University of Virginia Library

The grandee from his palace casts his eye,
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.”
Again, he looks incredulous to all,
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.

Around this amply-branching shade, how oft
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.

But let the muse describe, with grateful strain,
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!

Where shall the reapers now their revels hold,
With passions all of one attemper'd mold;
No more, each with his smirking, red-cheek'd maid,
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?

Round Celadon, the universal friend
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!
A nicety those never can practise,
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.

He that a name for virtue would acquire,
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.
To think, and act well, are two distinct things,
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.
Him no false lights, no empty theories led
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.

But Celadon, though thus admir'd by all,
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.
At noon he heard the summons, and obey'd,
Without one murmur, ere the evening-shade;
More hasty not the unexpected blow
That laid this Oak's umbrageous honours low.

No more shall punctual lovers here repair,
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.

Hail Love! whose subtile essence can pervade
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!
Nor only, in the summer of our days,
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
That lambent flame, which it provok'd before,
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.

Ah! hapless tree! each circling season spent,
How many will thy absent shades lament;
Kind refuge to the apprehensive swain,
When thunder-clouds dissolv'd in hasty rain!

So, when some gen'rous guardian of mankind,
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.

The youthful shepherd pensive and forlorn,
Long tyrant Love's unworthy shackles worn,
Henceforth no more, with ready hand, shall mark
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.

No more the sprightly circle shall be seen
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!

What mighty revolutions hast thou seen,
Thy shoot of infancy and fall between,
While monarchs to inexorable death,
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.
Such the reflections, at the Muse's call,
That shall, auspicious tree, attend thy fall;
Such moral hints hence in gradation rise,
As school-bred Learning may not blush to prize.

But ah! no swain henceforward shall behold
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.

Thus he whom true philosophy styles wise,
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,
Grope round for happiness, but never trace,
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.

But did we here that happiness define,
Which best deserves the epithet, divine;
For which mankind ten thousand projects try,
Contented live, and almost bear to die;
Not at the Cynic's threshold should we stumble,
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;
Theirs many a restless night, and anxious day,
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.