But not his simple elegance of thought.
There he excell'd, unrival'd and alone,
With fancy, manner, sense, and taste, his own.
He scorn'd that formal disingenuous part,
To point out virtues strangers to his heart.
On those that grac'd his life he only dwelt,
And ev'ry sentiment he painted, felt.
Each fine emotion he judg'd friendship by,
Smil'd in his cheek, or sparkled in his eye.
Must do far more than merely to admire.
Fools may admire, but none, except the wise,
Know where the duty, or the merit lies;
And knowing, with refinement shar'd by few,
Perform the one and claim the other too.
He that loves Virtue, for pure Virtue's sake,
Would her prefer, though crowns themselves at stake.
Such more respect by one good action pays,
Than who compiles a volume in her praise.
That oft from pride, this but from wisdom springs.
A man, by thinking, oft becomes a fool,
With all the boasted learning of the school;
While he whose thoughts but the bare surface skim,
Is justly styl'd a Socrates to him.
Virtue resides not in the head, but heart,
The man of theory loves her but in part,
Or loves, as men love courtiers, for their place,
As on his ethics she confers a grace.
Not for herself does she his value win,
But for the garb his pride arrays her in.
In the profound of thought he loves to sink,
And pities those that tarry on the brink,
He dives for treasure, but his depth exceeds,
And finds himself involv'd in mire and weeds;
While he, who only walks along the shore,
A diamond spies, or meets with golden ore.
The man, whose life's a transcript of his heart;
Acts both a selfish, and a gen'rous part;
Above the bait of honour and of pelf,
He cheats no mortal, nor deceives himself.
Such Celadon, the gentle and the kind,
His morals faultless, as his taste refin'd.
From Virtue's fane, from Wisdom's fountain-head.
By truth's unerring optics still he view'd
The path of life, and viewing it, pursu'd.
Got to his native skies an early call.
Merit, or virtue of sublime degree,
Men are below permitted but to see,
Not claim, as property transferr'd to them
Like the rich spotted fur, or costly gem.
So, in the compass of a thousand years,
The comet, glorious stranger, just appears,
Then, on his journey, worlds regret his stay,
Through depths of ether sweeps his dazzling way.
Blessings and talents, of superiour kind,
Seldom for long duration seem design'd;
Angels to such their fond pretensions make,
With mortals here ambitious to partake.
Ah! how unequal, whatsoe'er the prize,
The rival claim between the eath and skies!
Hence Celadon, few thus resign their breath,
Was snatch'd by sudden, not unwelcome death;
Snatch'd to those regions of eternal day,
Where worth and virtue bloom without decay.
Without one murmur, ere the evening-shade;
More hasty not the unexpected blow
That laid this Oak's umbrageous honours low.
The faithful shepherd, nor unconscious fair,
To interchange each other's soft desires,
In accents such as purest love inspires;
To form their tender wishes in a sigh,
To speak the melting language of the eye;
Or sweetly, in alternate measures, sing
That mutual passion whence their transports spring:
While May's gay songsters, with unwearied throats,
Warble their finely-modulated notes;
While gales in scarce-heard whispers fan them round,
Breathing the odours of the flowery ground,
And every moment with unusual speed,
As envious, seems its fellow to succeed.
The deepest solitude and thickest shade;
Like lightning with ethereal swiftness dart
Through the recesses of the human heart,
Each appetite to thy subjection bring,
Guide Life's chief movements, touch its every spring!
Thy active magic its effects displays,
When Youth's keen wishes sparkle in the eye,
And with wild throbs the conscious pulse beats high.
Our Winter owns thy vivifying ray,
When worn-out Nature feels a quick decay.
The frozen current, stagnate in our veins,
A new-excited undulation gains;
Life's half-spent lamp renews its languid fires,
And strange delight each feeble sense inspires.
But for that gentle charm deriv'd from thee,
What perfect savages would mortals be?
Less tame than yonder tenants of the wild,
For beasts themselves by thee are render'd mild;
The lion fierce stills his appalling roar,
And wolves forget to stain their jaws with gore.
Oh! may my bosom still thy transports know,
There may thy milder ardours ever glow,
Free from the torments, nothing can assuage,
Of disappointed hope and jealous rage;
Free from the dry reserve, the cool disgust,
And guilty tumults of licentious lust.
So shall the same kind venerable tree
Of seeming opposites productive be
Now happily refrain, to rise no more.
Thus the same ray, that scorches up the plains,
Cools the thin juices in the melon's veins.
The same kind lunar orb, with occult powers,
Directs the ebbing and the flowing hours.
How many will thy absent shades lament;
Kind refuge to the apprehensive swain,
When thunder-clouds dissolv'd in hasty rain!
Deceas'd, leaves weeping half the world behind;
Our thoughts no other subject can ingross,
We speak but to deplore the general loss.
Time, place, and circumstance, recall to mind
His presence, with officiousness unkind.
Who now like him, benevolent to all,
A friend, a guardian, at soft pity's call,
To screen Misfortune in whatever form,
As once this tree a covert from the storm?
As it the foremost beauty of its kind,
So he the glory of his race design'd.
Long tyrant Love's unworthy shackles worn,
The dear initials on thy tender bark;
The dear initials of his charmer's name,
Ah! unaffected by a mutual flame!
Happy, each early morn, or closing eve,
To read the well-known characters, and grieve;
With all his passions melting in his eyes,
The only comfort his hard lot supplies.
Beneath thy shady canopy of green;
Pleas'd to run through, with intermingled glance,
The mazy evolutions of the dance;
While graceful every limb obsequious moves,
As each with self-applauding smile approves;
Pleas'd to detect, what each would fondly hide,
From arch reserve, or bashful maiden pride.
Pleas'd their flush'd charms should have this twain effect,
All to behold, not one the art suspect.
How fresh, how virid look'd thy pensile gloom!
Amongst thy boughs how zephyrs breath'd perfume!
No more in leafy pomp to wave above,
The youthful sports of innocence and love!
Thy shoot of infancy and fall between,
Resign'd at once their sceptre and their breath;
Others advanc'd successive in their room,
Victims ere long to the same common doom.
What changes from unapprehended springs,
What unexpected turns of human things,
While millions of the blust'ring sons of Pride,
That seem'd the world by suffrage to divide,
Strutted with rude insulting air a while,
Then dropt forgot, amid ev'n Fortune's smile?
So insects sport in yonder noontide ray,
Swept by the first inclement blast away.
So painted mushrooms rise with morning-light,
And disappear ere the approach of night.
So bubbles on the pool, beneath a show'r,
Vanish and swell, ten thousand in an hour.
But now with them thy triumph's likewise o'er,
To mark time's strange vicissitudes no more.
To mark the labours of vain plodding man,
The sons to finish what their fires began;
To mark those deep designs late time unfolds,
That daily conflict Vice with Virtue holds,
Though from the field compell'd oft to remove,
Virtue, at last, sole conqueror to prove.
That shall, auspicious tree, attend thy fall;
Such moral hints hence in gradation rise,
As school-bred Learning may not blush to prize.
Thy early summits ting'd with liquid gold,
Propitious sign that, to expecting eyes,
The lord of day will visit soon the skies:
Or when the moon, pale majesty of night,
Effusive spreads abroad her sacred light,
No late-returning hind shall see display'd
In waving silver thy expansive shade;
Kind hint, no longer on vain cares to roam,
But hasten to his wishing consort home.
A rational expectant of the skies;
Who walks in Virtue's consecrated ways,
Amid the sunshine of his Maker's praise;
Who earth contemns, and as immortal lives,
Though nearer death each round the dial gives;
Such shines a living proof, some ages past,
No longer this uncertain state shall last;
This state of anarchy, of guilt and doubt,
Where wrapt in night poor mortals grope about,
Or grasp a lifeless phantom in her place;
Each scene from errour and confusion freed,
Eternal day unclouded shall succeed:
Why Virtue, else, unworthily distress'd,
Worn out with trouble, and with grief oppress'd?
Why still successful and triumphant Vice,
Her very smiles esteem'd at Virtue's price?
To each a friendly warning, to forsake
That course commenc'd from folly or mistake;
From laws of moral force misunderstood,
From false conceptions of the only good;
From voluntary sloth, to guilt akin,
From loose abandon'd principles within;
From prepossession, caprice, or from pride,
That all alike the footsteps turn aside:
By such a noble effort of the mind,
His nature's highest happiness to find;
His wishes bounded by time's narrow span,
To rise an angel, though inhum'd a man.
Which best deserves the epithet, divine;
For which mankind ten thousand projects try,
Contented live, and almost bear to die;
But call it, in plain language, being humble.
Let empty sophists various styles bestow,
This one word names all happiness below.
Here let the judgment rest, conjecture cease,
And here be ev'ry passion lull'd to peace.
With confidence let man depend alone
Upon himself, and trust his bliss to none.
This reason dictates, prudence recommends,
Prudence and reason ever mutual friends;
This common sense approves, that never looks,
For obvious truths, to colleges or books;
Convinc'd from Nature's fair and ample page,
Not the vain guesses of bewilder'd sage.
Some wits, in letters of gigantic size,
Who view plain things with scientific eyes,
Take mighty pains a needless fact to prove,
Because to wrangle such supremely love;
And still they learn'dly write, as if we doubted,
Till volumes swell, about it and about it.
Such are indeed a harmless set of men,
That wield, but not offensively, the pen.
The injury is to themselves they do,
Theirs is the toil, but not the profit too;
No laurel crown their service to repay,
For few buy works, conceit with trifling mix'd,
To fix a faith, that never was unfix'd.
III. PART III.
From unsuspected sources may arise.
On the bare lonely strand, or rocky height,
A costly diamond oft arrests the sight;
On mountains wild, or desert-tracts below,
Herbs of inestimable virtues grow.
Let none pronounce the subject barren then,
Trees may be taught sometimes to lecture men;
The vegetable world those thoughts inspire
That love from poring sages to retire;
Deride the vaunted knowledge of the age,
Learn'd from conceit, not Nature's sacred page.
These, taught in some sublime didactic lay,
Might mend our manners by the surest way;
Force our tumultuous passions to subside,
And humble the aspiring brow of pride.
Our profit's nearly balanc'd by the loss.
No more the youth, by love of science smit,
Shall under thy leaf-wove umbrella sit;
Charm'd with the wide diffusion of thy sprays,
Impervious to the noontide-pointed rays;
No care-form'd wrinkles on his brow imprest,
That mark the anxious thoughts estrang'd to rest;
That mark the inward bias disinclin'd
To study, and the pursuits of the mind;
Those objects that assimilate the taste
To Nature's standard, ever rightly plac'd;
Stamp on the passive heart each soft impress,
And bounds prescribe to ev'ry wrong excess;
Render the thoughts capacious, to extend
Not merely to existence, but the end;
Not to a moment's unsubstantial good,
But lasting, as by Virtue understood.
Distinguish'd thus, the studious youth no more
Shall here advance in Wisdom's hallow'd lore.
No more consult each deeply-labour'd page,
The well-collected knowledge of an age;
Where Nature's grand arcanas lie explain'd,
Where manners glow depicted as they reign'd;
While in succession empires rise or fall;
Kings are dethron'd, or slaves to monarchs rais'd,
Those lights extinguish'd that superiour blaz'd;
Lights of the church, the cabinet, and field,
Immortal names, that only once could yield!
Lights, far remov'd from Fame's illustrious strife,
That shone in circles of domestic life;
Though fainter their restricted radiance glows,
These not less glorious to a state than those.
No more, with eye elate, and kindled thought,
To relish beauties by example taught,
Shall he in thy romantic gloom peruse
The fine descriptions of the moral muse;
Where wit and humour charm with native ease,
By stealth surprise us, and by magic please;
Where delicately sketch'd each object looks
As drawn from living nature, not from books;
Where fancy's gay ideal pictures shine,
And manly sense inspirits ev'ry line:
While taste, as eyes illuminate the face,
Throws over all an elegance and grace.
Was wont the Mantuan poet to recline;
Fancy to view that earth's each beauty brings,
Howe'er dispers'd, beneath whatever suns,
As each soft smiling month its progress runs.
To shepherds and their flocks his lute he strung,
Of sylvan scenes, of groves, and fountains sung.
Taught husbandmen, in highly-polish'd strains,
How to improve the culture of their plains;
Behold their lusty herds innumerous thrive,
And whence Autumnal treasures to derive.
In such a shade the Caledonian fam'd
Was early by the partial Muses nam'd,
To paint the Seasons, that in turns appear,
To sing the glories of the circling year.
From his fine pen what apt descriptions flow!
What finish'd landscapes from his pencil glow!
The charms of Nature were but rudely known,
Till graceful in his matchless numbers shown:
Scarce fairer they our naked eyes attract,
Than in his soft embellishments when deck'd.
Genius awake with all her kindred fires!
What visions prompt the bard ecstatic laid
Beneath some full-spread oak's umbrageous shade,
No more the boast of Culture and of Spring.
While sacred ardours in her bosom burn,
Shall rapt Philosophy her footsteps bend,
Intent on man, his origin and end;
The glories of his intellectual frame,
Transcendent as that Being whence they came;
That point him out, his fetters left behind,
For Heaven and immortality design'd;
His senses, all the wonders of his make,
That of a nature less sublime partake;
Yet not less necessary, as they tend
To one just, sapient, well-adapted end:
Why sent below, a moment or an age,
To act his part on life's oft-trodden stage;
The appetites and passions in his train,
With dignity the drama to sustain;
With dignity, while Virtue over-rules,
And their internal fire excites or cools;
Then steal behind the scene from human eyes,
The gaze of fools, or wonder of the wise:
What renders him with reptiles on a par,
Reason to instinct oft inferiour far;
Angels his kindred, his retreat the sky,
Fain to secure the harbour of the grave,
Toss'd to and fro on life's tempestuous wave.
Such objects, by thy gloom inspiring caught,
No more rush boundless on her crouded thought.
Amid thy boughs their doleful notes resume;
That give an irksome melancholy joy
To whom lone Solitude's still cares employ.
Such, musing, as disconsolate deplore
A parent, or a consort, ah! no more;
Or, with remembrance that surpasses all
Distress, a bosom friend's untimely fall!
Whose hopes, pursuits, and wishes were the same,
Honest alike in mutual praise, or blame;
Whose kindred souls bore one impressive stamp,
No sordid strife their social joys to damp;
To disunite that union, which below
None but sublime congenial spirits know.
His centre-felt refulgency of blaze,
Attracted by thy moist expanse of shade,
No more beneath the poet shall be laid.
Whose consummate design each scene displays,
Whether the contemplation-wafted glance
Traverses earth, or yonder blue expanse;
Whose wisdom, goodness, and resistless pow'r,
Shine worthy of the Godhead ev'ry hour;
And all for man, fair offspring styl'd his own,
His image, the free subject of his throne.
No more each season's mild approach to sing,
The sheaf-crown'd Autumn, or the flow'r-wreath'd Spring,
With all the gay attendants in their train,
That jocund trip the cowslip-broider'd plain.
No more, if Love's heart-kindled passion warms,
Inspir'd by Beauty's fascinating charms,
To paint the exquisite sensation felt,
Sigh in soft measure, or in numbers melt.
Hail gen'rous ardour of the soften'd heart,
Which more implies than language can impart;
From whose kind impulse rather than be free,
We had at once much better cease to be;
Relinquish all that mortals good define,
Fame's circling laurel, and the golden mine.
Shall view the landscape by thy presence grac'd;
On humbler shoots a kind protection cast.
No more his pencil guide the glossy ink,
Hills here to raise, and valleys there to sink;
Transfer thy beauties to his fine-sketch'd view,
To wave in miniature, and bloom anew.
Uncouth would now appear his objects drawn,
Absent thy shades, the glory of the lawn.
Diversify'd by virtues and by crimes;
Figures in ev'ry attitude beheld,
Persons and things, that variously excell'd,
Assum'd new faces, acted different parts,
Fashions, and humours, policies, and arts;
How naked, how impoverish'd would appear
The awkward portrait of each busy year,
If that fine character which Virtue draws,
Stamp'd with a nation's suffrage of applause,
Did not within the artist's compass fall,
To throw a glow of beauty over all?
For he, the good, the wise, the godlike man,
Who from a worthy, settled, vigorous plan,
Not merely to be popularly great,
Promotes the native welfare of a state;
A lustre that reflects on every age;
As once these branches venerable threw
A certain grace o'er the surrounding view,
Forth issues winter's unauspicious blast,
The tender shrubs their orphan state bemoan,
Deny'd their wonted shelter round them thrown;
Deny'd thy genial moisture shed about,
When heat unsufferably glows without;
When vegetable life seems half destroy'd,
No cooling breeze, no lenient show'rs enjoy'd.
When his much-honour'd benefactor dies;
Whose bounty, with no mean restrictions shown,
Soften'd his cares scarce sufferable grown;
Bade Plenty smile, each pleasing comfort felt,
Where Want before emaciated dwelt.
Oh! sad reverse! each species of distress
Assails him, now, despairing of redress;
Save from an equal virtuous calm within,
A peaceful conscience unalarm'd by sin.
Nor sinks the noble soul beneath his load,
On whom such liberal blessings are bestow'd.
But not of hopes immortal, still alive.
He ne'er repines for ease enjoy'd erewhile,
But turns the frown of fortune to a smile.
Still on himself how much through life depends,
To find that happiness he would attain;
Hence his laborious search so often vain.
Ten thousand schemes invention fond employs,
We range life's circle of phantastic joys;
Immerge in cares, to distant climates roam,
To seek that treasure, only found at home.
Would you be happy, nor oblig'd to pelf?
Forsake the croud, and live within yourself.
There you a world in miniature will find,
Though not exact in bulk, exact in kind;
The various passions, bred in Wisdom's school,
Or Errour's, that the multitude o'er-rule.
From these then disciplin'd your peace derive,
Nor other means of happiness contrive.
Men take indeed, but rarely men bestow,
As rivers to their springs ne'er backward flow.
From home-set graftures your contentment shoots,
Tho' flourish trees sometimes from borrow'd roots;
Nor juices save from native tendrils drew.
Passing shall miss thee in thy wonted place;
Spring to prepare thy verdant suit, anon
Presented thee by Summer to put on;
Autumn thy little progeny to bid
Cling to each suckling branch, in embryo hid;
Winter, attended by his blasts, to throw
Around thy naked arms his sheets of snow.
The ivy, late thy waist fond clasp'd around,
Shall unambitious creep along the ground,
Till, in her progress, some majestic tree
She haply meets; of tow'ring growth like thee;
To tell, if such her happy fortune spies,
How low reduc'd, and seek his aid to rise.
Attracting the fond gaze of every eye;
When by inextricable causes thrown
From that superiour rank where late she shone;
(For errour, doubt, and accident involve
The noblest purpose, and the best resolve)
Passes her days in some sequester'd spot,
Despis'd her former grandeur, or forgot;
Far from the insolent approach of Pride;
Perhaps beneath the pressure of distress,
Till some reverse of Fortune make it less;
Some cast thrown up on her fantastic wheel,
Whence mortals half their joys and sorrows feel,
Sets her reluctant in her pristine state,
Not likely then more happy, though more great.
To simple themes thoughts simply turn'd belong;
And while on such we brevity preserve,
Haply from critic's precepts less we swerve.
Yet if instruction points the tedious lay,
Why not for once uncensur'd disobey?
If such strict laws utility condemn,
Say, why not decently dissent from them?
Unauthoriz'd by use, though pride of schools,
What merit boasts a set of formal rules?
A clock, with all the workman's finest art,
Finish'd in ev'ry nice-adjusted part,
Without the pendulum, to make it go,
Were but a school-boy's toy, a rareeshow.
To touch the heart's more glorious, reason says,
Than set to work ten learn'd heads in our praise.
Where Life's quick subtile springs concenter'd move,
Could but the numbers, with soft impulse, make
To melt in sorrow, or to rapture wake;
Critics unnoted should dispute the causes,
In Learning's court, of syllables and pauses.
From thee then, Oak, though long in ruins sunk,
A sapless, bare, unanimated trunk,
Mankind, with admiration and surprise,
To bind my brows, should see the laurel rise.
With frequent chirp, and rapture-quiver'd wing,
No birds conven'd shall croud thy naked boughs,
To interchange their hymeneal vows;
All eager with their fellow-mates to pair,
One common fortune through the year to shate;
In sweet domestic cares, and scenes of joy,
Their task-appointed moments to employ;
No cool reserve, no loud contentious strife,
To mar the comforts of their quiet life.
To those made one by wedlock—not by love?
Shall such o'erspread the virgin's cheek with shame,
Conscious her words or actions merit blame?
Where we should ever the soft sun-beam trace?
Shall wrath distort those features, moulded smooth
By Nature's hand, to soften and to soothe?
Shall fragrant cherry lips dispart, to show
Teeth clos'd with rage in double ivory row?
Shall eyes, which meekly radiant should be found,
Sparkle with ire, or flash the lightning round?
Shall that inchanting tongue o'erflow with gall,
Whence honey should alone effusive fall?
That dove-like bosom with commotions swell,
Where peace, and joy, and hope should only dwell?
That graceful presence, that angelic form,
Be furious toss'd in passion's self-rais'd storm?
That love to give delight, but never pain;
With all the modest ornaments of pride,
Nor to expose her beauties, nor to hide;
With all her charms of manner, form, and mien,
To gain respect, not barely to be seen;
Her sweetness, candour, delicacy, ease,
And graces inexpressible to please;
Woman seems Heaven's first fairest gift to man,
The consummation of her Maker's plan.
With ev'ry burst of agitated rage;
Throw into ferment her serener frame,
Nor redden once her cheek with conscious shame,
(The maid grown bold to run pert Folly's range)
What bosom sighs not at the striking change?
Now, she appears than mortal somewhat more,
And smiles, that we may Indian-like adore;
Now, in our wonder something less she seems,
While all may pity, but not one esteems.
Would female hearts with true ambition glow,
Know Nature, and still practise what you know.
This will Ardelia's boasted art outvie,
And charm beyond the twinkle of an eye;
This Livia's cheek with finer red will flush,
Than the vain carmine's artificial blush;
This will give native grace to Celia's air,
And make Aminta something more than fair.
To all the charms of person and of face,
Interiour sweetness, and external grace;
Did but the fair endeavour to excell
By thinking justly, whence flows acting well;
How would each youth low paltry pelf contemu,
Possess'd of more than gold, possess'd of them!
And this will all who her discretion share.
Who fond with her partakes the nuptial vow.
His temper, less by gentle methods rul'd,
Should by reflection be discreetly cool'd.
With headstrong passions, Nature gave him too
Reason their rage licentious to subdue.
Else things inadequate had she bestow'd,
And goodness less than wanton malice show'd.
Though styl'd the lord of earth, with haughty claim,
Of both the just authority's the same;
A right to rule he boasts on no pretence,
Unless from knowledge or superiour sense;
And who would not with promptitude obey,
When wisdom or when virtue bears the sway?
Marriage, thou cement of congenial minds!
Hail fate-tied knot, death can alone undo!
Hail rite mysterious to make one of two!
Pleas'd would the Muse thy mystic charms define,
If not digressive from her main design;
The gloomy Muse, whom elegy detains
In joyless numbers and lugubrious strains.
When worth deceases, or a Stella dies;
An insect crush'd presented to her eye,
Can lift her tender bosom to a sigh;
The fate untimely of a new-blown flow'r,
Or tree luxuriant that was wont to tow'r.
So vast an object to admiring eyes,
Thy knotty firmness opportune have sav'd
Thy form with such pre-eminence that wav'd?
Thou, whose hard sides can forceful balls repel,
Brave the rough wintry surge and tempest fell;
Support the mighty palace, yet at length
Ages to view thee unimpair'd in strength;
What shall a hatchet's momentary blow
Lay all thy proud display of grandeur low?
His courage faint, his limbs beneath him fail;
Seen his teeth chatter, swim his troubled sight,
His looks aghast, his hair on end with fright,
His countenance in dumb amazement fall,
When he beheld the writing on the wall:
The haughty look fled from his princely brow,
His meanest slave seems scarce beneath him now.
And plunge amid the thickest storms of war;
Without a shrink see Death tremendous slay
His thousands and ten thousands in a day;
The spear extended to destroy oppose,
And meet the arrow pointed by his foes.
But through his vitals dire dismay now reigns,
A gelid torpor creeps along his veins;
Though spirit erst through all his actions ran,
Now he appears an object less than man.
Death, in approach, is terrible to all.
With great or less dismay his arrows strike,
Haply the dread but in degree unlike.
Nature recoils at the severe decree,
Howe'er incurr'd, by which we cease to be;
The brain thought and sensation to convey,
The lungs to vibrate, and the heart to play.
Death the vain boaster to a coward turns.
The impulse of an agitated vein,
Supply'd with sudden transports from the brain;
The start of vengeance, or the flash of ire,
May temporary courage oft inspire;
And the impassive soul could bear to die:
But let the temper's partial warmth abate,
And coolly gain its ordinary state;
Let the swoln passion's ebulitions sink,
Give leisure to remonstrate, time to think;
Let Silence seem to listen with dread awe,
And Darkness round her midnight curtain draw:
Let Virtue her affronted rights assert,
And conscious guilt sting his detected heart;
How like a poltroon looks the hero fam'd,
His manhood vanish'd, his proud spirit tam'd!
Whate'er camps boast, alone from Virtue flows;
Fix'd, unappal'd, beneath habitual rule,
Ardent as noon, yet as the twilight cool;
Which instant dangers render more alert,
And no cross accidents can disconcert.
No task too complicated to surmount,
Hardships and toils esteem'd of no account;
Or if esteem'd, the prize but to enhance,
Not to retreat incentives, but advance.
Such valour like some wave-unshaken rock,
Bears the approach unmov'd of every shock.
As forest-oak that scorns the rushing storm.
Ah such wert thou, unrival'd of thy kind,
Whose loss now mourns the flock-entrusted hind,
As by thy ruins he directs his way,
Join'd by the Muse's sympathetic lay!
When moonlight shadows croud the lonely glade,
Bewails the bard, invited by the gloom,
His darling maid cut off in early bloom;
Cut off, her faded honours round her thrown,
Ere youth's fair-opening blossom fully blown;
As yonder lily fades, unkind the skies,
Declines her head, shrinks, languishes, and dies.
Nor let his tears of anguish cease to flow,
His bosom cease from the big swell of wo.
For who would give his gen'rous sorrows o'er,
The first, the best of womankind, no more?
The first in station; but her praise ascends
Above what to the vilest chance intends.
The first in merit, from the heart deriv'd!
Merit, her death seal'd eye-lid that surviv'd!
Merit, by Truth's own signature imprest,
Which few sepulchral honours dare attest!
Who objects views, no medium false between!
Merit, that labours brighter to appear,
As closing life's momentous scene draws near;
Like stars the eye increas'd in lustre sees,
The darker night advances by degrees!
Yon noontide ray no watery medium hides,
Her temper in one happy tenour flow'd,
Her breast with every gentle virtue glow'd;
No sudden flight, beyond cool reason's curb,
Her settled calm of spirit to disturb;
No twitch of envy, no false sting of pride,
Between extremes her passions to divide;
Criterions of a soul ignobly born,
An object, or of pity, or of scorn.
Her heart love's tenderest ardours ever felt,
Form'd exquisitely sensible to melt,
When gentle Nature touch'd, with impulse kind,
Its soften'd springs, to action still inclin'd.
Whom obloquy herself could seldom tax
With vanity, the foible of her sex;
Unless her acts of bounty made her vain,
To soothe affliction, and alleviate pain;
Could ne'er divine whence each well-tim'd supply.
Can limits grief for such a maid require,
While mankind virgin excellence admire?
Shall Female Virtue draw her latest breath!
Shall Beauty languish in the arms of Death!
Shall Innocence descend to grace the urn!
Shall blooming youth to vulgar dust return!
Shall with Amanda all that's sweet depart!
Nor yet one pang of sorrow pierce the heart!
Yet Elegy the stroke afflictive bear,
With cruel eyes scarce moisten'd with a tear?
How did he gaze, as to a statue wrought!
What pangs endure, too mighty for relief!
What feelings of unutterable grief!
When, trembling, he her clay-pale cheek beheld,
That once the rose-bud's painted blush excell'd!
Saw her lips fetch the last returns of breath,
And quiver in the agonies of death!
Saw (his full soul elapsive in a sigh)
The heav'nly beam leave her benighted eye!
Expression falters to describe his wo,
Which those who ever felt can only know.
On subjects that seem foreign to her song?
But why digress'd? thy fate, O luckless tree,
And fair Amanda's, ah too well agree!
Thy fall, by the fix'd mandate of the skies,
Though undiscern'd by superficial eyes,
Is emblematic of that final hour,
When Death exerts—no spot-restricted power,
But universal as existence runs,
Where-ever worlds roll round their central suns.
—But here the thought must not subsist too long,
Again resum'd to close the plaintive song.
To molehills shall the sordid earth be heav'd;
That earth whose juices, by attraction soft,
Once rose meand'ring to thy stems aloft;
Now to give many a foul production birth,
While Sorrow smooths the dimpled cheek of Mirth;
For thus in dust dissolves the human frame,
Congenial dust, whence it but lately came;
Their fatness hence impov'rish'd soils derive,
Hence worms regale, and vegetables thrive.
Blush, blush! ye sons of levity and mirth!
The monarch's death is but the reptile's birth,
No herb arise, no root salubrious grow;
No May-flowers, dress'd in suits of virgin gold,
With conscious pride their dew-dropt leaves unfold;
No cowslip ope her bosom to the gale,
No primrose her ambrosial sweets exhale.
From these cut veins shall short-liv'd mushrooms sprout,
Toads loathsome creep, and bloated snails crawl out.
The russian spider here shall fell reside,
With subtile guise along his lines to glide.
Thy sacred root, whence sap concocted flow'd,
And verdure to thy graceful form bestow'd,
Hither from surly Winter to withdraw,
Emmets shall pierce with unrelenting gnaw:
While he, whom vagrant Fancy leads this way,
Shall, with a sudden burst of anguish, say,
“Ah! what a change! how desolate the place,
“Where flourish'd one of Nature's tallest race,
“In verdant Summer's silken livery clad,
“And by the Seasons periodic fed!
“Beneath the covert of whose outstretch'd arms,
“Suckled by Spring in green display of charms,
“Earth's smaller-statur'd sons spontaneous grew,
“Catch'd the live breeze, or sipt the dulcet dew!
“All now a naked waste I tread upon?
“This spot no trace of beauty now retains!
“Nought save the juiceless barren trunk remains,
“Which, with quick lapse, a prey to vermin, must
“Fall to decay, and mix with putrid dust!
“Such characters of death just Heav'n inscribes,
“With deep impress, on all earth's various tribes;
“Such the almighty Fiat of the sky,
“Let all things live in turn, let all things die.”
By quick disease, or slow-consuming time,
Howe'er high-plac'd on Fortune's partial wheel,
Must Fate's decisive stroke promiscuous feel.
Grandeur's gay plume, the native bloom of health,
The charm of beauty, and the bribe of wealth,
In vain, with all soft eloquence can say,
Solicit Death to turn his dart away.
Monarchs themselves, tho' prostrate at their throne
Obsequious millions their allegiance own;
Though distant regions tremble at their name,
And Parian statues eternize their fame;
From all their arrogated height of pow'r
Must fall, when Heav'n appoints the destin'd hour.
Beyond Time's utmost reach that vainly seem,
Shall by some hidden spring be overturn'd,
Their basis shaken, and their lords inurn'd.
Why stoops she small comparisons to use,
As thy misfortune typify'd alone
The downfal of a kingdom, or a throne?
These, though momentous in the lists of Fame,
Of lofty import, of high-sounding name;
Though haughtily enlarg'd from pole to pole,
Are nothing, when contrasted with the whole.
Like thee—no narrow despicable spot,
Seiz'd by Ambition, parcell'd out by lot;
But all Creation shall be overthrown,
And Nature's self heave her expiring groan.
A seraph, cloth'd in light, procaims aloud,
Myriads of spirits round, a radiant band,
And Fate's dread book extended in his hand;
“Be life with all its various labours o'er,
“Henceforth for ever time shall be no more.
“Let yonder sun's proud glory cease to blaze,
“In night extinguish'd his officious rays.
“Cease every star to twinkle through the skies.
“Beneath my feet, contracted like a scroll,
“Let these expanded heavens together roll.
“To ruin be earth's mighty fabrics hurl'd,
“And raz'd the pillars that support the world.”
Her works with human acts should correspond,
With them, our duty fitly understood,
Would teach the truest wisdom, being good,
Or bless'd, for though dissimilar in name,
Wisdom and happiness are still the same;
Nought can divide what Heav'n's fix'd laws connect,
That as the cause, or this as the effect;
Titles or epithets can never change
Objects and things, though they may disarrange:
Not in some fine-spun theory it consists,
Which varies as the writer's fancy lists,
As interest or caprice directs his pen,
The smiles or frowns of fallible, mere men;
Not in the senseless pedantry of schools,
Where men the knack of trifling learn by rules;
Find out the glorious path, with much expense
Of time and brains, that leads from common sense;
That oft from equity and Nature draw,
The bounds of right and wrong explain away,
Though obvious and distinct as night and day;
Not politics, where most deserve to rise,
That is, rear'd on a gallows, to the skies,
While each, through villany, black crimes, and sins,
Almost a traitor, his fell purpose wins:
But, to comprise the sum of human good,
In Virtue, Virtue rightly understood;
Virtue, not as proud states or courts devise,
But stamp'd with the broad signet of the skies;
Or, as the moon shines by imputed light,
In fair Religion's unstain'd glory bright.
So much esteem'd and valued by the wise.
A treasure, all should study to obtain,
Rather without it than a sceptre gain;
A treasure riches seldom can procure,
Grandeur monopolize, or fame ensure;
A treasure that outweighs the regal gem,
By clowns possess'd, though kings look down on them;
A treasure, whose intrinsic value lies
Less obvious oft to learn'd, than vulgar eyes.
With artless pure Simplicity to dwell.
A cordial, that supports us in distress,
Beyond the pride-swoln philosophic guess.
A temper, at each crisis of our fate,
We fond would purchase, whatsoe'er the rate.
A friend, that with us through Life's morning stays,
Nor leaves us in the evening of our days;
But, though of Earth's resplendent orb bereft,
Bids brighter suns arise than that we left,
Kindly from death's surrounding gloom to save,
And gild the dreary mansions of the grave.
A secret, sages never could unfold,
That turns each baser metal into gold;
That sets in motion. Pleasure's finest springs,
Or casts a shade on all sublunar things.
That or to Heaven or happiness aspire.
Thus may a falling tree those rules comprise,
That make us humble, while they make us wise.
Thus shall the Muse attain her noblest aim,
Howe'er low-station'd in the rolls of Fame;
Visit no more with Elegy the urn,
But her sad song to panegyric turn.
THE DEIST on a Deathbed .
Exanimat, mortisque metu sibi parcere cogit:
Sic teneros animos aliena opprobria sæpe
Absterrent vitiis ------
Hor.
Approach with awe the hopeless bed of death;
A wretched mortal's closing scene behold!
Convulsions seize him each returning breath:
Just on Eternity's tremendous steep,
How he forebodes the horrours of the dreadful deep!
The peace and transport of his latter end,
Now, with the sunshine of an angel's glance,
Support his spirits, or his pains suspend:
Years, months, ill-spent, with complicated charge,
Rush on his troubled thoughts, and on each crime enlarge.
Enamour'd of the couch where Virtue leans;
Or, if a transient slumber shuts his eyes,
Not comfort, but exchange of pain, it means:
Restless and toss'd, imploring ease in vain,
Ten thousand wild ideas shock his tortur'd brain.
Tears up his hair, and lacerates his face,
Circled with terrours, envelop'd in gloom,
That on each feature leave their horrid trace:
Keen anguish seizes his astonish'd heart,
And twists its quiv'ring fibres in their tenderest part.
And flash their scorching lightnings in his eyes;
His pangs of conscience more than man can bear,
Weak helpless man, abandon'd by the skies;
His life one endless round of daring sins,
Self-judg'd, and self-condemn'd, where-e'er his search begins.
Convulsive sobs his heaving lungs divide;
“Who,” he exclaims, “will snatch me from my sins?
“Who from a just offended Maker hide?
“Who put aside Death's deep embitter'd cup?
“Or stay Jehovah's arm for vengeance lifted up?
“I see him sitting on his awful throne!
“O stop, thou unrelenting tyrant, Death,
“I hear tormented fiends, and furies groan!
“I hear the rattling chain's infernal clank,
“And see accusing demons clos'd in hostile rank.
“Within thy caverns, Earth, let me be lost;
“Receive me, Ocean, to thy watery bed,
“Whelm'd in thy eddies, with thy billows tost:
“No more to see the sun's detested ray,
“But senseless as the stone, or lifeless as the clay.
“O were my senses with dead palsies struck—
“Curse on the sire that bore me in his loins,
“The hated breasts that gave me infant suck!
“Curs'd be the guardians of my youthful days,
“Damnation their reward, and infamy their praise!
“Through every scene of wickedness and lust!
“Why did not lightnings blast my guilty eye,
“And thunders bruise me level with the dust?
“Ah! why did tygers my warm vitals spare?
“Why did not whirlwinds sweep my atoms through the air?
“Did not our bosoms with one ardour burn?
“Our pleasures still, and their alloys, the same,
“What! absent all?—unmanly base return!
“Such are Earth's paltry friendships—smooth disguise,
“To cover meanness, self, ingratitude, and lies.
“Gracious respite from Heav'n's vindictive blow;
“No more, each brutal vice, each horrid crime,
“Should point me out a spectacle below:
“No more, in all her pride of borrow'd charms,
“Should Pleasure, faithless Siren, court me to her arms.
“Remorse, with each curs'd recollection fraught,
“Still stinging—never—never to expire!—
“Burst, burst, my heart, and end this rack of thought.
“Extinction! come—exert thy instant pow'r,
“And end my pangs and being in one happy hour.
“Who fills the vast expansion of the skies,
“Possess'd (alas!) of uncontrol'd command,
“And quench'd the flaming terrours of his eyes!
“O were Creation vanish'd from the sight,
“And ev'ry thing return'd to chaos and to night!
“Is there no hope of mercy from thy throne?
“Sure Mercy is thy chief, thy darling name,
“Hear then a wretched mortal's dying groan:
“Let his accumulated woes assuage
“Thy wrath, tremendous wrath, and pity, ah! engage.
“With senses only form'd to suffer pain?
“Or, which is still, Eternal Father, worse,
“Shall thy own Son bleed on a cross in vain?
“Why then did life inspire the plastic clay,
“Let not Redeeming Grace its impotence betray.
“The very savage that frequents the wild;
“To Thee shall Heav'n's benign compassion flow,
“So oft rejected and so oft revil'd?
“Devils themselves, with hellish glee, might say,
“Thus pearls were cast to swine, and mercy thrown away.
“Which prostrate angels worship and adore?
“Without remorse, without one pang of shame,
“Blasphem'd his sacred Cross? could fiends do more?
“From Thee what numbers caught their impious rage!
“Taught from thy foul example to corrupt the age.
“Die, in the view of everlasting pangs;
“While Mercy's self looks with consenting eye,
“And Justice out her equal balance hangs!
“For only thus, while heaven and earth applaud,
“Can Truth itself be Truth, and God himself be God.
“No moment's ease (O heav'ns!) no gleam of hope!
“Shall Hell its dungeons, racks, and flames prepare,
“To give malignant vengeance ample scope?
“Well!—let its dungeons, flames, and racks, torment,
“Till all the red-hot fury of the Godhead spent.—
“Hear this my only, this my last, request;
“When ages I have fed the scorching flame,
“Ten thousand times ten thousand—let me rest:
“When fiends themselves grow tir'd to hear me rave,
“Oh! let me sink for ever in the silent grave.”
With lips that quiver, and with eye-balls fix'd,
His hands in agony together wrung,
His cries ascend, with desperation mix'd.
But ah! no comfort gilds his closing day,
But deep Despair's sad clouds hang thick in black array!
But present pain, and dread of future wo;
Ah! this is not sincerely to repent,
But formal mock'ry oft, and specious show.
Distress can make quick penitents of all,
But few (how few!) repent at Health's or Pleasure's call!
He heaves, he bounds, he wreaths, he groans, he dies!—
Good God! what horrours hover o'er the place,
Where the poor heav'n-deserted sinner lies!
But let the Muse here all reflections wave,
God, in a moment, both can pardon and can save.
Sister of Wisdom! daughter of the skies!
Whate'er my state below by will divine,
Whether my outward fortunes sink or rise:
Grant me the sunshine of a mind at ease,
Protracted life, or death, then equally will please.
Howe'er through Folly's paths we trod before,
Howe'er we doted on far other charms,
Gently would we recline, and be no more!
O! at life's solemn period, be thou near,
To smoothe my dying bed, to comfort, and to cheer.
Let Honour frown, and Wealth reject my claim;
I matter not, sure of my native sky,
What though unknown to Glory and to Fame!
Wrote on my tomb, completed life's short span,
“Here lies an humble Christian, and an honest man.”
The Muses never seem so worthily employed as when they are engaged in the cause of Virtue and Religion; and surely both must appear recommended by additional charms, when contrasted with the frightful spectacle exhibited in the following verses; which may serve as the writer's apology for making it public. It is no fiction of the brain, or specimen of poetical licence, but the true representation of an unhappy man in his last moments: A man of rank, learning, and fortune; but alas! during the course of a despicable and inglorious life, addicted to the grossest scenes of vice and impiety.—An obvious difficulty occurred in conducting this most disagreeable subject, viz. how to preserve the dreadful outlines of the picture, without, at the same time, introducing objects quite horrible to imagination, and shocking to humanity itself.—However, as it is, may it excite proper sentiments in the breast of every reader.
AN ELEGY Written in a FLOWER-GARDEN.
Addressed to ------
And westward points the sun his setting ray;
Will Maria, whom the solitude delights,
With her enjoy the faint remains of day?
Would her fine ear in pleasing wonder fix;
Zephyrs for her their humid odours breathe,
And yonder skies unnumber'd colours mix.
Her breeze-fann'd tresses hung with pearls of dew,
Evening arrives; her gentle call obey,
Abroad her darkling footsteps to pursue.
Transports the mind, urg'd by no fancy'd wants!
Sylvestran scenes, hills, meadows, upland glades,
The cascade's lapse, and wilderness's haunts!
The hooting owl, from antiquated tow'r,
Nor hornet, wheeling round in ceaseless buzz,
Abate the sweetness of the solemn hour:
Pours forth her love-lorn melody of wo;
Kind warbler, when mild Eve her curtain drops,
Whose melting strains no vulgar period know!
The fix'd dull ear of Melancholy soothe!
How gently down the stream each murmur floats,
Care's ruffled brow by magic charm to smoothe!
Where Beauty's offspring lead ambrosial lives;
Nor sloping hill, from whence, in prospect fair,
An ampler swell the rural scene derives:
Her pow'rs of fancy, drapery, and taste;
Amid these ranks of lilies, all full-blown,
Where Nature charms the more, the nearer trac'd.
And Passion lull asleep her self-rais'd storm;
Hence, Mirth loquacious, with sarcastic cheek,
With rolling eye, and agitated form.
Obliquely thus to dwell on Maria's praise;
O! would the native music of her tongue
To kindred rapture wake the plaintive lays!
Shall the sad sympathetic strain suggest;
Riches may moulder in congenial dust,
And humbled Grandeur in oblivion rest:
Would place the human portrait, but outline
The naked Lily, when soft Seasons smile,
Or Winter's frosts the stagnate streams confine.
Your taste will polish, what your fancy chose;
In sprighty circles oft the palm you win,
To twine a nobler wreath the Lily grows.
The fair will listen to the friendly lay,
And take, as bees sip honey whilst they cling,
The moral with the lighter sound away.
The Lily her fair Vestal charms unfolds;
No rival beauty near presumes to rise,
And ev'ry eye is ravish'd that beholds.
And round his painted family surveys;
But none her graceful bend of slender stalk,
Her milk-white bosom, soft as down, displays.
The glist'ring dews effusively distills;
The Lily's fragrance welcomes her return,
While she imbibes the moisture's orient rills.
A thousand tubes Earth's finest sap convey;
Kind Zephyrs fan her with dew-moisten'd wings,
And day and night their stated turns obey.
Claims the first class amongst the flowery tribe;
Singly on either did the numbers dwell,
Scarce would the numbers half her charms describe.
The bloom of features, or the ease of shape,
In Maria's praise did poets merely vie,
Unnoted would her noblest praise escape.
Lovely, as Nature paints, or Art adorns;
But, though in beauty half her sex excell'd,
That beauty she still heightens, while she scorns.
As diamonds sparkle on some rock unknown,
Like light itself, should be to all reveal'd,
Whether it grace a cottage, or a throne.
To try how far her lover's praises due,
Would with the Lily's whiteness her's compare,
But finds that false she fondly reckon'd true.
The Lily, with the needle's mimic pow'r;
But who so poor a counterfeit e'er saw,
That e'er beheld a nature-portray'd flow'r?
The pencil too a like vain task essays;
But how, compar'd, inelegant and faint!
How pigmy Art her littleness betrays!
Native unspotted maiden virtue by,
That turn of thought not Maria's self can blame?
All by the Lily's whiteness we imply.
Nor yet a well-tim'd compliment unpaid;
It the pure ivory's polish scarce conveys,
The Lily's white we summon to our aid.
Though eastern kings less glorious to behold;
When Winter sends his tempests round the globe,
Those graces fade that now so gay unfold.
His blasts deep riot on her snowy charms;
Vainly she courts, intent as wont to please,
The dew that moistens, or the ray that warms.
The sordid weed in beauty rudely vies;
Her breath too loses all its fragrant sweets,
She sinks her head, droops, languishes, and dies.
Of that soft sex, whose ornament you shine;
This maxim, grav'd on adamant, how true,
“Sure as arise, must Beauty's sun decline!”
Display'd our blossoms and our foliage gay;
Next, Winter comes, deep-muffled up in gloom,
Tears up our roots, and sweeps our charms away.
In vermile, rich as roses blown enjoy,
Than Death, who loves the fairest buds to nip,
With cold, cold touch, that vermile will destroy.
How fair remind her, but how fading too;
That, hence, will sweets more exquisite diffuse,
Celia boast charms before she never knew.
Shall oft revolve, engrav'd, the fair one's doom,
Cut off, the fam'd Monimia of the plain,
In Youth's gay spring, and Health's unsully'd bloom.
The EPITAPH.
[Here lies, beneath this moss-encircled stone]
That form which once the Graces all inspir'd;
In youthful circles joyous oft she shone,
Prais'd by each tongue, by every eye admir'd.
A fair resemblance of her youth display'd;
A zephyr shook around its balmy wing,
To image health, priz'd by the blooming maid.
The snowy beauty of the flow'ry ground;
Soon sweeps abroad the North's inclement blast,
Shrivels her leaves, and scatters them around.
The light vain fair borne on phantastic toe;
That such fine spirits sink, she credits not,
That fades Youth's blossom, or Health's roseate glow.
The fever's strong delirium soon acquir'd;
From puny Art relief ah vainly sought!
At Hope's false shrine a victim she expir'd.
That here all Beauty's ruins shortly croud;
That, like the Lily, youth and health decay,
Laid in the tomb, and mantled in a shroud.
On the Death of a beloved Friend cut off in the Prime of Life.
Plorat.------
Hor.
The brook that glides along the mossy plain;
The birds that warble undisturb'd by care,
The gales that gently agitate the air;
The vista green, and honey-suckle shade,
The flowery meadow, and the sunny glade;
Delight no more: Spring vainly smiles relief
To nicely-feeling hearts o'erwhelm'd with grief.
Ye dreary regions! ye impervious glooms,
Where sickly Fancy uncouth forms assumes,
And, on these ghostly phantoms of her brain,
Muses with pleasure strongly mark'd with pain;
Where Melancholy broods o'er her distress,
Yet strange! half disinclin'd to have it less;
Where death-like Silence fixes her domain,
Save when loud screech-owls dolefully complain;
Where tears may flow from Friendship's gushing eye;
Where Echoes, in sad accents like her own,
Give sigh for sigh, and answer groan with groan!
Thou airy trifle ever on the wing!
Thou bubble dancing on the restless stream!
Thou meteor false! thou unsubstantial dream!
What is it thy vain pageant name implies?
What art thou, glitt'ring phantom, to the wise?
A moment tears thee from thy votary's hold,
Vainly secur'd by honours and by gold.
When such as---from thy scenes withdraw,
His choice according thus with Nature's law,
Ere the fair flow'r of vouth maturely blown,
Thy sweets and vices equally unknown;
Who would affect, with poverty of mind,
In mean pursuits to linger here behind?
Nor yet the song of soft condolence frame!
How can the gentle graces of his mind,
His kind benevolence to humankind;
His temper's cheerful unaffected ease,
His soul's sincere solicitude to please;
That with kind pity throbb'd in every part;
Who, the Possessor gone, can these recall
To mind, nor let the tear of anguish fall!
None here in genuine sorrow can exceed,
But he from Friendship's ties, and Nature's, freed.
The noblest minds are most to pity bent,
And gen'rous natures oftenest relent;
The savage spirit, and unsocial heart,
Feel not, O Sympathy! thy pleasing smart.
When Friendship call'd forth ev'ry social pow'r;
From thy decease one lesson may I learn,
Which theories vainly teach us to discern;
That to live well, is learning how to die,
And scorning earth, is to possess the sky.
Yonder he sleeps on Death's cold senseless lap,
Death, to the good, is but a peaceful nap,
In which from num'rous ills it shuts his eyes,
Till the last trump invites him to arise.
Behold these smiles o'er all his features spread,
Are smiles the wonted graces of the dead?
No; though depriv'd of mere mechanic breath,
He speaks in silence, and exists in death.
To the Memory Of the Reverend Mr John Bonar.
Hor.
By all the wise admir'd, the good esteem'd,
For what he really was, not barely seem'd;
Form'd upon Virtue's amiable plan,
An honest, upright, candid, worthy man;
Whose conduct not ev'n Slander e'er pursu'd,
Which still the brighter shone, the nearer view'd;
Though plac'd in public life, where, to espy
Each word, each act, is center'd ev'ry eye;
Where trivial slips and blemishes arise
To grossest faults in the stern censor's eyes:
Thus Bonar liv'd; and to life's period brought,
Died, as an humble, modest Christian ought.
O reader, now howe'er your views aspire,
May you with equal dignity retire.
On the Death of The Reverend Mr James Hervey.
On vulgar marks Death long had meanly spentHis loaded quiver, and his bow full bent;
Monarchs, who had been great but for a crown,
Statesmen and heroes, sons of high renown;
When lo! in Heav'n this awful mandate past,
“To-morrow's dawn be some fam'd mortal's last.”
The tidings, to our world officious sent,
Through Albion's isles on wing of lightning went:
Impiety, her heart by vipers stung,
Again blasphemes with loud audacious tongue;
Vice stalks abroad, each late retreat forsook,
With all her bold effrontery of look:
But ah! while these malignant triumph show,
Far other bosoms other feelings know!
The Muse in vain conceals her weeping eye,
And each tear Learning answers with a sigh!
Religion starts, though arm'd with tenfold shield,
And Virtue shrinks, though she disdains to yield:
—The arrow sped, Death took his aim too well,
The mitred pontiff liv'd, and Hervey fell.
To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq
Tam chari capitis? ------
Hor.
E'er put the sable robe of mourning on;
Now, when no gen'rous eye can weep too much,
Now shed the plaintive tear, for Shenstone's gone.
Lamented more by all the tuneful train!
But him they vain implore, with streaming eyes,
To animate his gentle form again!
Seiz'd the strung lyre that trembled in his hand,
While to his breast his arms tenacious clasp,
And angels round but half-consenting stand!
Some radiant seraph's golden harp to tune,
While humbly he his own on earth let fall,
But ah! Humanity still thinks too soon!
Hear the sad Genius of each grove bewail!
Villas return the melancholy sound,
And echoes dwell upon the mournful tale!
Sad Zephyrs sigh it through the conscious shade!
To Heav'n when he his blissful journey took,
Few pow'rs of song behind their Shenstone staid.
How smooth, how chaste, how soft, his numbers flow!
How on each note the ravish'd shepherds hung!
How did their hearts dilate! their bosoms glow!
To copy Nature, made immortal hence—
How delicately Love's all-gentle pow'rs
Touch'd into life his nicely-feeling sense!
In thy prime gifts, simplicity and ease?
Thy careless elegance becomes us well,
If we the ear would captivate, or please.
Tho' haughty Learning boasts each splendid line?
Hence, would the self-proud critic deign to know,
Beyond thy test, O Nature! we refine.
Vainly to rival him by Thee inspir'd,
Let Shenstone tell!—but ah! no Shenstone lives,
Else angels mourn a bard from Heav'n retir'd!
A few revolving suns to mortals lent;
From Earth, if haply tarrying there too long,
To summon them, Death's on kind message sent.
The blissful pair in Eden's happy clime;
Rehearses now, with rapture on his tongue,
To gods the wonders of his theme sublime.
While we a Pope or Addison deplore;
Thus mourns in elegiac verse the Muse
Britannia's boast, her Shenstone, now no more!
For not unkind she earth of him deprives;
Let then no more our tears officious run,
Shenstone still lives, while she herself survives.
On the Death of Mr Churchill.
Thus runs the motto sculptur'd on each urn,“Man's sprung from dust, and shall to dust return.”
No rank, no station can exempt from death,
The monarch's life sustain'd but by a breath.
Howe'er we vainly flutter for a while,
And fondly bask in Fortune's flattering smile;
Howe'er we sneer at Virtue's humble sons,
Whose life in one calm modest tenour runs;
Howe'er a puff of fame extolls our parts,
And swells with pride our little empty hearts;
Howe'er beprais'd we wield the author's pen,
And think ourselves hence something more than men;
To the high honours of immortal fame;
Howe'er we strut and swagger, speak and look,
For Valour's sons egregiously mistook;
Death, who despises all this farce of life,
Foe to Pride's triumphs, and Ambition's strife,
Steps in, delay indulg'd on no pretence,
And snatches our astonish'd spirits hence.
No force, no cunning can the stroke repel,
Nor youth, nor strength of limb:—thus Churchill fell.
Vice had not triumph'd, when Fate's arrow flew,
Had Churchill's works been but as mortal too;
He then had prov'd, on Charity's kind plan,
A well-intention'd, harmless, honest man;
A nobler triumph, than the amplest fame
Annex'd to a mere literary name
To the Memory Of the Reverend Dr Edward Young.
Restituet pietas ------
Hor.
Implacable alike to king and slave!
Why hast thou spar'd, at some unlucky hour,
Ambition, on his pinnacle of pow'r;
The traitor, villain, the blasphemer foul,
The drunkard, swearing by the midnight bowl;
The spendthrift, folded in the harlot's arms,
Gazing with fatal ardour on her charms;
Wrapt in wild visions the projector bold,
The miser yawning o'er his heaps of gold;
The robber, sliding through the midnight gloom,
Still deeper guilt to aggravate their doom;
Why spar'd these monsters, yet Young snatch'd away,
Just to evince thy impotence of sway?
When Time has vanquish'd thee, to live his name.
Yet had not thy commission'd arrow flown,
Unfill'd in Heav'n had been a seraph's throne.
Is now turn'd to the triumphs of the saint;
For nought, a knowing head, and feeling heart,
Virtue and Genius, could in thee dispart!
Ah! how can Recollection these employ,
Nor sink to genuine grief the pulse of joy?
Thy fancy, learning, judgment, wit, and taste,
Ne'er brib'd by Fortune, nor deceiv'd by haste!
Thy love of friendship, harmony, and peace,
Which still thy growing years observ'd increase!
Thy piety, chaste, manly, and sublime,
Uninfluenc'd by modes of place and time!
Thy noble scorn of honours and of pelf,
Which to attain, one must renounce himself!
Ah! how can Recollection these employ,
Nor sink to genuine grief the pulse of joy?
To thine and Virtue's orb superiour spring;
Could I, a disembodied spirit, fly
To thee and all the glories of the sky;
Array'd in splendours gorgeous as his own;
Pass Heav'n's resplendent gates, thrown open wide,
With thee and kindred angels to reside;
Be ravish'd while some first-rate seraph sings,
And hear and see unutterable things:
On earth no moment should retard my stay,
How like Elijah would I soar away!
But O the pinion aquiline must drop,
And Fancy her aëreal ranges stop.
Alas! like Young, few from life's stage retire,
Few mount his hallow'd vehicle of fire.
But could I claim his Virtues, as below
All ranks on them their lavish praise bestow,
Call his departed excellence my own,
As He from Heav'n the hallow'd mantle thrown;
His merit in another make survive,
Though dead himself, his graces still alive;
These, next to the possession of the skies,
Would give me all that happiness implies,
Unaw'd by tyrant custom, and untaught,
Unpriz'd, unenvy'd should he reign alone,
Who sits a slave imperial on a throne!
To bless mankind knows not the godlike art?
Sublime ambition! scarce by that excell'd
(Without their guilt) by which arch-fiends rebell'd:
Crowns, richly set with many a costly gem,
Look pale, if Virtue shuts her eye on them;
The royal laurels languish, if meanwhile
Deny'd the living sunshine of her smile.
The drooping heart disconsolate he cheer'd;
Supported Merit at his own expense,
And cast round Innocence a firm defence;
Reliev'd the wretch beneath Oppression's stroke,
Worn out with labour, and with hardships broke;
Found Virtue out, howe'er in rags disguis'd,
The wav'ring fix'd, the ignorant advis'd.
Thee as the patron of her numbers chuse,
Hoping, beneath the sanction of thy name,
Censure to shun, if not to merit fame;
As oaks, from humbly creeping on the ground,
Raise kindly up the ivy clasp'd around.
But ah! how soon the friend of Virtue fled
To Heaven, through the dark regions of the dead;
That there no torch lit by Religion find;
But gilded, to thy spirit on its way,
With the strong radiance of immortal day.
Yet shall the widow'd verses sacred be
To thy dear memory, that sole pledge of thee.
Howe'er the common run of mean desert
Dies with the feeling brain, and beating heart,
With mere Mortality's abhorr'd remains,
Rots in the grave, where dumb oblivion reigns;
No sordid motive shall eraze thy name,
Alive or dead, thy merit still the same .
The reader may think it superfluous to be informed here, that this alludes to Vertumnus; or, The Progress of Spring, inscribed to the late pious, learned, and ingenious Dr Edward Young; the first volume of these poems, as well as a good part of the second, being printed off before his decease.
MONIMIA; OR, THE UNFORTUNATE BEAUTY. ADDRESSED TO MARIA.
Virg.
A friendly Muse in Elegy complain;
But why brood o'er distress, when Maria's near,
Whose blooming charms inspire the sprightly strain?
Is now implor'd, the sorrow-humid eye;
The melting heart with sweet sensations fraught,
The soften'd aspect, and the heaving sigh.
So soft a touch of sympathetic wo,
That seek no vulgar impotent relief;
Virtue alone can boast, or Maria show.
The quicken'd heart feels exquisite all o'er;
Feels, no rude passions in unfriendly strife,
But pleasure mix'd with sadness please the more.
Esteem in others, is ourselves to claim;
Pity is Merit's immemorial due,
Thus, then, self-praise and pity are the same.
But that once moulded by Love's gentle hand;
The unrelenting heart's fenc'd round with steel,
Beneath no social Passion's mild command.
All that is fair or lovely to admire;
A bias soft to Friendship's tender cares,
And all the sweets of elegant desire.
Your beauteous likeness, save in woes, behold;
For manner, sweetness, and exteriour form,
Where charms beyond the vulgar boast unfold.
But a faint emblem of her temper give;
How seldom one her fair resemblance meets,
Too excellent to die, too good to live!
Who void of all, would meanly all despise;
Ne'er did the gildings of a vernal sky
Prevent the Earthquake's shock, or tempest's rise.
The Muse's pardon, as your smiles inspire;
And suffer her your lonely steps to lead
Where only Folly's backward to retire.
The bust funereal, and the cypress shade,
That set the monarch level with his slave,
Make only little vulgar minds afraid.
For beauty, though that beauty least your praise;
Behold what ills unnumber'd may perplex
A helpless maid, yet all her virtues raise.
Where vernal breezes, dews, and sunshine cheer,
Prison'd in rooms, the lily deigns to rise,
How alter'd all her native charms appear!
Which Spring abroad as her first beauty shows,
Less balmy sweets she breathes profuse about,
And all her leaves their glossy whiteness lose.
The little caprice of an abject mind;
What changes in the fair one's looks ensue,
If by severe tyrannic laws confin'd!
In sickly languor o'er her features spread;
Not love-meek Innocence herself befriends,
From each bright eye the living lustre fled!
For shall the Muse the secret deed conceal?
Guilt all would bury in eternal gloom,
But Justice must the direful truth reveal,
A fatal law Lorenzo forc'd to wed;
He woo'd, not Merit, but vile sordid Gain,
Not for his heart a partner, but his bed.
Beyond what God or Nature ever meant;
True; she from them her breath precarious drew,
But not that soul which knows no mean restraint.
Would she implore one favour, one alone,
Which pride with meanness only could deny,
Her choice implore, a Man of worth, or none.
“Whose birth and manners all conspire to please;
“Though not by Fortune fashion'd to your plan,
“Yet at his board sit Plenty, Joy, and Ease.
“Yet is he lovely, and from childhood known;
“He hears Distress, but not unpitied, sigh,
“Virtue and he long since familiars grown.
“To purchase all to me, a Parent's smile;
“This be your triumph, as the duty mine,
“But ah! my ruin not your triumph style!
“Still is he wretched, poor, and mean withal;
“His god, his friend, his neighbour, is—himself,
“Malice may blast, he can no lower fall.
“This filial tear, this heart-commission'd sigh!
“Command me to respect him, but to love—
“Thine, Theron, must I be—a maid—or die!—”
Hear the fond pleadings of a heart so soft,
Yet Nature's rising impulse disobey!
Oft as the sob recurr'd, suppress'd as oft!
And blast with infamy those tender names)
Her parents!—Nature them as such design'd,
But she the brutal violence disclaims.
And heard the melting arguments she sobb'd;
But with the adder's unrelenting ears,
The eye of savage, of her younglings robb'd!
Which scarce the Muse repeats unruffled o'er;
Thus they replied, and menac'd as they spoke,
“Lorenzo's your's, or you our child no more.
“How high thro' times remote runs his descent!
“How vast his riches, which by lineage came!
“Lorenzo slight?—would you too late repent?
What crouds, for thee, to ruin headlong run!
When Merit, Youth, and Beauty fail to move,
For thee we wed, we wed, and are undone!
They still control'd the freedom of her choice;
By actual force each conquer'd her disdain,
Too mild the threat'nings of a loud-rais'd voice.
Monimia chose, though all her scorn alive,
Chose rather certain death, than disobey,
Deeply impress'd, not long she could survive.
Monimia err'd, howe'er her motive pure;
Nature's first sacred mandate we practise,
When we ourselves from misery secure.
Her fate provok'd, her piety to save;
But such excesses few in woes involve,
For Virtue's sake how few prefer the grave!
Concord's chaste joys with souls mispair'd to taste?
Justly all such seek happiness in vain,
Winter's chill damps their hopes in blossom waste.
But men with sacrilegious hands divide;
The selfish wed, while only Virtue blames,
By scrolls and settlements, not hearts, ally'd.
Blot the fair transcript of the sex's fame;
Let men caress that bosom-viper, self,
At once their crime, their punishment, and shame.
And Love preside, with tender wish, o'er all;
Be then the words pronounc'd with steady voice,
Men must them equal, angels happy call.
Born underneath some dark ill-omen'd star!
When Paradise had op'd her blissful gate,
Some dæmon interpos'd a triple bar!
Through the dun umbrage coo'd the Turtle-dove,
The falcon spy'd his unsuspecting prey,
And to her guiltless heart his talons drove.
From his curs'd roof let Happiness depart,
Who would by base compulsions gain the Fair,
Who would commit an outrage on the heart.
To murder Innocence, in horrid glee;
A fair Disconsolate, by all admir'd,
As form'd the exquisite reverse of thee?
Guilt, like some vulture, shall thy heart-strings gnaw;
Dire in thy face shall Hydra terrours fly,
And thou on racks expire, in spite of law.
All speechless, like a lamb to slaughter led!
Warm on her cheek no blush connubial glows,
The lily triumphs in the rose's stead!
The guilty bridegroom seizes as his own;
Scarce her despair and anguish could she hide,
Yet sigh'd not, haply, lest reluctance shown!
And snatch'd her senseless from his horrid arms!
Or had she bloom'd in some far distant wild,
In all her virgin elegance of charms!
His soul all gentle, as unmatch'd his form;
Beheld, admir'd, and woo'd the charming maid,
Each other's star through life's tumultuous storm.
Undamp'd by envy, and remote from wo;
Each other's soul of harmony, amid
The bustle of discordant strife below.
With lustre of vain glory on their hands;
Though, tack'd fantastic to a paltry name,
No mouldy rent-rolls swell with charter-lands.
While human ears, as sponges rain, absorb;
Each other's world in miniature, to throw
A shadow of eclipse on Bourbon's orb.
Been folded thus in Lov's encircling arms;
No beauteous prey to Sorrow's wasting pangs,
No fiend to riot on an angel's charms!
How thus Religion prov'd her birth divine,
Riches uncurs'd, not to Lorenzo thrown,
And thus marr'd Heav'n's just, righteous, good design?
But as the conquest gratified his pride;
Her fortune was the object in his view,
Nor could disguise his low pretensions hide.
By mercenary traffic bought and sold!
Reason ne'er weighs the beauties of the mind,
If but the sordid balance sinks with gold!
Scarce common proofs of tenderness she shar'd;
How much unlike, her fate evinc'd too soon,
An angel and a fiend in union pair'd.
And all his schemes of vile ambition gain'd;
A jealous frenzy seiz'd his troubled breast,
Though not a thought Monimia's honour stain'd.
His jealous qualms were feign'd, the wretch confest,
That the pretext his views might more avail,
And she with seeming justice be distrest.
Or to attract, or fix, a female heart,
To lower her's, a base unmanly aim,
He acts the villain's, and detractor's part.
But that abhorr'd, society with him;
She lives a cloister'd object of his scoff,
His hated passion, petulance, and whim.
Veiling his curs'd design with specious art;
Naked before her view at once it lies,
Alarms her fears, and wounds her to the heart.
Would she engage that heart she never priz'd,
While tears escape her in portentous show'rs,
In vain, her soft endearments all despis'd.
Some medium still the sly deceiver kept;
Once too, in spite of all the tyrant meant,
Nature relented, and Lorenzo wept.
He treats this matchless wonder of her sex;
His very kindnesses how insincere!
His blandishments themselves all fram'd to vex!
Varied by ev'ry wicked mean device?
Her gentle spirit sinks beneath her grief,
How could she purchase death, whate'er the price!
Still she possess'd such dignity of thought,
That from her lips no bitter railings flow,
No murmurs with a bold impatience fraught.
Touch'd in her quickest sense of home-felt smart;
But still uninjur'd Innocence is left,
Not wounded is her conscience, but her heart.
Whose ev'ry wish its darling object meets,
What numbers would to life prefer the shroud,
Those too whom Folly Fortune's chosen greets.
What passes, by the vulgar eye unseen;
Howe'er the sphere of misery and strife,
Affects us coolly, as it ne'er had been.
Whom crowns protect, howe'er enlarg'd their crimes;
Such milder seem, in caprice and design,
Than each home-thron'd Lorenzo of our times.
Emblazon forth great names whom kings oppress;
Their ranks, but not misfortunes, strike mankind,
These, like their virtues, than Monimia's less.
The inward anguish, and the bosom-pang;
Like deadly serpents twist round life, nor part,
Till Death releases from the poison'd fang.
In the soft radiance of one cloudless day!
And, at mild Evening's gradual late decline,
May not a shade obscure their setting ray!
Be her's, as once, alas! Monimia's lot;
But He, with whom would please the rural task,
The sylvan banquet, and the shepherd's cot.
That silent tear, that gently-swelling sigh;
Her ills, howe'er in simple numbers told,
Might melt the flinty heart, and savage eye.
At but his Maker's dread rebuke to start;
But, of materials soften'd and refin'd,
To tender feelings form'd the female heart:
We pay that tribute Virtue styles her own,
A tribute that enriches us the more,
Tears are the debt, and Merit is the loan.
Researches vain of metaphysic pride;
Her mournful story may instruct the age,
At once to mend its manners, and deride.
The fatal lesson, better ah untaught!
Tho' hence styl'd philosophically great,
And high on Fame's celestial pinion caught?
A bright and fair example to mankind,
Would certain hopes of bliss remorseless damp,
Or in Lorenzo's arms them blasted find!
While Justice equipois'd her balance hangs,
Black frightful omens on his natal hour,
Thrown into life with more than wonted pangs.
By previous signals she forewarns mankind;
Lest the fell wonder might o'erwhelm the sight,
And fatally surprise the guardless mind.
If no Monimias grac'd our world below?
Their bright example comes to Reason's aid,
When her bewilder'd pow'rs no farther go.
Did no Lorenzos on its joys obtrude:
Thus all-wise Providence to humankind,
Ill but permits, as conducive to good.
Fond of a respite from indignant grief;
But ah! Lorenzo, cruel to extreme,
Ne'er knew the art divine to give relief!
Howe'er a more than female firmness bore;
His merc'less eyes her wasting charms surveys,
As if a smile their lustre would restore.
Its phantom comforts, and substantial ills;
Now but Religion boasts intrinsic charms,
While chaste Devotion all her bosom fills.
A sacred flame that glow'd not there before;
Her brighter days the same pure flame confest,
Though Virtue, haply, now endear'd the more.
For aid let cowards to Religion turn;
Their holy fires, but in Grief's sullen shades,
Seldom in Fortune's sunshine, partial burn.
To throw a splendour on Monimia's fame,
Its ample sphere illum'd already found,
There lost, or back reflected whence it came.
“And Fortune's haughty minions, Wealth and Fame,
“And Grandeur, circled by their menial croud,
“Nor waste their honours on Monimia's name:
“Her cherub train of Graces, scorn her not;
“Unpinion'd from her flight Ambition rests,
“Nor would a crown add splendour to her lot.
“For thee employ'd its each returning breath,
“What rapture, words would vainly represent,
“In thy divine embrace we yield to death!
Would she her heart's fond wishes oft express;
Nor were those angel inmates vainly sought,
To grace Monimia's dwelling, or to bless.
The brightest worth oft-times seems most oppress'd;
That vain short-sighted mortals hence might know,
Life is not her reward, but Virtue's test.
Who fight with pain, nor hope a kind discharge?
Monimia, else, had ne'er to angel rose,
Her patience vast, as her misfortunes large.
To taste the bitter anguish of her fate?
—A victim to his cruelty she fell!
He saw his dreadful errour when too late!
And thro' each vein Death's freezing chillness ran;
With feeble voice, and falt'ring lips, she cries,
“May mercy and forgiveness meet the man!
“And thine alone, to pity and forgive!
“If pardon then awaits my dying hour,
“O may He not that hour unpardon'd live!”
The sweetness of her looks scarce chang'd by death;
While no fierce throbs her tender frame assail,
As saints expire, she draws her latest breath.
That stopt a while her temporary breath;
Her and distress Fate could alone dispart,
Her glory dawn'd amid the shades of death.
Nor from the bier can Friendship lift her eye!
Together both sad mournful vigils keep,
Sighing for man, that such Desert should die!
That conflict of outrageous passions shown,
When he beheld the lustre leave her eyes,
And from her lips the ruby tincture flown?
He but her wonted delicacy blam'd,
Nor dream'd the fatal change, till Death reveal'd;
—Vain, false excuse, howe'er by Candour fram'd.
And Beauty gradual sinking to decay,
Silent and calm, no arts officious us'd,
To all appear'd remote Monimia's day.
Unless to Friendship's eye, that ne'er survey'd,
Or mark'd her temper, or defac'd one charm,
Lovely in life's last stage the dying maid.
Her gentle sister, Cynthia, rose serene,
As if to light her passage to the sky;
Monimia fled life's grief-o'erclouded scene.
Howe'er affliction clos'd her willing eye;
Rather than rush down Fate's tremendous steep,
Or in the pomp of wretched greatness, die?
From honour, like a Lucifer of old!
She fell, her certain is the world's perhaps,
That others might the way to rise behold!
Above a tear, with triumph in her look!
She fell, but rais'd in excellence by all,
Death gave her more (kind spoiler) than he took!
Their glory lost for ever to condole!
She fell, but with a seraph's wing to rise,
Her flight commenc'd when to the grave she stole!
To rise more splendid on the dazzled sight;
So westward sinks the glorious orb of day,
That he may rise in pomp of Eastern light.
Whose trophies are the tombs of humankind,
Where from oblivion Art affects to save
Thy deeds, by epitaphs, and busts reclin'd!
Oft flies thy shaft, wing'd by the dread decree;
Though humbled oft the mighty and the great,
Vaunt not, Monimia triumphs over thee.
To claim a compliment, far nobler pass'd;
Alas! brought hopeless to our latter end,
How unassisted Nature looks aghast!
And blunt the pointed terrours of his sting;
Quick at Religion's altar pay the vow,
The sole resource, whate'er bold poets sing.
Others to fine-spun metaphysic schemes;
While some at non-existence scarce demur,
These are Despair's last shifts, fick Fancy's dreams.
Hopes, nought less than Eternity can bound;
Joy, that but from approving Conscience springs;
These are alone our dying cordials found.
Through a long period of licentious joys,
As Heav'n can ne'er the mighty debt discharge,
Extinction then the horrid thought employs.
Rank cowardice, and meanness undisguis'd!
To live in anxious torture and suspense,
Then die like brutes, more wretched, more despis'd!
Be Faith's firm hold, be Hope's prompt comforts mine!
Begun to live, when I resign my breath,
Thou my solace, as boundless mercy thine!
Approv'd, admir'd, nor imitated less;
While Candour would Lorenzo half forgive,
Though Justice might the weak design repress.
To horrid doubts whom Jealousy inflames;
Hence lay your wretched impious schemes aside,
Monimia's tomb your guilt and doom proclaims.
How few to rescue, though deplor'd by all!
Though Folly's eye the angel vanquish'd deems,
Survives her death, and triumphs in her fall.
By some with dread beheld, with plaudits some,
At best but poorly conquers for an hour,
Or in the very conquest is o'ercome.
To sink her virtues level with his own;
But, all his views o'ershot, his malice spent,
Behold! an angel still the more she shone.
Hushes each warbler, and the view confines;
A brighter sparkle ev'ry star assumes,
Till all the firmament illumin'd shines.
Even here Lorenzo meets his righteous doom;
By Heav'n's emphatic vengeance quickly reach'd,
Conviction's deep remorse, despair, and gloom.
Her injur'd shade still on his view obtrudes;
Though studious to avoid, indignant yet,
Each fear-ey'd object to her fate alludes.
His meanness, cunning, cruelty, and pride;
Deep fix in horrour on his down-cast brows,
Or whelm his thoughts in one tumultuous tide.
Her innocence, her unaffected charms,
Which, as her woes increas'd, still brighter grew;
With keener sting his conscious heart alarms.
Else had unmark'd Monimia's tyrant pass'd;
Though he that angel Excellence surviv'd,
His peace departed, when she breath'd her last.
Not to her Worth deceas'd he seem'd unjust;
Though once o'erlook'd her virtues, charms, and youth,
How could he but revere her in—the dust?
In marble what remain'd of her he laid;
And, eager to insure a short relief,
These lines inscrib'd, a debt which justice paid.
By Worth extorted, on each heart ingrav'd;
A caution of no light import to men,
One ruin'd, that a thousand may be sav'd.
The EPITAPH.
What once was comeliness and virtue twain;
From death could innocence or beauty save,
On Earth's cold lap Monimia had not lain.
That heard her, could have listen'd without end;
Yet hence was but deriv'd her second praise,
Hence, with a form not Fancy's self could mend.
A Friend she sought, but Fate ah disinclin'd!
To Heav'n she fled, where Man no more annoys,
To seek that treasure, here she ne'er could find.
Original poems on several subjects | ||