The poetical works of George Keate

TO The Reverend DR. EDWARD YOUNG, Rector of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire: Whose Genius, Learning, and Virtues, have so long gained him The Admiration and Esteem of the Public, THIS POEM Is inscribed by the Hand of Friendship, As a Memorial of the Affectionate Regard of The AUTHOR.

Bright Goddess, I obey! with rapture hear,
Thy summoning voice, O Fancy, Parent sweet
Of ev'ry Muse, and fairest of the Train,
Who on th'Aonian Hill with ceaseless Song
Inspire true Harmony.—Lo! where She comes
Adown yon sloping cliff with graceful step
Winding a devious path, across her neck
Her Lyre loose hung, and her dishevel'd hair,
And Robe refulgent with unnumber'd hues,
Light floating on the wind.—Immortal Nymph,

These scenes are oft thy haunt, o'er Nature's works
For ever ranging, various as themselves.
Now Tempe charms, and now the balmy Gales
That sportive play along the peaceful shore
Of fertile Bajæ: soon thy sated eye
Tir'd with their flow'ry beauties, seeks the Heath
Barren and pathless, where with guilt appall'd
Stalks the lone Murd'rer: Then thou rid'st the Storm,
And midst the crash of Elements wakeful sit'st
On some rude Rock ('gainst which the foaming Deep
Breaks fearful,) list'ning to the fruitless shrieks
Of shipwreck'd Mariners; or, if the Past
Delight thee more, wing'st thy excursive soul
To hover o'er His tomb whose loss thou mourn'st,
That favour'd Child who sleeps on Avon's banks,
Crown'd with eternal Fame.—O should my feet
Not too unhallow'd seem, with joy I'd tread
Thy steps o'er hill and vale, with thee ascend

The craggy summit of yon Mountains bound
In ever during Frost, or from its source
Trace the free torrent to the op'ning Lake.

In this wild scene of Nature's true Sublime
What prospects rise! Rocks above Rocks appear,
Mix with th'incumbent clouds, and laugh to scorn
The proudest boasts of art. In fleecy snow
Some mantled, others their enormous backs
Heave high, with forests crown'd; nor midst the view
Are wanting those who their insulting heads
Barren and bleak, uprear as in contempt
Of vegetative laws. Nor yet are they
Unfruitful, deep within their quarries lie
The Marble various vein'd; and the rich Ore
Winds its slow growth: nor here unfrequent found
The Crystal, catching from its min'ral bed
A changeful tinge, yellow, or red, or green,

Azure, or violet; wanting strength alone
To be the gem it mimics. On these heights
Blooms many a modest flowret scarcely known
E'en to the vale beneath, tho' sweet as those
That, when proud Rome was Mistress of the World,
Adorn'd the shrines of Flora. Many a shrub
Of sov'reign use, and medicinal herb
Spread forth their humble leaves, by careless foot
Of shepherd trampled, till some chance disclose
Their latent virtues. Heaven, to sooth the ills
Which sap this mortal Frame, hath strew'd the Earth
With Plants like these, nor from its Children here
Withheld its hand. The trickling Rill presents
Slow bubbling out a salutary Draught,
With Ore impregnated, its mazy path
Tinging like gold; others or warm, or hot,
Sulphureous, form a strength-restoring Bath
In nooks impervious to the mid-day Sun.—

Here the fleet Roebuck darts, as thro' the woods
The hunter's horn re-echoes; Here the Wolf
Prowls savage, shunning, save by want compell'd,
The haunts of Men: tardy and cautious moves
The cumbrous Bear; the fearful Lev'ret too
In his white hue confiding, on the snow
Rests fearless and unmark'd; while o'er the cliffs
Most rude, and cas'd by winter's icy hand,
Wild as the scene he loves, the Ibex bounds.

From this proud Eminence Europa pours
Her amplest Rivers down, whose gentle springs
Or on the Glaciers, or St. Gothard's top,
Or midst the Grisons complicated states
First rising, swell with many an added stream,
And in their passage Provinces remote

Adorn and fertilize. From hence along
The Plains of Lombardy the rapid Po,
With haste impetuous, rushes on to meet
The Adriatic. Raging as he goes,
O'er intercepting rocks the Danube rolls
With many a River leagu'd, eager to seek
The distant Euxine. The tumultous Rhone,
Mingling its waters with the Leman lake,
Precipitates its course thro' cities fair
And purple vineyards, till the sea ingulph
Th'augmented torrent. Here the double Rhine
Blends its twin streams yet slender, and from Coire
In circuit sweeps to Constance, then adown
The rugged cliffs of Lauffen furious pours
The boiling Cataract, with thund'ring roar
Far echo'd: in its dashing fall the Foam

Snatch'd by the eddying winds, disperses round
A misty Show'r. The Empire now It skirts,
Wide and more wide expanding, and (too just
An emblem this of human glory) sinks
In Belgic sands, unnotic'd, and forgot!—
Here smaller Fountains ope their gelid stores,
And Springs unnumber'd burst, but who can search
Their secret sources? to recount their names
Were task too hard. Yet in my verse shall flow
The winding Russ, the far resounding Arve,
The Adda much distain'd, the wandring Aar,
And the bright Tessin's clear tho' rapid stream.

These as they glide along survey their banks
With mountains circled that appear to bend
Beneath the woods they bear. The mournful Larch
Its drooping foliage hangs: the stately Pines,
Their boughs together mix'd, in close array

(Wedg'd like the ancient Phalanx,) from the axe
Rear their tall heads secure; on craggy cliffs
Rooted, or over Precipices dread
Waving their umbrage broad: while other Hills,
Tho' painful their ascent, spread their steep sides
Rich in the gifts of Ceres, where the plow
Might seem a stranger; yet the barren Rock.
That but a quarry shews, on its wide top
Expands fair pastures, where the Villager,
What time the Snow beneath the vernal Sun
Dissolves, leads up his flocks, to pass the heats
In rural cares, 'till the dark short'ning day,
And the rough blast, which herald-like precedes
Th'approach of winter, warns him to the Vale.

Lo! where yon Summits court our steps, how wild
The rocky path! now their rude points reflect
The darting Sunbeam, and anon are lost

In clouds and passing vapours!—Their ascent
Must not affright; Nature like some coy Fair,
Spreads not her Charms at once, but hides them half
From timid Gazers.—On thy Brow, Saleve ,
(Thy well-known Brow, that hath so often woo'd
My pensive mind) I catch with greedy eye
Th'enchanting Landscape, beyond fiction fair;
Where towns, and castles lie dispers'd, and woods,
And ruddy vineyards, where its proudest boast,
Geneva's Turrets rise; and yon blue Lake
A far-stretch'd mirror spreads: its Bosom shews
Th'inverted prospect, circled in with hills
And cliffs, a Theatre immense!—But this
No peril wears to him who dares attempt

The Glaciers slippery track, or climbs the Steeps
Of Tourne, or St. Gothard, or hath join'd
The toiling passengers o'er Cenis Mount,
Or great St. Bernard: Scarce the aching sight
Sustains the view, Rocks beyond Rocks arise,
In ever varying shapes. There piles of Snow
And dashing Cat'racts chill; here a thick Mist
Steals on us while we gaze, and all below
Like one wide Ocean shows!—It breaks,—it fleets,—
A new Creation bursts upon our sight,
Clear and more clear emerging: Now distinct
On the far Plain behold the lab'ring Ox,
The busied Husbandman, and shepherd Boys
Tending their fleecy fold.—From heights like these
How little they appear!—diminish'd!—faint!—
Nay all beneath how small!—Nor will the Muse,
Best-heard instructess, in her verse forbear
To wreath the moral lay—So looks the World

To him whose philosophic mind hath curb'd
Its visionary hopes; as he ascends
The rock of Virtue, all Life's envy'd toys,
Lov'd, nay, ador'd before, shrink from the sight;
Pausing, he wonders they could charm so long,
Then to the senseless Pageant bids farewel!

Thrice happy Regions! could we mount the Winds
And post around the Globe, where should we find
A calmer dwelling? While destructive War,
With Discord leagu'd, rings her infernal peal
And fires the mad'ning Crowd, thy Vallies hear
No sounds but those of Peace; fecure the Swain
Bears plenty to his fields, nor fears a foe
Shall reap the harvest.—Italy may boast
Its rip'ning Sun, its azure Skies;—how sweet
Are Arno's fruitful Banks!—how proudly smile
Thy Hills, imperial Florence!—nor to me

Unknown thy Myrtle Shades, thy Orange Groves,
Parthenope : yet far more pleas'd I range
These Scenes romantic, by th'endearing voice
Of Liberty allur'd. Here reigns Content,
And Nature's Child Simplicity, long since,
Exil'd from polish'd realms. Here ancient Modes
And ancient Manners sway; the honest Tongue
The Heart's true meaning speaks, nor masks with guile
A double purpose: Industry supplies
The little Temp'rance asks; and rosy Health
Sits at the frugal board.—If banish'd hence
Be Luxury, and all the finer Arts
Which swell her train, say, Tenants of these Climes,
What lose ye?—Rather tell how great your gain.—
No Grandeur, plac'd beyond your reach, torments,
No splendid objects light Ambition's fire,

Or point the stings of Envy. What but these
Fill Courts with sighs? and lay such aching heads
On beds of state?—By these, vain Man misled,
Restless, pursues imaginary joys,
Which melt in air, and mock his grasp, nor stops
Till Death unfold his error; happier ye
Tread unaffected Wisdom's paths, and share
Life's real blessings. Fortune's niggard hand
Withholds in vain, those treasures which she pours
Lavish to others, Heav'n o'erpays the loss,
And gives you minds superior to her charms.

Whene'er Affliction visits, she calls forth
Virtues that from the Sunshine of Success
Shrink their diminish'd pow'rs; severely kind
Her lessons! ye have heard her chast'ning voice,
Ye brave Helvetii; tho' the olive wreath

Has long adorn'd your annals, time hath been
When blood hath stain'd them red; when Civil Strife,
Waving its crimson Banner, call'd to arms,
And bade the Furies who await its nod,
Spread Desolation.—Oft your little States
Have shook with danger, felt the hostile foot
Of foreign Legions, felt th'oppressive yoke
Of tyrant Rule; then were ye dauntless seen,
Zealous to curb the insolence of Pow'r,
And claim what Nature gave.—From Morat's Plain
What glorious Laurels sprung ! when the rich Spoils
Of routed Burgundy bestrew'd the dust,
And harness'd Knights in many a glitt'ring heap,
Magnificent in ruin, press'd the field:

Vain were their vaunted arms, the rising Sun
Now shew'd those faces pale, which erst had glow'd
With fond presage of Conquest!—But if love
Of old Renown survive, here yet remains
A nobler Monument to charm: Come ye
Whose souls can feel for others, come and tread
In luxury of thought, the woody sides
Of Lucern's Lake, that washes with its streams
States not unknown to Fame. Tho' the sight meet
Nor trophy'd Pillar, nor the Victor's Arch,
(Sad register of slaughter!) we may view
A soil that nurtur'd Heroes: Men who dar'd,
Spite of Tyrant's menace, to throw off
Chains that disgrac'd their Country, and restore
Its Happiness with Freedom. Yes, my Muse,
Partake this Country's transport, let the tear
Steal from thine eye as thou record'st the names

Of Melchtal, Furst, and Stauffach ; now indulge
The grateful Ardour, as thou read'st the Tale
In Sculpture rude, or on th'Historic wall
Which artless hands have cloath'd. The task is thine
To sing the brave, and lift th'aspiring Soul
To deeds of brightest Fame. Entranc'd I'll fit
Upon Mongarten's hill, and as I view
The spot by Valour memoriz'd, hear Thee tell
The high achievements of these Patriot Chiefs,
And the scant Troops they led; hear thee describe
'Gainst what a Host they fought, how firm they stood,
To Death determin'd, this important Pass,
Their bulwark, to defend, and how repuls'd,
Presumptuous Leopold, by thousands back'd,
Retir'd an abject fugitive, dismay'd

To find what noble Minds by Justice rouz'd
Can dare for Liberty.—Hence shrunk the sway
Of humbl'd Austria; Hence the various leagues
Which bind these realms of Brothers, Hence the smile
Each conscious visage wears!—Illustrious Shades!
Long, long enjoy the honours ye receive
From this confed'rate Land, teach it to prize
The blessings ye bequeath'd, and give them pure
To late Posterity. In times remote,
Enamour'd of your worth, some Bard perchance
More equal to the Theme, shall rise, and give
Your Names the lasting Triumph they demand!

Amidst these Scenes stupendous, where the Soul
Feels all her faculties in wonder lost,
Contemplative I'll roam thro' winding walks
Of shadowy Pines that court the breeze, and hear
The Torrent down its stony channel sweep

With terror-striking roar: nor would I fail
At dewy Eve to wander, when the Sun
To his pale Sister's milder rule resigns
The cloudlesss Skies, who as she rises, spreads
Her silver beams, and the snow-mantled tops
Of yonder mountains with a yellow Hue
Faint tinges, one expanded Sheet of light
Dissusing: while the Shades from rock to rock
Irregularly thrown, with solemn gloom
Diversify the whole.—This tranquil hour,
This awful silence, Meditation's due,
Forbids the mind to view with careless eye
Creation's works, or uninstructed gaze.

Yet Nature smiles not always: there are times
When her Throne totters, and her ancient Realm
Shakes from its deep foundations. Hollow blasts
Heard from the turbid West, proclaim at hand

The Alpine Tempest.—All the dark'ning air
A gloomy silence holds, and clouds surcharg'd,
Press lab'ring 'gainst the Mountain's side; alarm'd
The Swain in haste seeks shelter, nor too soon,
For the Storm bursts.—Lo! where along the vale
A dusky Vapour sweeps, and on its wings
Rides Devastation.—Now the op'ning Skies
Pour forth a deluge, Rivers break their bounds,
And Torrents swell:—Down rolls the tow'ring Oak
From its high cliff up-rent, and the deep voice
Of Thunder roars tremendous, echo'd back
From Alp to Alp, and distant dies away
In faint, low murmurs:—Night perhaps at last
Augments the Horror, greater deem'd, from sight
Each object shut; save while the transient Glare
Of the red Light'ning shoots, or where its fires
Have on a hill remote in ruin wrap'd
Some lonely Cottage: Meteor like, the gleam

Darts thro' the void; pale the sad Owner stands,
Himself scarce sav'd, and mourns his little All:
In vain! leagu'd with auxiliar winds, the Storm
Howls loud, and wafts the ruddy blaze to Heav'n.

Far other views chill Winter's hand displays,
When o'er the plains, and o'er the rocks, he spreads
His hoary mantle; when the thick'ning Air
Descends in feather'd Flakes. Each prospect round
How wild! how shapeless!—Now, Streams wont to flow
With hasty currents, lazy creep, beneath
Th'incumbent Snow. The tall Fir's loaded branch
Waves like the Ostrich plume; the fleecy show'r,
Whirl'd in its falling, forms unreal hills,
And faithless Levels.—Cautious be his steps
Who thro' these regions journeys while they wear
Their cold and dreary aspect, left the Beam
Of some air-kindled Vapour, streaming low

Its lucid exhalation, should mislead
The Traveller night-wand'ring, like the Star
That bright above the Arctic Circle yields
A seeming friendly ray, but only serves
To light the frozen Pilot to his fate.—
Nor let him unadvis'd the sloping side
Of the steep Mountain climb, lest from above
The snowy Piles o'erwhelm him; frequent now,
At dead of Night, remote their sullen sound
Strikes on the startled ear.—Nor scarce more safe
In the broad eye of Day the passage lies,
Looking Security: by eddying winds
Or agitating sounds, the loosen'd snow

First mov'd, augmenting slides, then nodding o'er
The headlong-steep, plunges in air, and rolls
With one vast length of Ruin to the vale.—
Aghast beneath it the pale Victim sees
The falling Promontory—fees—and dies!—
Amidst its horrors from the house of Death
Let me recall one true, one wretched Pair,
To the cold Tomb untimely sunk. The Tale
I've heard from Shepherds, as they pointed out
The spot their story noted, and have dropt
For hapless Love a sympathizing tear.

In a lone Vale, wash'd by th'impetuous Arve,
Beneath the shade its tallest mountain threw,
Matilda dwelt; the sole remaining hope

Her ancient Father knew, whose fruitful fields,
Cover'd with Flocks and Herds, spread wide around.
Her's was each blushing charm which Youth can boast
Or Nature's hand bestow; bright as the bloom
Of May, and mildly sweet as the soft gales
Whose vernal wings fan the first op'ning Flow'rs:
Nor was her mind less fair!—Each neighb'ring Swain
Had sigh'd and languish'd, on the tender bark
Inscrib'd Matilda's name, or to her ear
Whisper'd his love,—in vain!—None, none were heard
Save young Rodolpho, whose prevailing form
Had won her to his favour: on his brow
Sat native comeliness, and manly Fire
O'er all diffus'd its lustre. Yet with her
His gen'rous mind most sway'd, where shone each thought
That Delicacy knows, far more refin'd
Than suits the happy!—Much he had convers'd
With rev'rend Age, and learn'd from thence to prize

A rural Life; learn'd to prefer the Peace
Of his own woods, to the discordant din
Of populous cities.—What but Fate could bar
Their wishes?—luckless Fate!—The morn was fix'd
To seal their plighted faith, the Bridegroom rose
With all a Bridegroom's transport, call'd his Friends
To join the festive train, and hasten forth
To greet th'expecting Maid; still as he went
Anticipating Fancy's magic hand
The thousand raptures drew which youthful breasts
Feel at approaching bliss.—Alas! how quick
Treads Woe in Pleasure's footsteps!—Now pursue
The fated Youth, tho' words are far too weak
To speak his horror, when, nor well-known Farm,
Nor wonted Flocks he saw, but in their place
A pond'rous Mound of snow.—At early Dawn
From the near Alp the cumb'rous Ruin fell,
And crush'd her Father's roof. To lend their aid

Th'assembled Villagers were met, and now
From the cold mass had brought once more to light
Th'ill-starr'd Matilda; lovely still!—for still
A blush was on her cheek, and her clos'd eye
Shew'd but as Sleep. Around her head she wore
Her bridal Ornaments, deck'd as she was
To wait the nuptial hour.—Ah! deck'd in vain,
The Grave thy Marriage bed!—On the sad Scene
Rodolpho gazes, stands awhile aghast,
The Semblance of Despair; his swelling breast,
Torn by conflicting Passions, from his tongue
Utt'rance withholds. He rolls his haggard eyes
On all around, as he would ask, if e'er
Griefs such as his were known?—Then o'er the dead
A moment pausing, on her lips imprints
A thousand frantic kisses, her cold hand
With ardour seizes, and in broken sounds
Calls on Matilda's name.—With that last word

The struggling soul a passage finds, and down
He sinks in Death, pale as the ambient snow!—

Tho' Perils wait the Foot that o'er these Heights
Pursues its path, yet Charity hath strove
To sooth their rigour, and supply those aids
The ruthless scene denies. Amid the wilds
See where the cloyster'd Hermit opens wide
His hospitable gate to welcome in
The sick'ning Pilgrim, and afford Repose
To the way-weary Stranger, who partake
The profser'd bounty; then renew'd in Strength,
Departing, bid the pious Mansion peace!

Here, Fancy, my conductress, let us rest,
Enough our toil, for we have trodden paths

New to the Muse. Yet ere thy hast'ning wings
Are spread for other Climes, here sit awhile,
Glance o'er the Wonders of this various Land,
And take one farewell look.—The active Mind
What can controul? free as the vagrant Air,
It scorns all bounds, and darts into the Shades
Of dim Futurity!—E'en while I gaze
On you, ye Mountains wild, ye sky-crown'd Rocks,
Sublimely great, that have defy'd the waste
Of rolling Ages, brav'd so many Storms,
Unhurt, unshaken, in the Round of Time,
I view your period; when internal War
Rends your Foundations, when your Mines shall flame,
And your Volcanos bursting from beneath
Spread wider Conflagration.—Then your Woods
Shall blaze with horror,—Then your lofty Heads
Smould'ring consume, and like the Snows they bore
All sink dissolv'd!—Where are the Rivers now

That water'd Europe? where the thousand Streams,
The thousand Fountains, and ten thousand Rills,
Your Caverns nourish'd?—Rather might I ask,
Where is the Ocean?—Where the mighty Deeps
That girt this pendent Globe?—Where the firm Earth,
Or changeful Moon?—For when your strength shall fail,
Ye Hills coeval with the World, say what
Shall scape the gen'ral Doom?—Through all its works
The Universe itself shall feel, and sigh
For Dissolution. Chaos then once more
Shall reign triumphant—grace your Fall—and round
Your noble Ruin pour substantial Night.

A species of Wild-Goat inhabiting the coldest parts of the Alps.

The famous fall of the Rhine.

A high Mountain about four or five miles distant from Geneva, rising perpendicularly above the Arve, and commanding a delightful view of the Lake, and the different Countries that lie round it.

The ancient name of Naples.

It was at this place that, 1476, Charles le Hardi, last duke of Burgundy, was defeated by the Swiss. The splendor of the great army he commanded, is mentioned by Historians as very remarkable.

The three Heroes who planned the Liberty of Switzerland; of whom sufficient mention hath already been made in the Preface to The Helvetiad.

This ball or mass of Snow is called the Avalanche; it is frequently of a prodigious size, and rolls from the Alps in particular seasons, rendering the passages very dangerous. Historians who have written of these countries, mention innumerable instances of the ravages and mischiefs produced by it.

It is the commonly received opinion in these countries, that any sudden agitation of the air, such as the firing a gun, loud shouting, &c. will at certain times occasion the Avalanche.

On some of the mountains there are Convents and Hospitals for the relief of such Passengers as want assistance.

University of Virginia Library

THE ALPS.

A POEM.