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Poems

[by] W. Kendall

Kendall, William (fl. 1791-1816)

ADDRESS TO AN EMINENT MUSICIAN.

SONG.

ODE To MUSIC.

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ogni mio studio—
È di sfogare il doloroso core
In qualche modo, non d'acquistar fama.
PETRARCH.

TO LAURA.

Vivit sub pectore vulnus.
VIRGIL.

Laura's charms demand the lay,
Love invites, and I obey.
For my Laura's honour'd name
First I seek th' inspiring flame:
Prompt to learn her lyric lore,
Dare each mazy path explore,
None to guide my erring feet
To the Muse's hallow'd seat.

Nymph divine, to thee unknown,
Tho' I pour my plaintive moan,
Tho' with fear my voice I raise,
May it sweetly sound thy praise,
Ere some happier Bard rehearse
Peerless charms in peerless verse!—

Feeble should my numbers prove,
Should the measures harshly move;
Scorn the cold, infantine strain,
But with pity mark my pain.

Gently o'er thine infant head
Every Star propitious shed
Influence blest, and every Power
Smil'd upon thy natal hour:
From the moment of thy birth
Destin'd Heaven's chief care on earth;
To thy form the Graces three
Added ease with dignity;
And to deck thy mind the more,
Wisdom yielded all her store.
Flew the Queen of dimpled smiles
From her odour-breathing isles,
Left her bright elysian sky,
Melting lustre to thine eye,
Kind to yield, to give her own
Rapture-moving, magic zone.
Venus all the Loves forsook,
For their goddess thee they took:

While thy beauty to controul
Virtue gave a spotless soul.
Favour'd thus, thy youth was taught,
Thus with all perfections fraught.

Oft around the throne of night
Gleams a glance of chasten'd light,
When, the parting clouds between,
Cynthia's silver car is seen.
Chaster beams those eyes dispense!
Whose resistless insluence
Pierced my heart, nor fail'd inspire
Love's divinest, purest fire.
Languor all my frame oppress'd,
Tumult robb'd my mind of rest,
Now Despair his rage display'd,
Now his rising waves allay'd.

Scarce from infant fetters free,
Fell my soul a slave to thee.
Transient moment of delight!
When thy beauty struck my sight,
Lour'd the skies, dark mists arose,
Presage dire of future woes.

Fated now, unblest, to feel
Pains no numbers can reveal;
Peace, who shar'd my chearful cell,
Deigns no more with me to dwell,
Far she flies; nor will return
But to close Death's tranquil urn.

All the listening Swains rejoice
When the Muse exalts her voice,
When in varied notes she slings
Rapture from the living strings:
Yet by me her syren song,
Loath'd, unheeded, floats along.
Nor with sweets when jocund Spring
Loads each tender Zephyr's wing,
When the Hours at Nature's beck,
Earth's gay form with flowrets deck;
Can the season of delight
Chear my bosom's languid night.
Every thought of Love to lose
Oft on precepts sage I muse,
To forget th' enchanting maid,
Oft I call on learning's aid:

Learning straight unfolds her page,
Shews each work of classic age:
Valiant deeds, and men of old,
Bards renown'd, and Heroes bold;
Nor Poet's lay can ease afford,
Nor tale of Warriour's conquering sword.

Since in hymenéal bands
Fate will never join our hands,
Since a thousand ruthless foes
The dear distracting wish oppose;
Vain my sorrows to relate,
Vain to tell my wretched state!
Is no pitying Spirit near
Swift to stay the scorching tear,
None, a hopeless youth to save,
Hastening to an early grave;
As I sing, by Fear possess'd,
Feller Furies rend my breast.
Cease, ah, cease—these terrors spare,
Gloomy-visaged, grim despair!

Nymph belov'd, my verse attend,
From the seat of pride descend:

Deem not lost the gifts of time,
Spurn not thou, my rugged rhime!
Virgin sweet, say, canst thou view
Grief like mine, nor weeping rue
My sad state, nor bid thy sighs
Mourn the triumphs of thine eyes!
Wilt thou fan the raging flame,
And my frantic passion blame?—
Well, too well! I know, our hearts
What a mighty distance parts:
Thro' thy veins of noble blood
Flows a pure, unsullied flood:
All the pleasure wealth bestows
Laura, lovely Laura, knows.
I, alas, obscurely born,
Poor, unfriended, lost, forlorn,
Boast a constant mind alone,
Nor to vice, nor folly prone.
If the world, severely wise,
Weeping Lovers' plaints despise,
Praising him, whose treasur'd ore
Most exceeds his neighbour's store;

Sure, a faithful Heart I deem
Worthier far my Love's esteem.
What tho' Fortune doth withold
Envied gifts, and guilty gold,
What tho' Nature hath denied
Outward grace and ‘Beauty's Pride’?
Wanting riches, better I
Can my own defects descry,
Wanting beauty, better see
Beauty's fairest flower in thee.

Could the mournful measures show
What a weary weight of woe,
Reft of hope, from pleasure torn,
This heart, this breaking heart has borne;
Laura then my song might move
Kind to hear the vows of Love.
Haply melting pity's beam
From her alter'd eye would stream.
But to prove a Lover's pain
All the Muse's skill is vain.
Drop at least one tender tear
And my sinking spirits chear,

Yield one smile, O matchless fair!
And my ruin'd peace repair.
Then my blest soul to assail
Fate nor fortune can avail,
Sweetly shall that smile revive,
Sweetly keep my hopes alive!

SONG.

[At Spring's approach, whose chearing voice]

At Spring's approach, whose chearing voice
Bids Earth and all her sons rejoice,
Soon tempest-stirring Winter flies,
And yields his empire o'er the skies.

The groves their icy chains unbind
And loose their tresses to the wind,
No storms disturb the peaceful vale,
But pleasure sports in every gale.

The Shepherd's eye with rapture moves,
His suit the melting Nymph approves;
New hopes inspire each grateful swain,
And none but Thyrsis owns a pain.

His heart, alas, in early age,
A prey to Fortune's ruthless rage,
Nor Winter's shiv'ring train affrights,
Nor Spring with all her charms delights.

SONG.

[When passions dark shadows arise]

When passions dark shadows arise
To meet my lov'd Idol I stray,
With plaints to awaken her sighs,
And sadden her soul with my lay.

Yet oft as the Virgin appears,
I banish my heart-rending strain;
In pity I stifle my tears,
And my numbers forget to complain.

So tranquil, so joyous her mien,
I dare not my passion disclose—
How cruel, her bosom's Serene
To cloud with the gloom of my woes!

BALLAD.

Gentle Shepherd, cease repining,
Mourn no more thine humble state;
Every anxious wish resigning,
Bless the kind decree of fate.

Let not Fortune's promis'd treasure
Bid thee scorn thy happy lot:
Let not Fame's delusive pleasure
Lure thee from thy Delia's cot.

All the gifts of Love possessing,
With the Nymph securely live;
Fame can yield no nobler blessing,
Wealth no softer joy can give.

SONG.

[Sad slave to Love's almighty power]

Sad slave to Love's almighty power,
I pensive pass the lingering hour:
Nor can the Muse's voice divine,
Nor all the magic charms of wine
Disperse the dreary mist of care,
Or save me from the fiend Despair.

‘How long, my Laura, at thy feet
‘Must I that Beauty's radiance meet,
‘Yet while I gaze essay in vain
‘With tears to calm thy stern disdain?
‘Can nought avail the streaming eye,
‘And must the trembling Lover die?’

Hope warms my soul! again I dare
Breathe in soft strains a suppliant's prayer:
‘Ah! bid the storm of anguish cease,
‘Restore my bosom's wonted peace,
‘No longer hear, unmov'd, my sighs,
‘No more my tender vows despise.

‘To pity all thy soul incline;
‘What ceaseless bliss will then be mine!
‘These eyes immers'd in tearful gloom,
‘Health's sparkling ray shall then illume;
‘These faded cheeks with transport glow,
‘And tears of joy, not sorrow, flow!

SONG.

[Aurora's beams appearing]

Aurora's beams appearing,
Preoar'd our eager steeds,
We haste with prospect chearing
To revel o'er the meads.

Now mountains steep ascending
We slowly trace the prey,
With shouts the vallies rending
Now urge our hurried way.

The horn's melodious measure
While every grove returns,
Each bosom throbs with pleasure,
Each cheek with rapture burns.

Thus pass the hours delighted
Till loud exulting cries,
Horns, Hounds, and Men united
Proclaim—the victim dies!

ODE To JULIA.

ma voi—
non isdegnate questi—
Picciole offerte si, ma pero tali
Che e con puro affetto il cor le dona
Anco il ciel non le sdegna.
GUARINI.

If e'er the Muse, whose piercing sight
Man's sccret soul espies,
Unveils his thoughts, and drags to light
His foul deformities;

If e'er the Muse to me unfolds
The mystery of mind:
My searching glance at length beholds
A Maid to good inclin'd.

That eye no roving wish betrays,
Nor darts malignant fire;
That modest smile disdains to raise
The tumults of desire.

How well, sweet Maid, thy gentle mien
Bespeaks a mind at rest!
The storms that cloud life's dreary scene
Have spared thy tender breast.

No passions dire, by envy fed,
No thoughts that scorn controul,
Deform thy face with guilty red,
Or rend thy yielding soul.

To these fell soes, the powers of truth
Oppose a firm defence,
Bright guardians of thine artless youth,
Thy maiden innocence.

Thee, Julia, Virtue's pure-eyed train,
Thee, Love himself reveres:
And when to bless the tranquil plain
Thy soothing form appears;

With soften'd radiance beaming sweet,
The light of beauty breaks;
Nor scorches with meridian heat
The lillies of thy cheeks.

Calm'd at thy sight, more smoothly glide
The troubled streams of woe,
And gloomy terror's frantic tide
Awhile forgets to flow.

How oft since Laura's bitter scorn
Stole all my joys away,
And gave my heart, by passion torn,
To sierce Despair a prey:

Thy chasten'd look, thy melting eye,
Thy voice that breathes delight,
Have bade grief's frowning spectre fly,
And chear'd the brow of night!

Blest Nymph, for thee the Muse should pour
The slood of verse along,
For thee, on daring pinions soar
Amid the blaze of song.

But Laura from my sleeping lyre
Hath torn the sweetest string,
And hopeless Love's consuming fire
Hath scorch'd the Muse's wing.

SONG.

[Nymph of my soul, let Pity's ray]

Nymph of my soul, let Pity's ray
Dispel my gath'ring fears,
Let Love relenting haste to stay
The torrent of my tears!

So shall my tortur'd spirit rise
From sorrow's drear abyss,
And wak'd to life, with glad surprize
Snatch one short gleam of bliss.

SONG.

[Ere Laura met my ravish'd view]

Ere Laura met my ravish'd view
My cheek confess'd health's roseate bloom,
My soul nor love nor sorrow knew:
How Beauty's power hath chang'd my doom!

'Mid lonely glades with tear-fraught eyes
Wand'ring, I mourn my secret pain;
The passing gale with lengthen'd sighs
In pity murmurs to my strain.

Now, lull'd by hope's elysian smile,
My fears in silent slumber rest;
Now, soothing dreams of joy beguile
The night of thought, and chear my breast.

But ah! too soon my grief returns—
Again tumultuous passions rise,
Again my tortur'd bosom burns;
And all the dear illusion flies!

ODE.

Est flamma medullas.
VIRGIL.

‘Othyrsis, o'er thy tortur'd breast
‘To spread th' oblivious veil of rest,
‘One short liv'd hour of ease to gain,
‘How oft thy Damon strives in vain!
‘No prayers appease, no songs controul
‘The tumults of thy saddening soul.
‘Again, at friendship's blest command
‘I seize the lyre with hurried hand;
‘For thee, alas, unskill'd to sing,
‘I wake the sympathetic string.
‘But ere the chearful notes rejoice
‘O'erwhelming sorrow drowns my voice:
‘Love's pensive spectre chills my sight—
‘Hush'd are the warblings of delight,
‘With burning throbs my heart beats high,
‘The tears hang trembling on mine eye,
‘And from the lyre nor silver sound
‘Nor any mea ures float around.’

Cease, Damon, cease: that tender strain
But adds a keener edge to pain!
Alas, while Love and Grief conspire
To swell the storm of Fortune's ire;
Unheeded to the chearless air
Lamenting Pity pours her prayer.

Friend of my youth, why thus deplore—
Can tears my blighted hopes restore?
Behold, how sickness wastes my frame,
How dimly gleams life's lingering flame!—
In vain the Muse each effort tries,
Can winning words, can social sighs,
Can all the charms of verse avail,
When foes so fiercely leagu'd assail?
Ah, no—for ever from my sight
Love's glittering phantoms wing their flight!
Then mix no more thy plaints with mine;
Fly, Damon fly: thy friend resign:
No longer o'er his sorrows weep,
In Lethe's wave his image steep—
Since Fate with unrelenting doom
Consigns him to an early tomb.

ADDRESS TO AN EMINENT MUSICIAN.

Tho' he, who Pindar's mighty name
Assumes, may higher raise thy fame,
Lov'd by the Muse, in sweeter lays
May sing thy peerless merit's praise;
Yet, Minstrel of the Graces, hear,
Nor blame this artless song sincere.

O thou, whose soft impassion'd strains
Have power to soothe Love's sharpest pains,
Strike, pensive strike the trembling string,
In soul-subduing measures sing!
For while with chaste Orphéan fire
Thy magic touch awakes the lyre,
In sweet oblivion lost, by thee
My senses sink in extasy.—

I hear the warbling wires resound:
My rapt soul spurns earth's dreary mound,
With thee my ravish'd fancy flies
To fairer climes, to purer skies;
No fears disturb, no cares annoy,
Each thought is love, each accent joy!

But when of Delia's stern disdain
I hear the slighted youth complain,
How oft, dissolv'd in tenderest woe,
Thy numbers bid my sorrows flow!
Yet tho' I breathe unceasing sighs,
Tho' tears of pity fill mine eyes;
So sadly pleasing seems my grief
That scarce my bosom seeks relief:
Drown'd in delight, I still attend,
Nor wish the mourner's plaint to end.

Had Collins, whose bright Muse so well
Th' entrancing force of sound could tell,
Known all the strength of modern art,
Or felt the joys thy notes impart;
Ne'er would the bard of soul sublime
Have mourn'd in ever-during rhime

That Music now ‘to us denied’
Had laid ‘her antient lyre aside,’
Since every polish'd grace refin'd
That charm'd of old the Attic mind,
Since all the powers to thine belong,
His Muse ascrib'd to Grecian song.

SONG.

[When flush'd with pride, with triumph smiling]

When flush'd with pride, with triumph smiling,
The Virgin scorns her Lover's prayer;
What thought his hopeless fate beguiling
Can shield his bosom from despair?

To make the maid with pity languish
And prompt soft repentant sigh,
To calm his grief, to ease his anguish;—
Ah, let the swain for ever fly!

SONG.

[What chilling thought, in terror bred]

What chilling thought, in terror bred,
Affrights my friend—what dreadful tale
Hath thus with clouds his brow o'erspread,
Thus stain'd his cheek with deadly pale?

Why rolls in frenzy wild thine eye—
Ah say, what fiend thy rest consumes?
At Friendship's call prepar'd to fly,
See, Peace returning shakes her plumes!

She comes to still thy throbbing heart,
She waves her balmy-breathing wing:
Then speak thy wish—and oh! impart
The source whence all thy sorrows spring.

And canst thou yet thy fears conceal?
'Tis Love has robb'd thee of repose:—
Too well the bursting sighs reveal,
Too well the starting tears disclose!

ODE To MUSIC.

Goddess of soul-commanding song,
What varied gifts to thee belong
Let Bards enraptur'd strive to tell
More skill'd to sound the Muse's shell:
Let these confess the lyric flame,
In glowing verse exalt thy name,
With rage divine thy praises sing;
And boldly sweep the conscious string.
Be mine a humbler wreath to gain
Be mine to paint the frantic swain
Who flew, deceiv'd by hope's vain charms,
To meet the yielding virgin's arms,
But, hapless, for his promis'd fair
Clasp'd the fell demon of despair:—
Relentless Fate his bliss denied
And from the Shepherd snatch'd his bride.

Assist me, in that mournful hour,
Bright Goddess, to record thy power!

Where thro' the grove in scatter'd streams
Pale Cynthia pours her languid beams
Along the valley's lonely way,
I see the love-lorn mourner stray.
Oft to the skies he turns his sight
And views the living lamps of light,
Now, throws convulsive glances round;
Now, wildly gazes on the ground.
But ah! no tears bedew those eyes,
From that pale lip no murmur flies:
His breast such speechless anguish fills,
His palsicd tongue such horror chills!

Harmonious Nymph, resume thy reed,
Oh, bid his bosom cease to bleed:—
With thee to rouse the slumbering plain
Let night's blest minstrel wake her strain!

Hark:—slowly-breathing o'er the skies
What soft ætherial sounds arise!

The Goddess hears: she tunes her reed:
She bids his bosom cease to bleed:
And, sweetest of the warbling throng,
Night's minstrel emulates the song.
Lo, while her swelling voice prepares
Diviner measures, softer airs;
Swift from their haunts on slender wing
The fairy bands delighted spring!
In crowds they fly, nor in their cell
To speed the yet unfinished spell,
Remains one ling'ring elfin sprite
Of all the aerial sons of night.
Retir'd beneath a veiling cloud
The listening Fays their numbers shroud,
And, as the soaring song aspires,
Return the strain with echoing lyres.

Unrivall'd power! with joy behold
The wond'rous scene thy lays unfold.
See, Goddess, o'er that faded check
How well the bursting tears bespeak
What lenient aid thy notes impart
To calm a Lover's wounded heart!

Charm'd at thy voice, Grief checks her tide,
And Passion's whelming waves subside;
Entranc'd the Shepherd feels thy breath
Dispel the louring shades of death:
He drinks the joy-inspiring note,
And all his fears in Lethe float!

Now, lull'd anew the plain to peace,
Thou bidst thy pitying labours cease.
Th' assembled Elves in close array
Their squadrons join, and haste away,
Again within the leafy bower
In mystic dance to waste the hour
Till orient rays of ruddy light
Announce the falling reign of night.

Blest guardian of melodious lay,
What savage heart resists thy sway—
What wretch, if thou attune the lyre,
Owns not the bliss thy notes inspire?
Ev'n Love's unutterable wound
Hath felt the healing force of sound!