The Poetical Works of John Langhorne ... To which are prefixed, Memoirs of the Author by his Son the Rev. J. T. Langhorne ... In Two Volumes |
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ADDRESS.
TO SIGNOR MOZZI,
OF MACERATA. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Langhorne |  |
205
ADDRESS. TO SIGNOR MOZZI, OF MACERATA.
To thee, the child of classic plains,
The happier hand of Nature gave
Each grace of Fancy's finer strains,
Each Muse that mourn'd o'er Maro's grave.
The happier hand of Nature gave
Each grace of Fancy's finer strains,
Each Muse that mourn'd o'er Maro's grave.
Nor yet the harp that Horace strung
With many a charm of easy art;
Nor yet what sweet Tibullus sung,
When beauty bound him to her heart;
With many a charm of easy art;
Nor yet what sweet Tibullus sung,
When beauty bound him to her heart;
Nor all that gentle Provence knew,
Where each breeze bore a lover's sigh,
When Petrarch's sweet persuasion drew
The tender woe from Laura's eye.
Where each breeze bore a lover's sigh,
When Petrarch's sweet persuasion drew
The tender woe from Laura's eye.
Nor aught that nobler Science seeks,
What truth, what virtue must avoid,
Nor aught the voice of Nature speaks,
To thee unknown, or unenjoy'd?
What truth, what virtue must avoid,
Nor aught the voice of Nature speaks,
To thee unknown, or unenjoy'd?
206
O wise beyond each weaker aim,
That weds the soul to this low sphere,
Fond to indulge the feeble frame,
That holds awhile her prisoner here!
That weds the soul to this low sphere,
Fond to indulge the feeble frame,
That holds awhile her prisoner here!
Trust me, my friend, that soul survives,
(If e'er had Muse prophetic skill)
And when the fated hour arrives,
That all her faculties shall fill,
(If e'er had Muse prophetic skill)
And when the fated hour arrives,
That all her faculties shall fill,
Fit for some nobler frame she flies,
Afar to find a second birth,
And, flourishing in fairer skies,
Forsakes her nursery of earth.
Afar to find a second birth,
And, flourishing in fairer skies,
Forsakes her nursery of earth.
Oh! there, my Mozzi, to behold
The man that mourn'd his country's wrong,
When the poor exile left his fold,
And feebly dragg'd his goat along!
The man that mourn'd his country's wrong,
When the poor exile left his fold,
And feebly dragg'd his goat along!
On Plato's hallow'd breast to lean,
And catch that ray of heavenly fire,
Which smooth'd a tyrant's sullen mien,
And bade the cruel thought retire!
And catch that ray of heavenly fire,
Which smooth'd a tyrant's sullen mien,
And bade the cruel thought retire!
Amid those fairy-fields to dwell
Where Tasso's favour'd spirit saw
What numbers none, but his could tell,
What pencils none, but his could draw!
Where Tasso's favour'd spirit saw
What numbers none, but his could tell,
What pencils none, but his could draw!
207
And oft at eve, if eve can be
Beneath the source of glory's smile,
To range Elysian groves, and see
That Nightly Visitant—'ere while,
Beneath the source of glory's smile,
To range Elysian groves, and see
That Nightly Visitant—'ere while,
Who, when he left immortal choirs,
To mix with Milton's kindred soul,
The labours of their golden lyres
Would steal, and ‘whisper whence he stole.’
To mix with Milton's kindred soul,
The labours of their golden lyres
Would steal, and ‘whisper whence he stole.’
Ausonian bard, from my fond ear
By seas and mountains sever'd long,
If, chance, these humble strains to hear,
You leave your more melodious song,
By seas and mountains sever'd long,
If, chance, these humble strains to hear,
You leave your more melodious song,
Whether, adventurous, you explore
The wilds of Apenninus' brow,
Or, musing near Loretto's shore,
Smile piteous on the pilgrim's vow,
The wilds of Apenninus' brow,
Or, musing near Loretto's shore,
Smile piteous on the pilgrim's vow,
The Muse's gentle offering still
Your ear shall win, your love shall woo,
And these spring-flowers of Milton fill
The favour'd vales where first they grew.
Your ear shall win, your love shall woo,
And these spring-flowers of Milton fill
The favour'd vales where first they grew.
For me, depriv'd of all that's dear,
Each fair, fond partner of my life,
Left with a lonely oar to steer,
Thro' the rude storms of mortal strife;—
Each fair, fond partner of my life,
Left with a lonely oar to steer,
Thro' the rude storms of mortal strife;—
208
When Care, the felon of my days,
Expands his cold and gloomy wing,
His load when strong affliction lays
On hope, the heart's elastic spring.
Expands his cold and gloomy wing,
His load when strong affliction lays
On hope, the heart's elastic spring.
For me what solace yet remains,
Save the sweet Muse's tender lyre;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains,
If, chance, the felon, Care, retire?
Save the sweet Muse's tender lyre;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains,
If, chance, the felon, Care, retire?
Save the sweet Muse's tender lyre,
For me no solace now remains!
Yet shall the felon, Care, retire;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains.
For me no solace now remains!
Yet shall the felon, Care, retire;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains.
Blagdon-House,
June 26, 1776.
| The Poetical Works of John Langhorne | |