University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The Works of William Mason

... In Four Volumes

collapse sectionI. 
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
collapse section 
MISCELLANIES.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 1. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionII. 
  
  
collapse section 
collapse sectionI. 
 I. 
 II. 
collapse sectionII. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
collapse sectionIII. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
collapse sectionIV. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
collapse sectionV. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
collapse section 
  
collapse sectionI. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
collapse sectionII. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
collapse sectionIII. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
  
collapse sectionIII. 
collapse section 
  
  


147

MISCELLANIES.


149

THE BIRTH OF FASHION: AN EPISTOLARY TALE.

[_]

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746, AND SENT TO A LADY WITH HOLLAR'S HABITS OF ENGLISH WOMEN, PUBLISHED IN THE FORMER CENTURY 1650.

I wish this verse may chance to come
Just as you dress for rout, or drum;
If so, while Betty at your back
Or pins your gown, or folds your sacque,
Dear Madam, let me beg you place
These prints between yourself and glass,
To see the change in female dress
Made in a hundred years, or less.

150

“Sure, Sir, our grandames all were mad!
“What vulgar airs the creatures had!
“The awkward things—not half a waist;
“And that all frightfully unlac'd—
“O monstrous! what a shocking taste?”
Just so indeed I did surmise
You would not fail to criticise;
Yet still I cannot help conceiving,
If one of these good dames was living
And saw that five-yard hoop around ye,
Her shrewd reflections might confound ye:
But whatsoe'er her thoughts might be,
They'd have but little weight with me;
For I opine, 'tis clear as light,
Whatever is in dress is right;
The present is the test of taste,
And awkward ev'ry thing that's past:
Thus we dislike, observe the proof,
Both Anna's flounce, and Besse's ruff;

151

Yet there's a time the Muse pronounces,
When hoops shall be like ruffs and flounces.
For in an uniform progression
Each mode a moment takes possession
Of Beauty's throne, and fills the place,
Attended by each charm and grace;
Yet, when depos'd by some new fashion,
The charms and graces keep their station,
And on the next thron'd whimsy wait
With all the self-same form and state.
So, at Culloden's furious fray
Had Charley's broad swords won the day,
Which, Heav'n be thank'd, was not the case,
Some statesmen still had kept their place,
And many wights, I name no names,
Who swore to George, had sworn to James.

152

This granted, it no longer strange is,
That Fashions in their various changes,
Though e'er so odd, and out o' the way,
Should reign with universal sway.
For why—whatever mode takes place
'Tis just the same in point of grace.
A tale like Prior or Fontaine
Will make the thing extremely plain.
Cyprus was once, the learn'd agree,
The Vauxhall of Antiquity:
Her myrtle groves, and laurel shades
Echo'd with constant serenades,
And Grecian belles, that look'd as pretty,
And mov'd as graceful as Auretti,
With Grecian beaus the live-long day,
Or led the dance, or tun'd the lay.
Blest place! and how could it be other,
Where all were rul'd by Cupid's mother?
Nay, 'tis affirm'd, the Queen in person
Would oft partake of the diversion;
And then incog. for fear of scandal,
And lest her pranks might give a handle

153

To Pallas, and such sour old maids;
So when she visited the shades,
She wisely laid aside the goddess,
And dress'd in round-ear'd cap and boddice.
One day, thus mask'd, she took her way
Along the margin of the sea,
Where in a creek (convenient spot)
The sea-nymphs had contriv'd a grot.
As here she sat, and humm'd a song,
She saw a boat row smooth along,
Ah! what a lovely freight it bore!
A youth of eighteen years, or more,
Whose polish'd brow, and rosy cheek,
Love-glist'ning eye, and graceful neck,
With locks, that wanton'd in the wind,
Brought all Adonis to her mind!
Yet not like that rough woman-hater;
No, he was half a petit-maitre;
For dress improv'd his native bloom,
Dress fit for any drawing-room,

154

All Tyrian silk, and silver tissue.
Well, he arriv'd, and mark the issue—
He bow'd, saluted, prais'd the dame,
Said civil things, confess'd his flame.
She chose to go—He begg'd she'd stay;
But begg'd with such a winning way,
Was all so pressing, and so fervent,
So much her poor expiring servant,
That, need I say, he won the dame.
Here, Muse, to give no cause for blame,
We'll drop the curtain, and agree
To sing a harmless Hymenèe.
O! shower, ye crimson roses, shower
Perfumes ambrosial where they lie,
With clouds of fragrance veil the bower,
Thick veil from each intruding eye.
Blow soft, ye Zephyrs
—Hark a noise!
What malice interrupts their joys?
O! heav'ns! the darling youth is fled:
She grasps a meteor in his stead.
A lion pawing o'er the plain,
Now “rampant shakes his brindled mane,”
And now a stream meand'ring laves
The golden sand, now joins the waves.

155

What shall affrighted Venus do?
The youth was Proteus; see him now
Resume his form marine again,
And rise from out the circling main,
Encircled with his scaly train!
“'Tis not,” he cried, and archly smil'd,
“The first good time you've been beguil'd,
“So, lovely Goddess, wipe your eye,
“And listen to my prophecy:
“Know, 'tis decreed, you soon shall bear
“A daughter, pre-ordain'd to share
“The various powers we have between us,
“And change like Proteus, please like Venus:
“With Gods she'll have some hard Greek name,
“But Fashion men will call the dame.”
This said, he plung'd beneath the flood;
The Goddess prudently thought good
To hush the matter up, and hie
To private lodgings in the sky;

156

And oft, though Juno begg'd she'd come
To Mount Olympus to her drum,
Yet she refus'd; would ne'er be seen,
But had the head-ach, nerves, and spleen.
I doubt if any modern knows
How many months a goddess goes;
But 'tis enough, the reck'ning ended,
The babe was born, the mother mended:
Nor shall I spend much vain description
To show she hit her Sire's prediction;
For to a lady learn'd as you
All history will prove it true:
Yet if you had but less discerning,
The Muse might here show monstrous learning;
Describe in Greece what tricks she play'd,
And how she taught each Spartan maid
To show her legs (ingenious thought)
By well-chose slits in petticoat,
Which, did she run, or dance, or stoop,
Reveal'd as much as any hoop.

157

Then might she soar on Roman wing,
Of Stola and of Palla sing;
With critic nicety explore
What kind of hoods their matrons wore;
How broad Lucretia's tucker spread;
How Ovid's Julia dress'd her head,
And better ascertain these matters,
Than all the herd of commentators.
Next might she by due steps advance
To modern scenes; and first to France:
France is her citadel, and there
The Goddess keeps her arms and car.
And thence she sends her vice-roy apes
To form our uncouth English shapes.
Here Pegasus might run his race
O'er Mecklin, and o'er Brussels lace:
Here might he take Pindaric bounces
O'er floods of furbelows and flounces;
Gallop on lutestring plains, invade
The thick-wove groves of rich brocade,
And leap o'er whale-bone's stiff barrier.
—But here I bridle his career,
And sagely think it more expedient
To sign myself your most obedient.
 

The phrase at the time was pinning a lady's tail; but the young Author was then too delicate to use it: and happy it was he did not; for the present nicer age would have thought him as indelicate as Lord Monboddo. However an excellent anecdote related of Mrs. Russel, bedchamber-woman to the late Princess Amelia, which is by many remembered (though not here related) will vindicate the authenticity of what was then the usual phrase to express the adjustment of a most material part of a lady's dress.

What a strange objection is here put into the lady's mouth! she finds fault with the women in Charles the First's time for having only half a waist; when every body knows, that to have no waist at all is the true criterion of female elegance. As to lacing, who now could imitate the Venus de Medicis, or any other fine antique, that admitted so gothic a ligament.

Part of the prophecy seems to have been fulfilled, so far at least as starched ruffs go, though the male (I rather call them so than the masculine) followers of Fashion have found a mode of adding to the size of their own necks not quite so picturesque; and the ladies have, occasionally in their morning dishabilles, condescended to imitate them. As to flounces, they have extended their dominion even to bed curtains and hangings of rooms: this, I suppose, out of charity to the insect tribe, for whom they afford a general and most convenient nidus.

This bold assertion, I take for granted, was made merely on hear-say evidence. Readers at the present time will be best able to judge whether that evidence was founded on truth.

A celebrated opera dancer then in vogue.

I suspect that the young Author now, and before in this epistle, took his idea of female shape and beauty from Fielding's Description of Fanny in his Adventures of Joseph Andrews; an idea, which, compared with what it is now, was in that author as absurd, as in himself.

Though I do not find it on the margin of the original MS. the Author had an eye to Virgil in the peculiar changes the mock lover employs:

—Ille suæ contra non immemor artis,
Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum,
Ignemque horribilem feram, fluviumque liquentem.

Georg. Lib. IV. ver. 440.

This is the second time we meet with this obsolete word, yet it will serve with many others in the Poem to ascertain its exact chronology.

Spleen—another obsolete word. Nerves however obtains still most vehemently, though, perhaps, it may in time give place to spasms, whatever the author of Zoonomia may say of their non-existence.

Here the boy pedant comes again from his Virgil with

------ Hic illius arma
Hic Currus fuit.

—Æn. Lib. I. v. 20.

Whale-bone and brocade equally exploded articles.


158

IL BELLICOSO.

Hence, dull lethargic Peace;
Born in some hoary beadsman's cell obscure,
Or in Circean bower,
Where Manhood dies, and Reason's vigils cease.
Hie to congenial climes;
Prolong some Eastern tyrant's downy reign,
Or on Italian plain,
Mid citron shades and myrtle-vested bow'rs,
Lull thine ambrosial hours,
And wed enervate trills to tinkling rhymes.
But rouse, thou God, by furies drest
In helm with terror-plumed crest,
In adamantine steel bedight,
Glist'ring formidably bright,

159

With step unfixt, and aspect wild,
Jealous Juno's raging child,
Who thee conceiv'd in Flora's bower,
By touch of rare Olenian flower.
Oft the Goddess sigh'd in vain,
Envying Jove's prolific brain,
And oft old Ocean heard her moan,
Bending from his coral throne;
At length through Flora's groves she stray'd,
Kind Flora lent her fragrant aid;
Then fruitful grown, her ivory car
With harness'd peacocks cut the air,
And circling wide Propontis round,
She lands at length on Thracian ground;
There teems thee forth, of nervous mould,
Haughty, sanguine, fierce, and bold;
Names thee Mars, and bids thee call
The world from Pleasure's silken thrall.
Come, thou Genius of the War,
Roll me in thine iron car,
And as thy coursers pierce the sky,
Breathing fury as they fly,
Let Courage hurry swift before,
All stain'd around with purple gore,

160

And Vict'ry follow close behind
With wreath of palm and laurel join'd,
While high in ether Fame assumes
Her place, and waves her eagle plumes.
Then, whilst her trumpet swells the note
Roaring rough through brazen throat,
Let drums, with many a beat maintain,
The measure of the martial strain;
Hautboys, clarions too be found,
Nor be miss'd the fife's shrill found,
Nor yet the Scottish bag-pipes strain,
Dear delight of Highland swain;
Whether on some mountain's brow
Now squeaking high, now droning low,
It guides the steps of many a lass
Tripping it featly on the grass;
Or whether in the battle's fray
Some ancient Caledonian lay
It boldly blows, to fill the train
With fury mixt with proud disdain,
Strike ev'ry fire from ev'ry mind,
Nor leave one latent spark behind.
Bear me now to tented ground,
Where gallant streamers wave around,
And British ensigns, wide display'd,
Lend the earth a scarlet shade,
And pikes, and spears, and lances bright
Dart around a silver light;

161

There to join the hardy crowd,
As they sport in gamesome mood,
Wrestling on the circled ground,
Wreathing limbs with limbs around;
Or see them pitch the massy bar,
Or teach the disk to whiz in air.
Then, at night's return, regale
With chat full blunt, and chirping ale,
While some voice of manly bass
Sings my darling Chevy Chase;
How the child, that's yet unborn,
May rue Earl Percy's hound and horn;
How Witherington, in doleful dumps,
Fought right valiant on his stumps;
And many a knight and 'squire full gay
At morn, or night, were clad in clay;
While first and last, we join to sing,
“God prosper long our noble King.”
Thus, till midnight spreads around
Her sable vestments o'er the ground,
Then, I'll for a studious seat
To some strong citadel retreat,
By ditch and rampart high ypent,
And batt'ry strong, and battlement.
There in some store-room richly dight,
With coats of mail, and falchions bright,
Emblazon'd shields of impress quaint,
Erst borne at tilt and tournament;

162

There while the taper burneth blue
(As Brutus once was wont to do)
Let me turn the ample page
Of some grave, historic sage;
Or in Homer's sacred song,
Mix the Grecian bands among,
Or list to Virgil's epic lyre,
Or lofty Lucan's wrapt in fire,
But rather still let Shakspeare's muse
Her genuine British flame diffuse;
And briskly with her magic strain
Hurry me to Gallic plain,
What time the gallant Talbot bleeds,
Or when heav'n-prosper'd Harry leads
His bands, with sevenfold courage steel'd,
To Agincourt's immortal field.
Yet soon as morn begins to spread
The orient pale with streaming red,
And the shrill cornets from afar
Stoutly swell the note of war;
Then, as th' embattled files advance,
O Mars! my ev'ry thought entrance.
Guide me, thou terrific God!
Guide through glory's arduous road,
While Conquest, with gigantic pace
Stalks before, and shakes his mace;
While hailing bullets round me fly,
And human thunders rend the sky,

163

With armour clanking, clarions sounding,
Cannons bellowing, shouts rebounding,
“Guide me, thou terrific God!
“Guide through glory's arduous road.”
But, should on land thy triumphs cease,
Still bear me from the scenes of peace;
Me lead, dread power! for warlike sport
To some wave-encircled fort,
Or, if it yield more open sight,
To some hoar promontory's height,
Whose high-arch'd cliff, with bending brow,
Frowns on the foaming surge below;
There eagerly to ken from far,
All the burst of naval war,
And glow with sympathetic rage,
While th' embattled fleets engage,
And ev'ry distant shore rebounds
To their cannons rattling sounds;
When the sulphurous fire-ship rends,
And thousand deaths around her sends,
And limbs dissever'd, hurl'd on high,
Smoke amid th' affrighted sky.
But, while I gaze, if envious night
Shuts the grand prospect from my sight,
Still let thy vot'ry hear from far
The sound of elemental war,
Hark to the distant thunder's roll,
Nor, till its last concluding growl,

164

Permit dull Morpheus to apply
His leaden finger to my eye;
And then, even then, let Fancy's power
Exhaust her visionary store,
To paint some mighty city's state
Besieg'd, and nodding to its fate;
Above whose heav'n-devoted fanes,
Portentous comets sweep their trains,
And vultures, fierce in martial'd flight,
With beaks and claws wage bloody fight;
And armed knights, a ghostly crowd,
Prick forth from ev'ry op'ning cloud
With blazing swords of portent dire,
And minute glares of meteor fire;
Such erst as shot their livid gleam,
Down on besieg'd Jerusalem,
Or hung o'er Rome e'er Julius fell,
And, if old sages truly spell,
Are dread prognostics that foreshow,
Convulsions in our realms below.
And, when at last cold creeping age
Freezes the current of my rage,
Let me retire amidst a troop
Of invalids, a veteran group,
Bereft of some main limb by war,
Or justly proud to show the scar
They gain'd, when fighting in the cause
Of Albion's liberty and laws;

165

With these full cheerly I'll retire,
To circle round a sea-coal fire,
Hear them their past campaigns recite
Of Vigo's sack and Blenheim fight.
And, when my children round me throng,
The same brave themes shall grace my tongue,
To teach them, should fair England need
Their blood, 'tis their's to wish to bleed;
And, as I speak, behold them glow,
And flash their eye, and knit their brow;
While I, with heart-felt bliss elate,
Sit proudly in paternal state,
Gaze on each half-form'd warrior face,
And all their future fortunes trace;
That this, my ruddy, first-born boy
On land his Sov'reign shall employ;
The next o'er Ocean's wide domain
Boldly assert Britannia's reign,
And firm in freedom's cause advance
The scourge of slav'ry, and of France.
These delights if Mars afford,
Mars! with thee I whet my sword.
Written in 1744.
 

This very juvenile imitation of the Allegro and Penseroso of Milton, and that which follows it, were written some time previous to that of the Lycidas. (See Poem I. of this Volume.) A copy of the above was many years ago surreptitiously printed in a magazine, and afterwards inserted in Pearch's Miscellany. On this account, I thought it right to revise and now publish it (1797.) The counterpart to it was, with my assent, first printed in the Cambridge Verses on the Peace of Aix la Chappelle; and stands here as it did formerly.

So called from Olenas, a city in Peloponesus, where, according to Ovid, this flower first grew. The story is told by him in his Fasti. Lib. V. v. 231.


166

IL PACIFICO.

Hence, pestilential Mars,
Of sable-vested Night and Chaos bred,
On matter's formless bed,
Mid the harsh din of elemental jars:
Hence with thy frantic crowd,
Wing'd Flight, pale Terror, Discord cloth'd in fire,
Precipitate retire;
While mad Bellona cracks her snaky thong,
And hurries headlong on,
To Ach'ron's brink and Phlegethon's flaming flood.
But hail, fair Peace, so mild and meek,
With polish'd brow and rosy cheek,
That, on thy fleece-white cloud descending,
Hither, soft-ey'd Queen, art tending,
Gently o'er thy fav'rite land
To wave thy genial myrtle wand:
To shake from off thy turtle wing
Th' ambrosial dews of endless spring;
Spring, like that which poets feign,
Gilded Saturn's easy reign:
For Saturn's first-born daughter thou;
Unless, as later bards avow,
The youthful God with spangled hair
Closely clasp'd Harmonia fair:

167

For, banish'd erst Heav'n's star-pav'd floor,
(As sings my legendary lore)
As Phœbus sat by weeping brook,
With shepherd's scrip and shepherd's crook,
Pensive 'midst a savage train
(For savage then was all the plain)
Fair Harmonia left her bow'r,
To join her radiant paramour:
Hence didst thou spring; and at thy birth
Lenient Zephyrs fann'd the earth,
Rumbling thunders growl'd no more,
Prowling wolves forgot to roar,
And man, whom fiercer rage possest,
Smil'd dissension from his breast.
She comes, she comes: ye Nymphs, prepare
Gay floral wreaths to bind your hair;
Ye swains, inspire the mellow flute
To dulcet strains, which aptly suit
The featly-footed saraband
Of Phillis trim and Marian bland,
When nimbly light each simp'ring lass
Trips it o'er the pliant grass.
But see, her social smiling train
Now invests th' enraptur'd plain!
Plenty's treasure-teeming horn
Show'rs its fruits, its flow'rs, its corn;
Commerce spreads his amplest sail;
Strong-nerv'd Labour lifts his flail

168

Sylvanus too attends, ('tis he
That bears the root-pluck'd cypress tree)
He shall my youngling footsteps lead
Through tufted lawn and fringed mead,
By scooped valley, heaped hill,
Level river, dancing rill,
Where the shepherds all appear,
To sheer and wash their fleecy care,
Which bleating stand the streams around,
And whiten all the close-cropp'd ground:
Or when the maids in bonnets sheen
Cock the hay upon the green;
Or up yon steep rough road the swains
Drive slow along their rolling wains,
(Where laughing Ceres crowns the stack,
And makes the pond'rous axle crack),
Then to the village on the hill,
The barn's capacious jaws to fill,
Where the answ'ring flails rebound
Beating bold with thund'ring sound.
Enchanted with this rural scene,
Here let me weave my arb'retts green:
Here arch the woodbine, mantling neat
O'er my noontide cool retreat;
Or bind the oak with ivy-twine;
Or wed the elm and purpling vine.
But, if my vagrant fancy pants
For charms that simple nature wants,

169

Grant, Power benign, admittance free
To some rang'd academy:
There to give to arts refin'd
All the impulse of my mind;
And oft observant take my stand,
Where the painter's magic hand
From sketches rude, with gradual art,
Calls dawning life to ev'ry part,
Till, with nice tints all labour'd high,
Each starting hero meets the eye:
Oft too, oh! let me nice inspect
The draughts of justest architect:
And hence delighted let me pass,
Where others mold the ductile brass;
Or teach the Parian stone to wear
A letter'd sage's musing air.
But ah! these Arts have fix'd their home
In Roman or in Gallic dome:
Though strange beseems, that Arts should spread
Where frowns black Slav'ry's baleful shade;
And stranger far that Arts decay
Where Freedom deals her warmest ray.
This then deny'd; I'll swift retreat,
Where Camus winds with murmur sweet:
There teach me, piercing Locke, t' explore
The busy mind's ideal store;
There, heav'n-rapt Newton, guide my way
'Mid rolling worlds, through floods of day,

170

To mark the vagrant comet's road,
And through his wonders trace the God.
Then, to unbend my mind, I'll roam
Amid the cloister's silent gloom:
Or, where rang'd oaks their shades diffuse,
Hold dalliance with my darling Muse,
Recalling oft some heav'n-born strain,
That warbled in Augustan reign;
Or turn, well pleas'd, the Grecian page,
If sweet Theocritus engage;
Or blith Anacreon, mirthful wight,
Caroll his easy love-lay light.
Yet let not all my pleasure lie
Confin'd to one Phœbeian joy;
But ever give my fingers wings
Lightly to skim the trembling strings,
And from some bow'r to tune the lay:
While list'ning birds crowd every spray,
Or hovering silent o'er my head,
Their quiv'ring wings exulting spread;
Save but the turtles, they alone
With tender plaintive faithful moan,
Shall tell, to all the secret grove,
Their soft thick-warbled tale of love:
Sweet birds! your mingling bliss pursuing,
Ever billing, ever cooing,
Ye! constant pair! I love to note
Your hoarse strain gurgling in your throat;

171

And, ye unheard, from sidelong hills
The liquid lapse of whisp'ring rills,
I hist to hear: such sounds diffuse
Sweet transports to the thoughtful Muse.
Thus Summer sees me brisk and light,
'Till Winter spreads her 'kerchief white;
Then to the city's social walls,
Where tolling clock to business calls.
There the weaver's shuttle speeds
Nimbly through the fine-spun threads:
There the vocal anvil rings,
While the smith his hammer swings;
And ev'ry man and ev'ry boy
Briskly join in warm employ.
Through such throng'd scenes full oft I'll range,
Oft crowd into the rich Exchange:
Or to yon wharf; aside the mote,
Where the anchor'd ships do float,
And others, hast'ning into bay,
Swell their sails in fair array:
Wafting to Albion's sons the store,
That each Peruvian mine can pour;
Wafting to Albion's smiling dames
The ruby's glow, the diamond's flames,
'Till all the Indies rush into the Thames.
Joys vast as these my fancy claims;
And joys like these, if Peace inspire,
Peace with thee I string the lyre.

172

AN EPISTOLARY ADDRESS TO THE AUTHOR'S FATHER, SENT FROM LONDON IN THE YEAR 1746.

Surgat in officium venerandi Musa Parentis
Miltonus ad Patrem.

Here pause, fair Fancy, in thy flow'ry way
The varied verse, the imitative lay
Reject awhile; discard each fabling dream;
Paternal praise be now thy nobler theme;
And if the Muse, who through the realms of song
Gave Pope, now mute, to lead the tuneful throng,
In whose warm heart with mingling fervour shone
The glowing Poet and the tender Son,
His duteous heart and filial feelings pour
Through every artless line, I ask no more.
Enough for me, if he, whose name I bear,
With wonted candour bend his partial ear;

173

Enough, if he who always lov'd to blend
Advice with smiles, the father with the friend,
Accept the verse, how vain soe'er it prove,
Which aims to pay its tribute to the love,
That ever blest me since my course began,
From tender childhood to the dawn of man;
Nor in that course did e'er one boon refuse,
A son might ask, and innocence might use.
Can I forget, when first my infant ear
Caught each new melody it chanc'd to hear,
How prompt to foster seeds, that nature sow'd,
A master skill'd his gen'rous care bestow'd,
To teach how concord and how discord meet,
And form one strain methodically sweet?
Alike when active Fancy tried to trace
The rural landscape, or impassion'd face,
How to my aid he brought each written rule,
And free design of Painting's various school?
How, when my thoughts first flow'd in tinkling chime,
He smooth'd the verse, reform'd each faulty rhyme,
Nor check'd the Muse, just waking, in the strain,
Lest love of verse should quench the love of gain,
But smil'd assenting, fann'd the kindling fire,
And sunk the critic in the partial sire?

174

Much thanks for these; for arts like these have pow'r
To grace the chearful, sooth the peusive hour.
These shall dispense their calm, yet lively, joys,
When study pauses, or when business cloys;
Nor one dull hour drawl sullenly along,
While paint can please, or harmony, or song.
Thro' graver science now my steps to guide,
As years advance, see Marg'ret's dome supply'd
Her arching cloysters and her glimm'ring groves,
All, study claims, all, contemplation loves,
Are amply given; and, if I wish for more,
The town expands, and Thames, thy splendid shore!
Here free to rove, here feast my mind and eyes,
“Here catch the manners living as they rise,”
Here men with books impartially compare,
Learn what they should be, smile at what they are;
For Vanity, the world's despotic queen,
Ere we can know her truly, must be seen;
And if plain sense her steady glass supplies,
The more we see, the more we shall despise.
Permit me then, my Sire, awhile to view,
Thro' that clear perspective, her motley crew;
Nor fear thy son, by Fashion's frippery smit,
Should shun the Christian and pursue the Wit:
But sated quite, relinquishing with joy
Those vain delights, that soon as tasted cloy;

175

Each passion cool'd, that boils the tide of youth,
Each error purg'd, that dims the sight of truth,
O! may no wish for more his bosom own,
But all his manners speak him all thy son.
For, know, each academic duty paid,
Soon will he haste to his paternal shade;
There, fraught (great task) with Reason's nerve to tame
That hydra of the soul the thirst of fame;
His youthful breast, by years mature refin'd,
May shine the mirror of thy blameless mind,
And, free from public, as domestic, strife,
Slide thro' the tranquil stream of private life;
Yet, still alive to ev'ry social call,
Glow with that charity, which feels for all.
There too to truths divine may he aspire,
Wing'd and conducted by his practis'd Sire:
Pursue his flight, upborn on Faith's strong plume,
Nor fear of youthful Icarus the doom,
From Falsehood's maze sav'd by his guiding clue,
Rise as he rises, keep him still in view,
The Minotaur of Vice beneath him hurl'd,
And 'scap'd that worst of labyrinths, the World.
 

First printed 1797.

Alluding to Musæus and the two foregoing imitations of Milton, which the Author was then composing, but had not quite finished.


176

STANZAS, WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE CAM, 1746.

To court, in May's mild month, the Muse
Along the sedgy bank I stray'd,
Where slow-pac'd Cam his course pursues
Amid the daisy-painted mead.
High o'er my head, the Solar sphere
Flung far and wide his sparkling beams;
His sparkling beams as bright appear
Reflected from the silver streams.
Below each languid Zephyr died,
Each slender reed forgot to play,
Without a rill the even tide
Slided silently away.
Yet, from its surface to its base,
So clear the chrystal fluid spread,
My gazing eye, distinct could trace
The finny inmates of its bed.

177

At length the Muse her votary join'd,
With me the busy scene she view'd,
And, fancy waking in my mind,
A flow of numbers thus ensued.
“See, how those rose-finn'd perch delight
“High as th' incumbent air to glide,
“Each leaf each straw their chase excite,
“That bouyant sail along the tide.
“On Learning's surface thus the youth
“Too oft devotes each precious hour,
“For modern whim scorns ancient truth,
“And quits the fruit, to smell the flower.
“But hark! I heard a bubbling noise,
“How quick yon trout pursu'd a fly!
“Yet see! the nimble insect plies
“His wing, and safe ascends the sky.
“Say, Muse! to what shall we compare
“The scaly fool's successless aim?
“Tis thus that all deluded are,
“Who merely act, or write for fame.
“See far below, yon eel conceal'd
“In mud its circling volume leads,
“Now thro' the water half reveal'd,
“Now tangled in a grove of reeds;

178

“So fares the man, who, gravely vain,
“Thro' each profound of Learning wanders,
“Scruples and doubts perplex his brain
“In long and intricate meanders.
“There too a half-gorg'd pike appears,
“Whose maw or frogs or gudgeons sate,
“After a labouring length of years,
“Such is the musty pedant's fate.
“But see, its height and depth between,
“Yon scaly tribe or pause or play,
“Now hanging in the fluid scene,
“Now straying as its currents stray;
“Their course no straws divert above,
“No mud, or reeds obstruct below,
“Freely their oary fins they move,
“As nature dictates, swift or slow.
“So, through life's current let me glide,
“Nor sink too low, nor rise too high,
“Safe if Content my progress guide,
“And golden Mediocrity.”

179

ISIS.

A MONOLOGUE.

Ω δυστηνος
Τι ποτ' ου δη που
Εεγ' απιστουσαν, τοις βασιλειοι-
σιν αγουσι νομοις,
Και εν αφροσυνη καθιλοτες.
Sophocles in Antig.

Far from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright
The pointed crystals shot their trembling light,

180

From dripping moss where sparkling dew-drops fell,
Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed shell,
Pale Isis lay; a willow's lowly shade
Spread its thin foliage o'er the pensive maid;
Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breast
In careless folds loose fell her zoneless vest;
While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow
In all the awful negligence of woe;
Her urn sustain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vase
Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all it's grace;
Here, full with life was heav'n-taught Science seen,
Known by the laurel wreath and musing mein:
There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace sedate and bland
Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand;
While solemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas green
At well-mark'd distance close the sacred scene.
On this the Goddess cast an anxious look,
Then dropt a tender tear, and thus she spoke:
“Yes, I cou'd once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vase;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes
View on yon plain the real glories rise.
Yes, Isis! oft hast thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead,
Oft hast thou stopt thy pearly car to gaze,
While every science nurs'd its growing bays:
While ev'ry youth, with Fame's strong impulse fir'd,
Prest to the goal, and at the goal untir'd

181

Snatch'd each celestial wreath to bind his brow,
The Muses, Graces, Virtues could bestow.
“E'en now fond Fancy leads the ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Mem'ry's ample plain;
See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! Sidney, Raleigh, Hamden, Somers shine.
See Hough superior to a tyrant's doom
Smile at the menace of the slave of Rome.
Each soul whom Truth could fire, or Virtue move,
Each breast strong panting with its country's love,
All that to Albion gave the heart or head,
That wisely counsell'd, or that bravely bled,
All, all appear; on me they grateful smile,
The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toil
To me with filial reverence they bring,
And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd spring.
“Ah! I remember well yon beachen spray,
There Addison first tun'd his polish'd lay;
'Twas there great Cato's form first met his eye,
In all the pomp of free-born majesty.
“My Son, he cry'd, observe this mein with awe,
“In solemn lines the strong resemblance draw;
“The piercing notes shall strike each British ear,
“Each British eye shall drop the patriot tear;
“And, rous'd to glory by the nervous strain,
“Each youth shall spurn at Slav'ry's abject reign,

182

“Shall guard with Cato's zeal Britannia's laws,
“And speak, and act, and bleed, in Freedom's cause.”
The Hero spoke, the Bard assenting bow'd,
The lay to liberty and Cato flow'd;
While Echo, as she rov'd the vale along,
Join'd the strong cadence of his Roman song.
“But ah! how Stillness slept upon the ground,
How mute Attention check'd each rising sound;
Scarce stole a breeze to wave the leafy spray,
Scarce trill'd sweet Philomel her softest lay,
When Locke walk'd musing forth; ev'n now I view
Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow,
View Candour smile upon his modest cheek,
And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break.
'Twas here the Sage his manly zeal exprest,
Here stript vain Falsehood of her gaudy vest;
Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind,
Ere long to burst in blessings on mankind;
Ere long to show to Reason's purged eye,
That “Nature's first best gift was Liberty.”
“Proud of this wond'rous son, sublime I stood,
(While louder surges swell'd my rapid flood)
Then vain as Niobe exulting cry'd,
Ilissus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;

183

Though Plato's steps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring glade,
Though fair Lycæum lent its awful shade,
Though ev'ry academic green imprest
Its image full on thy reflecting breast,
Yet my pure stream shall boast as proud a name,
And Britain's Isis flow with Attic fame.
“Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic boast?
See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast.
See! Hydra Faction spread its impious reign,
Poison each breast, and madden ev'ry brain.
Hence frontless crowds that, not content to fright
The blushing Cynthia from her throne of night,
Blast the fair face of day; and madly bold,
To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;
To Freedom's foes, ah! see the goblet crown'd!
Hear plausive shouts to Freedom's foes resound!
The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,
The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt;
Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,
Now sheds by stealth a partial private gleam
In some lone cloister's melancholy shade,
Where a firm few support her sickly head;
Despis'd, insulted by the barb'rous train,
Who scour, like Thracia's moon-struck rout, the plain,
Sworn foes like them to all the Muse approves,
All Phœbus favours, or Minerva loves.

184

“Are these the sons my fost'ring breast must rear?
Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care,
Must these go forth from my maternal hand
To deal their insults through a peaceful land,
And boast, while Freedom bleeds and Virtue groans,
That “Isis taught sedition to her sons?”
Forbid it heav'n! and let my rising waves
Indignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves,
In England's cause their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy.
Is this deny'd? Then point some secret way
Where far far hence these guiltless streams may stray,
Some unknown channel lend, where nature spreads
Inglorious vales and unfrequented meads;
There, where a hind scarce tunes his rustic strain,
Where scarce a pilgrim treads the pathless plain,
Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide
Saw yon majestic structures crown its side;
Forget that e'er my rapt attention hung
Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue,
Calm and resign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And pleas'd prefer oblivion to disgrace.”
 

It was said, in an advertisement prefixt to the first quarto edition, that, “the following Poem would never have appeared in print, had not an interpolated copy of it, published in a country newspaper, scandalously misrepresented the principles of the Author;” which parody, before the publication of the original, was reprinted in the London Evening Post, and generally supposed to be written by the late Dr. Byrom of Manchester. Very soon after Mr. T. Warton, afterwards Poet Laureat, printed an elegant answer to it, entitled, the Triumph of Isis. But ere this the Author (then young) was convinced that the satire it contained, though mixed as it was with true panegyric, was too severe; he therefore forbore to reprint it in any of the former editions of his Poems. However, as Mr. Warton's Poem has been, with this reprinted in certain Miscellanies, and as the former holds a place in his volume, it it was thought proper here to give it a place.—Certain it is that the spirit of Jacobitism, which had obtained in both our Universities before the year 1745, was far from being quite extinguished in 1748, when this Poem was written. May the more recent spirit of Jacobinism (if now it infects either of them) have a still quicker termination! (re-published 1797).

It was originally entituled an Elegy; but the term is altered as not being written in alternate rhymes, which since Mr. Gray's exquisite Elegy in the Country Church-yard has generally obtained, and seems to be more suited to that species of Poem.


185

PROTOGENES AND APELLES.

(ALTERED FROM PRIOR.)

When Poets wrote, and Painters drew,
As Nature pointed out the view;
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece,
To spoil the well-proportioned piece;
And in our verse ere monkish rhymes
Had jangled their fantastic chimes;
Ere on the flow'ry land of Rhodes
Those Knights had fix'd their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,
Nor car'd to pray, nor dar'd to fight:
Protogenes, historians note,
Liv'd there, a burgess scot and lot;

186

And, as old Pliny's writings show,
Apelles did the same at Co.
Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.
Piqu'd by Protogenes's fame,
From Co to Rhodes Apelles came
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepare to censure, or commend,
Here to absolve, and there object,
As art with candour might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings,
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante of th' house,
For such in Greece were much in use;—
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me, or thee, to know.
Does 'Squire Protogenes live here?
Yes, Sir, says she, with gracious air,
And curtsey low; but just call'd out
By lords peculiarly devout;
Who came on purpose, Sir, to borrow
Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow,
To grace the church: 'tis Venus day:
I hope, Sir, you intend to stay
To see our Venus: 'tis the piece
The most renown'd throughout all Greece,

187

So like th' original, they say;
But I have no great skill that way.
But, Sir, at six ('tis now past three)
Dromo must take my Master's tea.
At six, Sir, if you please to come,
You'll find my Master, Sir, at home.
Tea, says a Critic, big with laughter,
Was found some twenty ages after:
Authors, before they write, should read.
'Tis very true;—but we'll proceed.
And, Sir, at present, would you please
To leave your name?—Fair maiden, yes.
Reach me that board. No sooner spoke
But done. With one judicious stroke,
Apelles delicately drew
A line retiring from the view,
And quick as sportsmen draw their trigger,
Produc'd a fine fore-shorten'd figure.
And will you please, sweetheart, said he,
To show your Master this from me?
By it he presently will know,
How Painters write their names at Co.

188

He gave the pannel to the maid.
Smiling and curt'sing, Sir, she said,
I shall not fail to tell my Master:
And, Sir, for fear of all disaster,
I'll keep it my own self:—safe bind,
Says the old proverb, and safe find.
So, Sir, as sure as key or lock—
Your servant, Sir—at six o'clock.
Again at six Apelles came;
Found the same prating civil dame.
Sir, that my Master has been here,
Will by the board itself appear.
If in the sketch you chose to draw,
He found, you'll pardon me, a flaw—
And tried to make a nicer line,
You must not think the fault was mine;
For he, strange man! will have his way.
(I'm sure I find it night and day)
And when 'twas done, he bade me say,
Thus write the Painters of this Isle:
Let those of Co remark the style.

189

She said; and to his hand restor'd
The rival pledge, the missive board.
Apelles saw a truer stroke,
Now here, now there, his own had broke;
This gave the Artist a new hint,
With pencil of a different tint,
To trace, o'er both the lines together,
A third, more elegant than either.
And by its subtle intersection,
He brought the drawing to perfection.
The Coan now review'd the piece;
And live, said he, the Arts of Greece!
Howe'er Protogenes and I
May in our rival talents vie;
Howe'er our works may have express'd
Who truest drew, or coloured best—
When he beheld my flowing line,
He found at least I could design,
But now I've made it quite complete;
I trust 'twill cause us soon too meet.

190

It did. Protogenes beheld
The Sketch, and own'd himself excell'd.
Then to the port he ran in haste
And clasp'd with friendly arms his guest.
The dullest genius cannot fail
To find the moral of my tale;
That the distinguish'd part of men,
With compass, pencil, sword, or pen,
Should in life's visit leave their name
In characters, which may proclaim,
That they with ardour strove to raise
At once their arts, and country's praise,
And free from envy, spleen, and spite,
Took each their patriotic flight;
Like the two worthies of my story,
On mutual plumes, to mutual glory.
 

The exquisite humour with which Prior has enlivened the plain tale which he took from Pliny, it is hoped will not be much impaired by the following few alterations, attempted for no other purpose than to elucidate the original story, which it is thought, has not hitherto been perfectly understood; not from any defect in Pliny's narrative (as his last translator, M. Falconet would make us believe), but from the blunder of the old Commentators, and the inattention of the latter to the whole passage. The alterations are printed in italics, and Prior's original lines at the bottom of the respective pages.

O'er the plain ground Apelles drew
A circle regularly true.

Prior.

'Tis thus he order'd me to say.

P.

Or Leda's egg, or Cloe's breast.

P.

And from his artful round I grant
That he with perfect skill can paint.
Apelles view'd the finish'd piece.

P.

That all was full, and round, and fair.

P.


195

ODE OF CASIMIR

TRANSLATED.

Sweet harp, of well-fram'd box the vocal child!
Here shalt thou hang on this tall poplar's spray,
While ether smiles, and breezes mild
Amid its pendant foliage play.
Eurus shall here, but borne on softest wing,
Whisper and pant thy warbling chords among,
While pleas'd my careless limbs I fling
On this green bank, and mark thy song—
But lo! what sudden clouds veil the blue skies!
What rushing sound of rain! Rise we with speed—
Ah always thus, ye light-wing'd joys,
Ye fly, and ere possess'd are fled!

196

SONG OF HAROLD THE VALIANT.

I

My ships to far Sicilia's coast
Have row'd their rapid way,
While in their van my well-man'd barque
Spread wide her streamers gay.
Arm'd on the poop, myself a host,
I seem'd in glory's orb to move—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.

197

II

To fight the foe in early youth,
I march'd to Drontheim's field;
Numbers were theirs, but valour ours,
Which forc'd that foe to yield.
This right hand made their king a ghost:
His youthful blood now stains the grove—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.

III

Rough was the sea, and rude the wind,
And scanty were my crew;
Billows on billows o'er our deck
With frothy fury flew:
Deep in our hold the waves were tost,
Back to their bed each wave we drove—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.

IV

What feat of hardihood so bold
But Harold wots it well?
I curb the steed, I stem the flood,
I fight with falchion fell;
The oar I ply from coast to coast,
On ice with flying skates I rove—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.

198

V

Can she deny, the blooming maid,
For she has heard the tale,
When to the South my troops I led,
The fortress to assail?
How, while my prowess thinn'd the host,
Fame bade the world each deed approve—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.

VI

On Norway's cloud-cap'd mountains bred,
Whose sons are bow-men brave,
I dar'd, a deed that peasants dread,
To plough old Ocean's wave;
By tempest driven, by dangers crost,
Through wild, unpeopl'd climes to rove—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.
 

The original of this song is preserved in an old Icelandic Chronicle, called Knytlinga Saga. It was translated by Bartholinus into Latin, and from him into French by M. Mallet in his Introduction al' Histoire de Dannemarc. Vol. II. page 287 of the Northern Antiquities, taken from the above work, gives it in English prose under the title of an Ode of Harold the Valiant. He was a Norwegian Prince in the middle of the eleventh century. See also five pieces of Runic poetry published by Dr. Percy. It was versified with a view of being inserted in an Introduction to a projected Edition of an History of English Poetry (see Memoirs of Gray, last Edit. Vol. IV. p. 143) and was meant so be a specimen of the first Ballad (properly so called) now extant of northern origin.


199

SONG.

I

When first I dar'd by soft surprise
To breathe my love in Flavia's ear,
I saw the mixt sensations rise
Of trembling joy and pleasing fear;
Her cheek forgot its rosy hue,
For what has Art with Love to do?

II

But soon the crimson glow return'd
Ere half my passion was exprest,
The eye that clos'd, the cheek that burn'd,
The quiv'ring lip, the panting breast
Shew'd that she wish'd or thought me true,
For what has Art with Love to do?

III

Ah! speak, I cry'd, thy soft assent:
She strove to speak, she could but sigh;
A glance, more heav'nly eloquent,
Left language nothing to supply.
She prest my hand with fervour new;
For what has Art with Love to do?

200

IV

Ye practis'd nymphs, who form your charms
By Fashion's rules, enjoy your skill;
Torment your swains with false alarms,
And, ere you cure, pretend to kill:
Still, still your sex's wiles pursue,
Such tricks she leaves to Art and You.

V

Secure of native powers to please,
My Flavia scorns all mean pretence;
Her form is elegance and ease,
Her soul is truth and innocence;
And these, O heartfelt extasy!
She gives to Honour, Love, and Me.
July 11, 1765.

201

THE ENGLISH GARDEN:

A POEM. IN FOUR BOOKS.

A Garden is the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man, without which buildings and palaces are but gross handiworks. And a man shall ever see, that when ages grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately, sooner than to garden finely: as if gardening were the greater perfection. Verulam.


209

BOOK THE FIRST.


211

To thee, divine Simplicity! to thee,
Best arbitress of what is good and fair,
This verse belongs. O, as it freely flows,
Give it thy powers of pleasing: else in vain
It strives to teach the rules, from Nature drawn,
Of import high to those whose taste would add
To Nature's careless graces; loveliest then,
When, o'er her form, thy easy skill has taught
The robe of Spring in ampler folds to flow.
Haste, Goddess! to the woods, the lawns, the vales;
That lie in rude luxuriance, and but wait
Thy call to bloom with beauty. I meanwhile,
Attendant on thy state serene, will mark
Its faery progress; wake th' accordant string;
And tell how far, beyond the transient glare
Of fickle fashion, or of formal art,
Thy flowery works with charm perennial please.
Ye too, ye sister Powers! that, at my birth,
Auspicious smil'd; and o'er my cradle dropp'd

212

Those magic seeds of fancy, which produce
A Poet's feeling, and a Painter's eye,
Come to your votary's aid. For well ye know
How soon my infant accents lisp'd the rhyme,
How soon my hands the mimic colours spread,
And vainly strove to snatch a double wreath
From Fame's unfading laurel: fruitless aim;
Yet not inglorious; nor perchance devoid
Of friendly use to this fair argument;
If so, with lenient smiles, ye deign to cheer,
At this sad hour, my desolated soul.
For deem not ye that I resume the strain
To court the world's applause: my years mature
Have learn'd to slight the toy. No, 'tis to sooth
That agony of heart, which they alone,
Who best have lov'd, who best have been belov'd,
Can feel, or pity; sympathy severe!
Which she too felt, when on her pallid lip
The last farewell hung trembling, and bespoke
A wish to linger here, and bless the arms
She left for heav'n. She died, and heav'n is hers!
Be mine, the pensive solitary balm
That recollection yields. Yes, Angel pure!
While Memory holds a seat, thy image still
Shall reign, shall triumph there; and when, as now,
Imagination forms a nymph divine
To lead the fluent strain, thy modest blush,
Thy mild demeanour, thy unpractis'd smile

213

Shall grace that Nymph, and sweet Simplicity
Be dress'd (ah meek Maria!) in thy charms.
Begin the Song! and ye of Albion's sons
Attend; ye freeborn, ye ingenuous few,
Who heirs of competence, if not of wealth,
Preserve that vestal purity of soul
Whence genuine taste proceeds. To you, blest youths,
I sing; whether in academic groves
Studious ye rove; or, fraught with learning's stores,
Visit the Latian plain, fond to transplant
Those arts which Greece did, with her liberty,
Resign to Rome. Yet know, the art I sing
Ev'n there ye shall not learn. Rome knew it not
While Rome was free: Ah! hope not then to find
In slavish superstitious Rome the fair
Remains. Meanwhile, of old and classic aid
Though fruitless be the search, your eyes entranc'd
Shall catch those glowing scenes, that taught a Claude
To grace his canvass with Hesperian hues:
And scenes like these, on Memory's tablet drawn,
Bring back to Britain; there give local form
To each idea; and, if Nature lend
Materials fit of torrent, rock, and shade,
Produce new Tivolis. But learn to rein,
O youth! whose skill essays the arduous task,
That skill within the limit she allows.
Great Nature scorns control: she will not bear

214

One beauty foreign to the spot or soil
She gives thee to adorn: 'tis thine alone
To mend, not change her features. Does her hand
Stretch forth a level lawn? Ah, hope not thou
To lift the mountain there. Do mountains frown
Around? Ah, wish not there the level lawn.
Yet she permits thy art, discreetly us'd,
To smooth the rugged and to swell the plain.
But dare with caution; else expect, bold man!
The injur'd Genius of the place to rise
In self-defence, and, like some giant fiend
That frowns in Gothic story, swift destroy,
By night, the puny labours of thy day.
What then must he attempt, whom niggard Fate
Has fixt in such an inauspicious spot
As bears no trace of beauty? Must he sit
Dull and inactive in the desert waste,
If Nature there no happy feature wears
To wake and meet his skill? Believe the Muse,
She does not know that inauspicious spot
Where Beauty is thus niggard of her store:
Believe the Muse, through this terrestrial vast
The seeds of grace are sown, profusely sown,
Ev'n where we least may hope: the desert hills
Will hear the call of Art; the vallies dank
Obey her just behests, and smile with charms
Congenial to the soil, and all its own.

215

For tell me, where's the desert? There alone
Where man resides not; or, if chance resides,
He is not there the man his Maker form'd,
Industrious man, by heav'ns first law ordain'd
To earn his food by labour. In the waste
Place thou that man with his primæval arms,
His plough-share, and his spade; nor shalt thou long
Impatient wait a change; the waste shall smile
With yellow harvests; what was barren heath
Shall soon be verdant mead. Now let thy art
Exert its powers, and give, by varying lines,
The soil, already tam'd, its finish'd grace.
Nor less obsequious to the hand of toil,
If Fancy guide that hand, will the dank vale
Receive improvement meet; but Fancy here
Must lead, not follow Labour; she must tell
In what peculiar place the soil shall rise,
Where sink; prescribe what form each sluice shall wear,
And how direct its course; whether to spread
Broad as a lake, or, as a river pent
By fringed banks, weave its irriguous way
Through lawn and shade alternate: for if she
Preside not o'er the task, the narrow drains
Will run in tedious parallel, or cut
Each other in sharp angles; hence implore
Her swift assistance, ere the ruthless spade
Too deeply wound the bosom of the soil.

216

Yet, in this lowly site, where all that charms
Within itself must charm, hard is the task
Impos'd on Fancy. Hence with idle fear!
Is she not Fancy? and can Fancy fail
In sweet delusions, in concealments apt,
And wild creative power? She cannot fail.
And yet, full oft, when her creative power,
Her apt concealments, her delusions sweet
Have been profusely lavish'd; when her groves
Have shot, with vegetative vigour strong,
Ev'n to their wish'd maturity; when Jove
Has roll'd the changeful seasons o'er her lawns,
And each has left a blessing as it roll'd:
Ev'n then, perchance, some vain fastidious eye
Shall rove unmindful of surrounding charms
And ask for prospect. Stranger! 'tis not here.
Go seek it on some garish turret's height;
Seek it on Richmond's, or on Windsor's brow;
There gazing, on the gorgeous vale below,
Applaud alike, with fashion'd pomp of phrase,
The good and bad, which, in profusion, there
That gorgeous vale exhibits. Here meanwhile
Ev'n in the dull, unseen, unseeing dell
Thy taste contemns, shall Contemplation imp
Her eagle plumes; the Poet here shall hold
Sweet converse with his Muse; the curious Sage,
Who comments on great Nature's ample tome,
Shall find that volume here. For here are caves,

217

Where rise those gurgling rills, that sing the song
Which Contemplation loves; here shadowy glades,
Where through the tremulous foliage darts the ray,
That gilds the Poet's day-dream; here the turf
Teems with the vegetating race; the air
Is peopled with the insect tribes, that float
Upon the noontide beam, and call the Sage
To number and to name them. Nor if here
The Painter comes, shall his enchanting art
Go back without a boon: for Fancy here,
With Nature's living colours, forms a scene
Which Ruisdale best might rival: crystal lakes,
O'er which the giant oak, himself a grove,
Flings his romantic branches, and beholds
His reverend image in th' expanse below.
If distant hills be wanting, yet our eye
Forgets the want, and with delighted gaze
Rests on the lovely fore-ground; there applauds
The art, which, varying forms and blending hues,
Gives that harmonious force of shade and light,
Which makes the landscape perfect. Art like this
Is only art, all else abortive toil.
Come then, thou sister Muse, from whom the mind
Wins for her airy visions colour, form,
And fixt locality, sweet Painting, come
To teach the docile pupil of my song,
How much his practice on thy aid depends.

218

Of Nature's various scenes the Painter culls
That for his fav'rite theme, where the fair whole
Is broken into ample parts, and bold;
Where to the eye three well-mark'd distances
Spread their peculiar colouring. Vivid green,
Warm brown, and black opake the fore-ground bears
Conspicuous; sober olive coldly marks
The second distance; thence the third declines
In softer blue, or, less'ning still, is lost
In faintest purple. When thy taste is call'd
To deck a scene where Nature's self presents
All these distinct gradations, then rejoice
As does the Painter, and like him apply
Thy colours; plant thou on each separate part
Its proper foliage. Chief, for there thy skill
Has its chief scope, enrich with all the hues
That flowers, that shrubs, that trees can yield, the sides
Of that fair path, from whence our sight is led
Gradual to view the whole. Where'er thou wind'st
That path, take heed between the scene and eye,
To vary and to mix thy chosen greens.
Here for a while with cedar or with larch,
That from the ground spread their close texture, hide
The view entire. Then o'er some lowly tuft,
Where rose and woodbine bloom, permits its charms
To burst upon the sight; now through a copse
Of beech, that rear their smooth and stately trunks,
Admit it partially, and half exclude,

219

And half reveal its graces: in this path
How long soe'er the wanderer roves, each step
Shall wake fresh beauties; each short point present
A different picture, new, and yet the same.
Yet some there are who scorn this cautious rule,
And fell each tree that intercepts the scene.
O great Poussin! O Nature's darling, Claude!
What if some rash and sacrilegious hand
Tore from your canvass those umbrageous pines
That frown in front, and give each azure hill
The charm of contrast! Nature suffers here
Like outrage, and bewails a beauty lost,
Which Time, with tardy hand, shall late restore.
Yet here the spoiler rests not; see him rise
Warm from his devastation, to improve,
For so he calls it, yonder champian wide.
There on each bolder brow in shapes acute
His fence he scatters; there the Scottish fir
In murky file lifts his inglorious head,
And blots the fair horizon. So should art
Improve thy pencil's savage dignity,
Salvator! if where, far as eye can pierce,
Rock pil'd on rock, thy Alpine heights retire,
She flung her random foliage, and disturb'd
The deep repose of the majestic scene.
This deed were impious. Ah, forgive the thought,

220

Thou more than Painter, more than Poet! He,
Alone thy equal, who was “Fancy's child.”
Does then the Song forbid the Planter's hand
To clothe the distant hills, and veil with woods
Their barren summits? No; it but forbids
All poverty of clothing. Rich the robe,
And ample let it flow, that Nature wears
On her thron'd eminence: where'er she takes
Her horizontal march, pursue her step
With sweeping train of forest; hill to hill
Unite with prodigality of shade.
There plant thy elm, thy chesnut; nourish there
Those sapling oaks, which, at Britannia's call,
May heave their trunks mature into the main,
And float the bulwarks of her liberty:
But if the fir, give it its station meet;
Place it an outgard to the assailing north
To shield the infant scions, till possest
Of native strength, they learn alike to scorn
The blast and their protectors. Foster'd thus,
The cradled hero gains from female care
His future vigour; but, that vigour felt,
He springs indignant from his nurse's arms,
Nods his terrific helmet, shakes his spear,
And is that awful thing which heav'n ordain'd
The scourge of tyrants, and his country's pride.

221

If yet thy art be dubious how to treat
Nature's neglected features, turn thy eye
To those, the masters of correct design,
Who, from her vast variety, have cull'd
The loveliest, boldest parts, and new arrang'd;
Yet, as herself approv'd, herself inspir'd.
In their immortal works thou ne'er shalt find
Dull uniformity, contrivance quaint,
Or labour'd littleness; but contrasts broad,
And careless lines, whose undulating forms
Play through the varied canvass: these transplant
Again on Nature; take thy plastic spade,
It is thy pencil; take thy seeds, thy plants,
They are thy colours; and by these repay
With interest every charm she lent thy art.
Nor, while I thus to Imitation's realm
Direct thy step, deem I direct thee wrong;
Nor ask, why I forget great Nature's fount,
And bring thee not the bright inspiring cup
From her original spring? Yet, if thou ask'st,
Thyself shalt give the answer. Tell me why
Did Raphael steal, when his creative hand
Imag'd the Seraphim, ideal grace
And dignity supernal from that store
Of Attic sculpture, which the ruthless Goth
Spar'd in his headlong fury? Tell me this:
And then confess that beauty best is taught

222

By those, the favour'd few, whom heav'n has lent
The power to seize, select, and reunite
Her loveliest features; and of these to form
One archetype complete of sovereign grace.
Here Nature sees her fairest forms more fair;
Owns them for hers, yet owns herself excell'd
By what herself produc'd. Here Art and She
Embrace; connubial Juno smiles benign,
And from the warm embrace Perfection springs.
Rouse then each latent energy of soul
To clasp ideal beauty. Proteus-like,
Think not the changeful Nymph will long elude
Thy chase, or with reluctant coyness frown.
Inspir'd by her thy happy art shall learn
To melt in fluent curves whate'er is straight,
Acute, or parallel. For, these unchang'd,
Nature and she disdain the formal scene.
'Tis their demand, that ev'ry step of rule
Be sever'd from their sight: they own no charm
But those that fair Variety creates,
Who ever loves to undulate and sport
In many a winding train. With equal zeal
She, careless Goddess, scorns the cube and cone,
As does mechanic Order hold them dear:
Hence springs their enmity; and he that hopes
To reconcile the foes, as well might aim
With hawk and dove to draw the Cyprian car.

223

Such sentence past, where shall the Dryads fly
That haunt yon antient vista? Pity, sure,
Will spare the long cathedral isle of shade
In which they sojourn; Taste were sacrilege,
If, lifting there the axe, it dar'd invade
Those spreading oaks that in fraternal files
Have pair'd for centuries, and heard the strains
Of Sidney's, nay, perchance, of Surry's reed.
Yet must they fall, unless mechanic skill,
To save her offspring, rouse at our command
And, where we bid her move, with engine huge,
Each ponderous trunk, the ponderous trunk there move.
A work of difficulty and danger try'd,
Nor oft successful found. But if it fails,
Thy axe must do its office. Cruel task,
Yet needful. Trust me, though I bid thee strike,
Reluctantly I bid thee: for my soul
Holds dear an antient oak, nothing more dear;
It is an antient friend. Stay then thine hand;
And try by saplings tall, discreetly plac'd
Before, between, behind, in scatter'd groups,
To break th' obdurate line. So may'st thou save
A chosen few; and yet, alas, but few
Of these, the old protectors of the plain.
Yet shall these few give to thy opening lawn
That shadowy pomp, which only they can give:
For parted now, in patriarchal pride,
Each tree becomes the father of a tribe;

224

And, o'er the stripling foliage, rising round,
Towers with parental dignity supreme.
And yet, my Albion! in that fair domain,
Which Ocean made thy dowry, when his love
Tempestuous tore thee from reluctant Gaul,
And bade thee be his Queeu, there still remains
Full many a lovely unfrequented wild,
Where change like this is needless; where no lines
Of hedge-row, avenue, or of platform square
Demand destruction. In thy fair domain,
Yes, my lov'd Albion! many a glade is found,
The haunt of wood-gods only; where if Art
E'er dar'd to tread, 'twas with unsandal'd foot,
Printless, as if the place were holy ground,
And there are scenes, where, tho' she whilom trod,
Let by the worst of guides, fell Tyranny,
And ruthless Superstition, we now trace
Her footsteps with delight; and pleas'd revere
What once had rous'd our hatred. But to Time,
Not her, the praise is due: his gradual touch
Has moulder'd into beauty many a tower,
Which, when it frown'd with all its battlements,
Was only terrible; and many a fane
Monastic, which, when deck'd with all its spires,
Serv'd but to feed some pamper'd Abbot's pride,
And awe th' unletter'd vulgar. Generous youth,
Whoe'er thou art, that listen'st to my lay,

225

And feel'st thy soul assent to what I sing,
Happy art thou if thou can'st call thine own
Such scenes as these: where Nature and where Time
Have work'd congenial; where a scatter'd host
Of antique oaks darken thy sidelong hills;
While, rushing through their branches, rifted cliffs
Dart their white heads, and glitter through the gloom.
More happy still, if one superior rock
Bear on its brow the shiver'd fragment huge
Of some old Norman fortress; happier far,
Ah, then most happy, if thy vale below
Wash, with the crystal coolness of its rills,
Some mould'ring abbey's ivy-vested wall.
O how unlike the scene my fancy forms,
Did Folly, heretofore, with Wealth conspire
To plan that formal, dull, disjointed scene,
Which once was call'd a Garden. Britain still
Bears on her breast full many a hideous wound
Given by the cruel pair, when, borrowing aid
From geometric skill, they vainly strove
By line, by plummet, and unfeeling sheers,
To form with verdure what the builder form'd
With stone. Egregious madness; yet pursu'd
With pains unwearied, with expence unsumm'd,
And science doating. Hence the sidelong walls
Of shaven yew; the holly's prickly arms

226

Trimm'd into high arcades; the tonsile box
Wove, in mosaic mode of many a curl,
Around the figur'd carpet of the lawn.
Hence too deformities of harder cure:
The terras mound uplifted; the long line
Deep delv'd of flat canal; and all that toil,
Misled by tasteless Fashion, could atchieve
To mar fair Nature's lineaments divine.
Long was the night of error, nor dispell'd
By him that rose at learning's earliest dawn,
Prophet of unborn Science. On thy realm,
Philosophy! his sovereign lustre spread;
Yet did he deign to light with casual glance
The wilds of taste. Yes, sagest Verulam,
'Twas thine to banish from the royal groves
Each childish vanity of crisped knot
And sculptur'd foliage; to the lawn restore
Its ample space, and bid it feast the sight
With verdure pure, unbroken, unabridg'd:
For verdure sooths the eye, as roseate sweets
The smell, or music's melting strains the ear.
So taught the Sage, taught a degenerate reign
What in Eliza's golden day was taste.
Not but the mode of that romantic age,
The age of tourneys, triumphs, and quaint masques,

227

Glar'd with fantastic pageantry, which dimm'd
The sober eye of truth, and dazzled ev'n
The Sage himself; witness his high-arch'd hedge,
In pillar'd state by carpentry upborn,
With colour'd mirrors deck'd, and prison'd birds.
But when our step has pac'd his proud parterres,
And reach'd the heath, then Nature glads our eye
Sporting in all her lovely carelessness.
There smiles in varied tufts the velvet rose,
There flaunts the gadding woodbine, swells the ground
In gentle hillocks, and around its sides
Thro' blossom'd shades the secret pathway steals.
Thus, with a Poet's power, the Sage's pen
Pourtray'd that nicer negligence of scene,
Which Taste approves. While he, delicious swain,
Who tun'd his oaten pipe by Mulla's stream,
Accordant touch'd the stops in Dorian mood:
What time he 'gan to paint the fairy vale,
Where stands the fane of Venus. Well I ween
That then, if ever, Colin, thy fond hand
Did steep its pencil in the well-fount clear
Of true simplicity; and “call'd in Art
“Only to second Nature, and supply
“All that the Nymph forgot, or left forlorn.”
Yet what avail'd the song? or what avail'd
Ev'n thine, thou chief of Bards, whose mighty mind,

228

With inward light irradiate, mirror-like
Receiv'd, and to mankind with ray reflex
The sov'reign Planter's primal work display'd?
That work, where not nice Art in curious knots,
“But Nature boon pour'd forth on hill and dale
“Flowers worthy of Paradise; while all around
“Umbrageous grotts, and caves of cool recess,
“And murmuring waters down the slope dispers'd,
“Or held, by fringed banks, in crystal lakes,
“Compose a rural seat of various view.”
'Twas thus great Nature's herald blazon'd high
That fair original impress, which she bore
In state sublime; e'er miscreated Art,
Offspring of Sin and Shame, the banner seiz'd,
And with adulterate pageantry defil'd.
Yet vainly, Milton, did thy voice proclaim
These her primæval honours. Still she lay
Defac'd, deflower'd, full many a ruthless year:
Alike, when Charles, the abject tool of France,
Came back to smile his subjects into slaves;
Or Belgic William, with his warrior frown,
Coldly declar'd them free; in fetters still
The Goddess pin'd, by both alike opprest.
Go to the proof! Behold what Temple call'd
A perfect Garden. There thou shalt not find
One blade of verdure, but with aching feet

229

From terras down to terras shalt descend,
Step following step, by tedious flight of stairs:
On leaden platforms now the noon-day sun
Shall scorch thee; now the dank arcades of stone
Shall chill thy fervour; happy, if at length
Thou reach the Orchard, where the sparing turf
Through equal lines, all centring in a point,
Yields thee a softer tread. And yet full oft
O'er Temple's studious hour did Truth preside,
Sprinkling her lustre o'er his classic page:
There hear his candour own in fashion's spite,
In spite of courtly dulness, hear it own
“There is a grace in wild variety
“Surpassing rule and order.” Temple, yes,
There is a grace; and let eternal wreaths
Adorn their brows who fixt its empire here.
The Muse shall hail the champions that herself
Led to the fair atchievement. Addison,
Thou polish'd Sage, or shall I call thee Bard,
I see thee come: around thy temples play
The lambent flames of humour, bright'ning mild
Thy judgment into smiles; gracious thou com'st
With Satire at thy side, who checks her frown,
But not her secret sting. With bolder rage
Pope next advances: his indignant arm
Waves the poetic brand o'er Timon's shades,

230

And lights them to destruction; the fierce blaze
Sweeps through each kindred vista; groves to groves
Nod their fraternal farewell, and expire.
And now, elate with fair-earn'd victory,
The Bard retires, and on the bank of Thames
Erects his flag of triumph; wild it waves
In verdant splendor, and beholds, and hails
The King of Rivers, as he rolls along.
Kent is his bold associate; Kent, who felt
The pencil's power: but, fir'd by higher forms
Of beauty, than that pencil knew to paint,
Work'd with the living hues that Nature lent,
And realiz'd his landscapes. Generous He,
Who gave to Painting, what the wayward Nymph
Refus'd her votary, those Elysian scenes,
Which would she emulate, her nicest hand
Must all its force of light and shade employ.
On thee too, Southcote, shall the Muse bestow
No vulgar praise: for thou to humblest things
Could'st give ennobling beauties; deck'd by thee,
The simple farm eclips'd the garden's pride,
Ev'n as the virgin blush of innocence,
The harlotry of art. Nor, Shenstone, thou
Shalt pass without thy meed, thou son of peace!
Who knew'st, perchance, to harmonize thy shades
Still softer than thy song; yet was that song

231

Nor rude, nor inharmonious, when attun'd
To pastoral plaint, or tale of slighted love.
Him too, the living leader of thy powers,
Great Nature! him the Muse shall hail in notes
Which antedate the praise true genius claims
From just posterity: Bards yet unborn
Shall pay to Brown that tribute, fitliest paid
In strains, the beauty of his scenes inspire.
Meanwhile, ye youths! whose sympathetic souls
Would taste those genuine charms, which faintly smile
In my descriptive song, O visit oft
The finish'd scenes, that boast the forming hand
Of these creative Genii! feel ye there
What Reynolds felt, when first the Vatican
Unbarr'd her gates, and to his raptur'd eye
Gave all the god-like energy that flow'd
From Michael's pencil; feel what Garrick felt,
When first he breath'd the soul of Shakspeare's page.
So shall your Art, if call'd to grace a scene
Yet unadorn'd, with taste instinctive give
Each grace appropriate; so your active eye
Shall dart that glance prophetic, which awakes
The slumbering wood-nymphs; gladly shall they rise,
Oread and Dryad, from their verdurous beds,
And fling their foliage, and arrange their stems,
As you, and beauty bid: the Naiad train,
Alike obsequious, from a thousand urns

232

Shall pour their crystalline tide; while hand in hand,
Vertumnus and Pomona bring their stores,
Fruitage, and flowers of ev'ry blush and scent,
Each varied season yields; to you they bring
The fragrant tribute; ye, with generous hand
Diffuse the blessing wide, till Albion smile
One ample theatre of sylvan grace.
END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

233

BOOK THE SECOND.


235

Hail to the Art, that teaches Wealth and Pride
How to possess their wish, the world's applause,
Unmixt with blame! that bids Magnificence
Abate its meteor glare, and learn to shine
Benevolently mild; like her, the Queen
Of Night, who sailing through autumnal skies,
Gives to the bearded product of the plain
Her ripening lustre, lingering as she rolls,
And glancing cool the salutary ray
Which fills the fields with plenty. Hail, that Art
Ye swains! for, hark! with lowings glad, your herds
Proclaim its influence, wandering o'er the lawns
Restor'd to them and Nature; now no more
Shall Fortune's minion rob them of their right,
Or round his dull domain with lofty wall
Oppose their jocund presence. Gothic Pomp
Frowns and retires, his proud behests are scorn'd:
Now Taste, inspir'd by Truth, exalts her voice,
And she is heard. “Oh, let not man misdeem;

236

“Waste is not Grandeur, Fashion ill supplies
“My sacred place, and Beauty scorns to dwell
“Where Use is exiled.” At the awful sound
The terrace sinks spontaneous; on the green,
Broider'd with crisped knots, the tonsile yews
Wither and fall; the fountain dares no more
To fling its wasted crystal through the sky,
But pours salubrious o'er the parched lawn
Rills of fertility. Oh best of Arts
That works this happy change! true alchymy,
Beyond the Rosicrusian boast, that turns
Deformity to grace, expense to gain,
And pleas'd restores to Earth's maternal lap
The long-lost fruits of Amalthea's horn!
When such the theme, the Poet smiles secure
Of candid audience, and with touch assur'd
Resumes his reed Ascræan; eager he
To ply its warbling stops of various note
In Nature's cause, that Albion's listening youths,
Inform'd erewhile to scorn the long-drawn lines
Of straight formality, alike may scorn
Those quick, acute, perplex'd, and tangled paths,
That, like the snake crush'd by the sharpen'd spade,
Writhe in convulsive torture, and full oft,
Through many a dark and unsunn'd labyrinth,
Mislead our step; till giddy, spent, and foiled,
We reach the point where first our race began.

237

These Fancy priz'd erroneous, what time Taste,
An infant yet, first join'd her to destroy
The measur'd platform; into false extremes
What marvel if they stray'd, as yet unskill'd
To mark the form of that peculiar curve,
Alike averse to crooked and to straight,
Where sweet Simplicity resides; which Grace
And Beauty call their own; whose lambent flow
Charms us at once with symmetry and ease.
'Tis Nature's curve, instinctively she bids
Her tribes of Being trace it. Down the slope
Of yon wide field, see, with its gradual sweep
The ploughing steers their fallow ridges swell;
The peasant, driving through each shadowy lane
His team, that bends beneath th' incumbent weight
Of laughing Ceres, marks it with his wheel;
At night, and morn, the milkmaid's careless step
Has, through yon pasture green, from stile to stile,
Imprest a kindred curve; the scudding hare
Draws to her drew-sprent seat, o'er thymy heaths,
A path as gently waving: mark them well;
Compare, pronounce, that, varying but in size,
Their forms are kindred all; go then, convinc'd
That Art's unerring rule is only drawn
From Nature's sacred source; a rule that guides
Her ev'ry toil; or, if she shape the path,
Or scoop the lawn, or gradual, lift the hill.
For not alone to that embellish'd walk,

238

Which leads to ev'ry beauty of the scene,
It yields a grace, but spreads its influence wide,
Prescribes each form of thicket, copse, or wood,
Confines the rivulet, and spreads the lake.
Yet shall this graceful line forget to please,
If border'd close by sidelong parallels,
Nor duly mixt with those opposing curves
That give the charm of contrast. Vainly Taste
Draws through the grove her path in easiest bend,
If, on the margin of its woody sides,
The measur'd greensward waves in kindred flow:
Oft let the turf recede, and oft approach,
With varied breadth, now sink into the shade,
Now to the sun its verdant bosom bare.
As vainly wilt thou lift the gradual hill
To meet thy right-hand view, if to the left
An equal hill ascends: in this, and all
Be various, wild, and free as Nature's self.
For in her wildness is there oft an art,
Or seeming art, which, by position apt,
Arranges shapes unequal, so to save
That correspondent poise, which unpreserv'd
Would mock our gaze with airy vacancy.
Yet fair variety, with all her powers,
Assists the balance: 'gainst the barren crag
She lifts the pastur'd slope; to distant hills

239

Opposes neighb'ring shades; and, central oft,
Relieves the flatness of the lawn, or lake,
With studded tuft, or island. So to poise
Her objects, mimic Art may oft attain:
She rules the foreground; she can swell or sink
Its surface; here her leafy screen oppose,
And there withdraw; here part the varying greens,
And there in one promiscuous gloom combine
As best befits the Genius of the scene.
Him then, that sov'reign Genius, Monarch sole
Who, from creation's primal day, derives
His right divine to this his rural throne,
Approach with meet obeisance; at his feet
Let our aw'd art fall prostrate. They of Ind,
The Tartar tyrants, Tamerlane's proud race,
Or they in Persia thron'd, who shake the rod
Of power o'er myriads of enervate slaves,
Expect not humbler homage to their pride
Than does this sylvan Despot. Yet to those
Who do him loyal service, who revere
His dignity, nor aim, with rebel arms,
At lawless usurpation, is he found
Patient and placable, receives well pleas'd
Their tributary treasures, nor disdains
To blend them with his own internal store.

240

Stands he in blank and desolated state,
Where yawning crags disjointed, sharp, uncouth,
Involve him with pale horror? In the clefts
Thy welcome spade shall heap that fost'ring mould
Whence sapling oaks may spring; whence clust'ring crowds
Of early underwood shall veil their sides,
And teach their rugged heads above the shade
To tower in shapes romantic: nor, around
Their flinty roots, shall ivy spare to hang
Its gadding tendrils, nor the moss-grown turf,
With wild thyme sprinkled, there refuse to spread
Its verdure. Awful still, yet not austere,
The Genius stands; bold is his port, and wild,
But not forlorn, nor savage. On some plain
Of tedious length, say, are his flat limbs laid?
Thy hand shall lift him from the dreary couch,
Pillowing his head with swelling hillocks green,
While, all around, a forest-curtain spreads
Its waving folds, and blesses his repose.
What, if perchance in some prolific soil,
Where Vegetation strenuous, uncontrol'd,
Has push'd her pow'rs luxuriant, he now pines
For air and freedom? Soon thy sturdy axe,
Amid its intertwisted foliage driv'n,
Shall open all his glades, and ingress give
To the bright darts of day; his prison'd rills,
That darkling crept amid the rustling brakes,
Shall glitter as they glide, and his dank caves,

241

Free to salubrious Zephyrs, cease to weep.
Meanwhile his shadowy pomp he still retains,
His Dryads still attend him; they alone
Of race plebeian banish'd, who to crowd,
Not grace his state, their boughs obtrusive flung.
But chief consult him ere thou dar'st decide
Th' appropriate bounds of Pleasure, and of Use;
For Pleasure, lawless robber, oft invades
Her neighbour's right, and turns to idle waste
Her treasures: curb her then in scanty bounds,
Whene'er the scene permits that just retraint.
The curb restrains not Beauty; sov'reign she
Still triumphs, still unites each subject realm,
And blesses both impartial. Why then fear
Lest, if thy fence contract the shaven lawn,
It does Her wrong? She points a thousand ways,
And each her own, to cure the needful ill.
Where'er it winds, and freely must it wind,
She bids, at ev'ry bend, thick-blossom'd tufts
Crowd their inwoven tendrils: is there still
A void? Lo, Lebanon her cedar lends!
Lo, all the stately progeny of pines
Come, with their floating foliage richly deck'd,
To fill that void! meanwhile across the mead
The wand'ring flocks that browse between the shades
Seem oft to pass their bounds; the dubious eye
Decides not if they crop the mead or lawn.

242

Browse then your fill, fond foresters! to you
Shall sturdy Labour quit his morning task
Well pleas'd; nor longer o'er his useless plots
Draw through the dew the splendour of his scythe.
He, leaning on that scythe, with carols gay
Salutes his fleecy substitutes, that rush
In bleating chase to their delicious task,
And spreading o'er the plain, with eager teeth
Devour it into verdure. Browse your fill
Fond foresters! the soil that you enrich
Shall still supply your morn and evening meal
With choicest delicates; whether you choose
The vernal blades, that rise with seeded stem
Of hue purpureal; or the clover white,
That in a spiked ball collects its sweets;
Or trembling fescue: ev'ry fav'rite herb
Shall court your taste, ye harmless epicures!
Meanwhile permit that with unheeded step
I pass beside you, nor let idle fear
Spoil your repast, for know the lively scene,
That you still more enliven, to my soul
Darts inspiration, and impels the song
To roll in bolder descant; while, within,
A gleam of happiness primæval seems
To snatch me back to joys my nature claim'd,
Ere vice defil'd, ere slavery sunk the world,
And all was faith and freedom: then was man
Creation's king, yet friend; and all that browse,

243

Or skim, or dive, the plain, the air, the flood,
Paid him their liberal homage; paid unaw'd
In love accepted, sympathetic love
That felt for all, and blest them with its smiles.
Then, nor the curling horn had learn'd to sound
The savage song of chase; the barbed shaft
Had then no poison'd point; nor thou, fell tube!
Whose iron entrails hide the sulphurous blast,
Satanic engine, knew'st the ruthless power
Of thundering death around thee. Then alike
Were ye innocuous through your ev'ry tribe,
Or brute, or reptile; nor by rage or guile
Had giv'n to injur'd man his only plea
(And that the tyrant's plea) to work your harm.
Instinct, alas! like wayward Reason, now
Veers from its pole. There was a golden time
When each created being kept its sphere
Appointed, nor infring'd its neighbour's right.
The flocks, to whom the grassy lawn was giv'n,
Fed on its blades contented; now they crush
Each scion's tender shoots, and, at its birth,
Destroy, what, sav'd from their remorseless tooth,
Had been the tree of Jove. Ev'n while I sing,
Yon wanton lamb has cropt the woodbine's pride,
That bent beneath a full-blown load of sweets,
And fill'd the air with perfume; see it falls;
The busy bees, with many a murmur sad,

244

Hang o'er their honied loss. Why is it thus?
Ah, why must Art defend the friendly shades
She rear'd to shield you from the noontide beam?
Traitors, forbear to wound them! say, ye fools!
Does your rich herbage fail? do acrid leaves
Afford you daintier food? I plead in vain;
For now the father of the fleecy troop
Begins his devastation, and his ewes
Crowd to the spoil, with imitative zeal.
Since then, constrain'd, we must expel the flock
From where our saplings rise, our flow'rets bloom,
The song shall teach, in clear preceptive notes,
How best to frame the fence, and best to hide
All its foreseen defects; defective still,
Though hid with happiest art. Ingrateful sure
When such the theme, becomes the Poet's task:
Yet must he try, by modulation meet
Of varied cadence, and selected phrase,
Exact yet free, without inflation bold,
To dignify that theme, must try to form
Such magic sympathy of sense with sound
As pictures all it sings; while Grace awakes
At each blest touch, and, on the lowliest things,
Scatters her rainbow hues. The first and best
Is that, which, sinking from our eye, divides
Yet seems not to divide the shaven lawn,
And parts it from the pasture; for if there

245

Sheep feed, or dappled deer, their wandering teeth
Will, smoothly as the scythe, the herbage shave,
And leave a kindred verdure. This to keep
Heed that thy labourer scoop the trench with care;
For some there are who give their spade repose,
When broad enough the perpendicular sides
Divide, and deep descend. To form perchance
Some needful drain, such labour may suffice,
Yet not for beauty: here thy range of wall
Must lift its height erect, and, o'er its head
A verdant veil of swelling turf expand,
While smoothly from its base with gradual ease
The pasture meets its level, at that point
Which best deludes our eye, and best conceals
Thy lawn's brief limit. Down so smooth a slope
The fleecy foragers will gladly browse;
The velvet herbage free from weeds obscene
Shall spread its equal carpet, and the trench
Be pasture to its base. Thus form thy fence
Of stone, for stone alone, and pil'd on high,
Best curbs the nimble deer, that love to range
Unlimited; but where tame heifers feed,
Or innocent sheep, an humbler mound will serve
Unlin'd with stone, and but a greensward trench.
Here midway down, upon the nearer bank
Plant thy thick row of thorns, and, to defend
Their infant shoots, beneath, on oaken stakes,
Extend a rail of elm, securely arm'd

246

With spiculated paling, in such sort
As, round some citadel, the engineer
Directs his sharp stoccade. But when the shoots
Condense, and interweave their prickly boughs
Impenetrable, then withdraw their guard,
They've done their office; scorn thou to retain,
What frowns like military art, in scenes,
Where peace should smile perpetual. These destroy'd,
Make it thy vernal care, when April calls
New shoots to birth, to trim the hedge aslant,
And mould it to the roundness of the mound,
Itself a shelving hill; nor need we here
The rule or line precise, a casual glance
Suffices to direct the careless sheers.
Yet learn, that each variety of ground
Claims its peculiar barrier. When the foss
Can steal transverse before the central eye,
'Tis duly drawn; but, up yon neighb'ring hill
That fronts the lawn direct, if labour delve
The yawning chasm, 'twill meet, not cross our view;
No foliage can conceal, no curve correct
The deep deformity. And yet thou mean'st
Up yonder hill to wind thy fragrant way,
And wisely dost thou mean; for its broad eye
Catches the sudden charms of laughing vales,
Rude rocks and headlong streams, and antique oaks
Lost in a wild horizon; yet the path

247

That leads to all these charms expects defence:
Here then suspend the sportsman's hempen toils,
And stretch their meshes on the light support
Of hazel plants, or draw thy lines of wire
In fivefold parallel; no danger then
That sheep invade thy foliage. To thy herds,
And pastur'd steeds an opener fence oppose,
Form'd by a triple row of cordage strong,
Tight drawn the stakes between. The simple deer
Is curb'd by mimic snares; the slenderest twine
(If sages err not) that the beldame spins
When by her wintry lamp she plies her wheel,
Arrests his courage; his impetuous hoof,
Broad chest, and branching antlers nought avail;
In fearful gaze he stands; the nerves that bore
His bounding pride o'er lofty mounds of stone,
A single thread defies. Such force has fear,
When visionary fancy wakes the fiend,
In brute, or man, most powerful when most vain.
Still must the swain, who spreads these corded guards,
Expect their swift decay. The noontide beams
Relax, the nightly dews contract the twist.
Oft too the coward hare, then only bold
When mischief prompts, or wintry famine pines,
Will quit her rush-grown form, and steal, with ear
Up-prick'd, to gnaw the toils; and oft the ram
And jutting steer drive their entangling horns

248

Through the frail meshes, and, by many a chasm,
Proclaim their hate of thraldom. Nothing brooks
Confinement, save degenerate man alone,
Who deems a monarch's smile can gild his chains.
Tir'd then, perchance, of nets that daily claim
Thy renovating labour, thou wilt form,
With elm and oak, a rustic balustrade
Of firmest juncture: happy could thy toil
Make it as fair as firm; yet vain the wish,
Aim but to hide, not grace its formal line.
Let those, who weekly, from the city's smoke,
Crowd to each neighb'ring hamlet, there to hold
Their dusty Sabbath, tip with gold and red
The milk-white palisades, that Gothic now,
And now Chinese, now neither, and yet both,
Checquer their trim domain. Thy sylvan scene
Would fade, indignant at the tawdry glare.
'Tis thine alone to seek what shadowy hues
Tinging thy fence may lose it in the lawn;
And these to give thee Painting must descend
Ev'n to her meanest office; grind, compound,
Compare, and by the distanced eye decide.
For this she first, with snowy ceruse, joins
The ochr'ous atoms that chalybeate rills
Wash from their mineral channels, as they glide,

249

In flakes of earthy gold; with these unites
A tinge of blue, or that deep azure gray,
Form'd from the calcin'd fibres of the vine;
And, if she blends, with sparing hand she blends
That base metallic drug then only priz'd,
When, aided by the humid touch of Time,
It gives a Nero's or some tyrant's cheek,
Its precious canker. These with fluent oil
Attemper'd, on thy length'ning rail shall spread
That sober olive-green which Nature wears
Ev'n on her vernal bosom; nor misdeem,
For that, illumin'd with the noontide ray,
She boasts a brighter garment, therefore Art
A livelier verdure to thy aid should bring.
Know when that Art, with ev'ry varied hue,
Portrays the living landscape; when her hand
Commands the canvass plane to glide with streams,
To wave with foliage, or with flowers to breathe,
Cool olive tints, in soft gradation laid,
Create the general herbage: there alone,
Where darts with vivid force, the ray supreme
Unsullied verdure reigns; and tells our eye
It stole its bright reflection from the sun.
The paint is spread; the barrier pales retire,
Snatch'd, as by magic, from the gazer's view.
So, when the sable ensign of the night,
Unfurl'd by mist-impelling Eurus, veils

250

The last red radiance of declining day,
Each scatter'd village, and each holy spire
That deck'd the distance of the sylvan scene,
Are sunk in sudden gloom: the plodding hind,
That homeward hies, kens not the cheering site
Of his calm cabin, which, a moment past,
Stream'd from its roof an azure curl of smoke,
Beneath the sheltering coppice, and gave sign
Of warm domestic welcome from his toil.
Nor is that cot, of which fond Fancy draws
This casual picture, alien from our theme.
Revisit it at morn; its opening latch,
Though Penury and Toil within reside,
Shall pour thee forth a youthful progeny
Glowing with health and beauty (such the dower
Of equal heav'n): See how the ruddy tribe
Throng round the threshold, and, with vacant gaze,
Salute thee; call the loiterers into use,
And form of these thy fence, the living fence
That graces what it guards. Thou think'st, perchance,
That, skill'd in Nature's heraldry, thy art
Has, in the limits of yon fragrant tuft,
Marshall'd each rose, that to the eye of June
Spreads its peculiar crimson; do not err,
The loveliest still is wanting; the fresh rose
Of Innocence, it blossoms on their cheek,
And, lo, to thee they bear it! striving all,

251

In panting race, who first shall reach the lawn,
Proud to be call'd thy shepherds. Want, alas!
Has o'er their little limbs her livery hung,
In many a tatter'd fold, yet still those limbs
Are shapely; their rude locks start from their brow,
Yet, on that open brow, its dearest throne,
Sits sweet Simplicity. Ah, clothe the troop
In such a russet garb as best befits
Their pastoral office; let the leathern scrip
Swing at their side, tip thou their crook with steel,
And braid their hat with rushes, then to each
Assign his station; at the close of eve,
Be it their care to pen in hurdled cote
The flock, and when the matin prime returns,
Their care to set them free; yet watching still
The liberty they lend, oft shalt thou hear
Their whistle shrill, and oft their faithful dog
Shall with obedient barkings fright the flock
From wrong or robbery. The livelong day
Meantime rolls lightly o'er their happy heads;
They bask on sunny hillocks, or desport
In rustic pastime, while that loveliest grace,
Which only lives in action unrestrain'd,
To ev'ry simple gesture lends a charm.
Pride of the year, purpureal Spring! attend,
And, in the cheek of these sweet innocents
Behold your beauties pictur'd. As the cloud

252

That weeps its moment from thy sapphire heav'n,
They frown with causeless sorrow; as the beam,
Gilding that cloud, with causeless mirth they smile.
Stay, pitying Time! prolong their vernal bliss.
Alas! ere we can note it in our song,
Comes manhood's feverish summer, chill'd full soon
By cold autumnal care, till wint'ry age
Sinks in the frore severity of death.
Ah! who, when such life's momentary dream,
Would mix in hireling senates, strenuous there
To crush the venal hydra, whose fell crests
Rise with recruited venom from the wound!
Who, for so vain a conflict, would forego
Thy sylvan haunts, celestial Solitude!
Where self-improvement, crown'd with self-content,
Await to bless thy votary? Nurtur'd thus
In tranquil groves, list'ning to Nature's voice,
That preach'd from whispering trees, and babbling brooks,
A lesson seldom learnt in Reason's school,
The wise Sidonian liv'd: and, though the pest
Of lawless tyranny around him rag'd;
Though Strato, great alone in Persia's gold,
Uncall'd, unhallow'd by the people's choice,
Usurp'd the throne of his brave ancestors,
Yet was his soul all peace; a garden's care
His only thought, its charms his only pride.

253

But now the conquering arms of Macedon
Had humbled Persia. Now Phænicia's realm
Receives the Son of Ammon; at whose frown
Her tributary kings or quit their thrones,
Or at his smile retain; and Sidon, now
Freed from her tyrant, points the victor's step
To where her rightful sov'reign, doubly dear
By birth and virtue, prun'd his garden grove.
'Twas at that early hour, when now the sun
Behind majestic Lebanon's dark veil
Hid his ascending splendor; yet through each
Her cedar-vested sides, his flaunting beams
Shot to the strand, and purpled all the main,
Where Commerce saw her Sidon's freighted wealth,
With languid streamers, and with folded sails,
Float in a lake of gold. The wind was hush'd;
And, to the beach, each slowly-lifted wave,
Creeping with silver curl, just kist the shore,
And slept in silence. At this tranquil hour
Did Sidon's senate, and the Grecian host,
Led by the conqueror of the world, approach
The secret glade that veil'd the man of toil.
Now near the mountain's foot the chief arriv'd,
Where, round that glade, a pointed aloe screen,
Entwin'd with myrtle, met in tangled brakes,
That barr'd all entrance, save at one low gate,

254

Whose time-disjointed arch, with ivy chain'd,
Bad stoop the warrior train. A pathway brown
Led through the pass, meeting a fretful brook,
And wandering near its channel, while it leapt
O'er many a rocky fragment, where rude Art
Had eas'd perchance, but not prescrib'd its way.
Close was the vale and shady; yet ere long
Its forest sides retiring, left a lawn
Of ample circuit, where the widening stream
Now o'er its pebbled channel nimbly tript
In many a lucid maze. From the flower'd verge
Of this clear rill now stray'd the devious path,
Amid ambrosial tufts where spicy plants,
Weeping their perfum'd tears of myrrh, and nard,
Stood crown'd with Sharon's rose; or where, apart,
The patriarch palm his load of sugar'd dates
Shower'd plenteous; where the fig, of standard strength,
And rich pomegranate, wrapt in dulcet pulp
Their racy seeds; or where the citron's bough
Bent with its load of golden fruit mature.
Meanwhile the lawn beneath the scatter'd shade
Spread its serene extent; a stately file
Of circling cypress mark'd the distant bound.
Now, to the left, the path ascending pierc'd
A smaller sylvan theatre, yet deck'd
With more majestic foliage. Cedars here,

255

Coeval with the sky-crown'd mountain's self,
Spread wide their giant arms; whence, from a rock
Craggy and black, that seem'd its fountain head,
The stream fell headlong; yet still higher rose,
Ev'n in th' eternal snows of Lebanon,
That hallow'd spring; thence, in the porous earth
Long while ingulph'd, its crystal weight here forc'd
Its way to light and freedom. Down it dash'd;
A bed of native marble pure receiv'd
The new-born Naiad, and repos'd her wave,
Till with o'erflowing pride it skimm'd the lawn.
Fronting this lake there rose a solemn grot,
O'er which an ancient vine luxuriant flung
Its purple clusters, and beneath its roof
An unhewn altar. Rich Sabæan gums
That altar pil'd; and there with torch of pine
The venerable Sage, now first descry'd,
The fragrant incense kindled. Age had shed
That dust of silver o'er his sable locks,
Which spoke his strength mature beyond its prime,
Yet vigorous still, for from his healthy cheek
Time had not cropt a rose, or on his brow
One wrinkling furrow plough'd; his eagle eye
Had all its youthful lightning, and each limb
The sinewy strength that toil demands, and gives.
The warrior saw, and paus'd: his nod withheld

256

The crowd at awful distance, where their ears,
In mute attention, drank the Sage's prayer.
“Parent of Good (he cried) behold the gifts
“Thy humble votary brings, and may thy smile
“Hallow his custom'd offering. Let the hand
“That deals in blood, with blood thy shrines distain;
“Be mine this harmless tribute. If it speaks
“A grateful heart, can hecatombs do more?
“Parent of Good! they cannot. Purple Pomp
“May call thy presence to a prouder fane
“Than this poor cave; but will thy presence there
“Be more devoutly felt? Parent of Good!
“It will not. Here then, shall the prostrate heart,
“That deeply feels thy presence, lift its pray'r.
“But what has he to ask who nothing needs,
“Save what, unask'd, is from thy heav'n of heav'ns
“Giv'n in diurnal good? yet, holy Power!
“Do all that call thee Father thus exult
“In thy propitious presence? Sidon sinks
“Beneath a tyrant's scourge. Parent of Good!
“Oh free my captive country.”—Sudden here
He paus'd and sigh'd. And now, the raptur'd crowd
Murmur applause: he heard, he turn'd, and saw
The King of Macedon with eager step
Burst from his warrior phalanx. From the youth,
Who bore its state, the conqueror's own right hand
Snatch'd the rich wreath, and bound it on his brow.
His swift attendants o'er his shoulders cast

257

The robe of empire, while the trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd him King of Sidon. Stern he stood,
Or, if he smil'd, 'twas a contemptuous smile,
That held the pageant honours in disdain.
Then burst the people's voice, in loud acclaim,
And bade him be their Father. At the word,
The honour'd blood, that warm'd him, flush'd his cheek;
His brow expanded; his exalted step
March'd firmer; graciously he bow'd the head,
And was the Sire they call'd him. “Tell me, King,”
Young Ammon cry'd, while o'er his bright'ning form
He cast the gaze of wonder, “how a soul
“Like thine could bear the toils of Penury?”
“Oh grant me, Gods!” he answer'd, “so to bear
“This load of Royalty. My toil was crown'd
“With blessings lost to kings; yet, righteous Powers!
“If to my country ye transfer the boon,
“I triumph in the loss. Be mine the chains
“That fetter sov'reignty; let Sidon smile
“With, your best blessings, Liberty and Peace.”
END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

259

BOOK THE THIRD.


261

Clos'd is that curious ear, by Death's cold hand,
That mark'd each error of my careless strain
With kind severity; to whom my Muse
Still lov'd to whisper, what she meant to sing
In louder accent; to whose taste supreme
She first and last appeal'd, nor wish'd for praise,
Save when his smile was herald to her fame.
Yes, thou art gone; yet Friendship's fault'ring tongue
Invokes thee still; and still, by Fancy sooth'd,
Fain would she hope her Gray attends the call.
Why then, alas! in this my fav'rite haunt
Place I the urn, the bust, the sculptur'd lyre,
Or fix this votive tablet, fair inscrib'd
With numbers worthy thee, for they are thine?
Why, if thou hear'st me still, these symbols sad
Of fond memorial? Ah! my pensive soul!
He hears me not, nor ever more shall hear
The theme his candour, not his taste approv'd.

262

Oft, ‘smiling as in scorn,’ oft would he cry,
“Why waste thy numbers on a trivial art,
“That ill can mimic even the humblest charms
“Of all-majestic Nature?” at the word
His eye would glisten, and his accents glow
With all the Poet's frenzy, “Sov'reign Queen!
“Behold, and tremble, while thou view'st her state
“Thron'd on the heights of Skiddaw: call thy art
“To build her such a throne; that art will feel
“How vain her best pretensions. Trace her march
“Amid the purple craggs of Borrowdale;
“And try like those to pile thy range of rock
“In rude tumultuous chaos. See! she mounts
“Her Naiad car, and, down Lodore's dread cliff
“Falls many a fathom, like the headlong Bard
“My fabling fancy plung'd in Conway's flood;
“Yet not like him to sink in endless night:
“For, on its boiling bosom, still she guides
“Her buoyant shell, and leads the wave along;
“Or spreads it broad, a river, or a lake,
“As suits her pleasure; will thy boldest song
“E'er brace the sinews of enervate art
“To such dread daring? Will it ev'n direct
“Her hand to emulate those softer charms
“That deck the banks of Dove, or call to birth
“The bare romantic craggs, and copses green,
“That sidelong grace her circuit, whence the rills,
“Bright in their crystal purity, descend

263

“To meet their sparkling Queen? around each fount
“The hawthorns crowd, and knit their blossom'd sprays
“To keep their sources sacred. Here, even here,
“Thy art, each active sinew stretch'd in vain,
“Would perish in its pride. Far rather thou
“Confess her scanty power, correct, controul,
“Tell her how far, nor farther, she may go;
“And rein with Reason's curb fantastic Taste.”
Yes, I will hear thee, dear lamented Shade,
And hold each dictate sacred. What remains
Unsung shall so each leading rule select
As if still guided by thy judment sage;
While, as still modell'd to thy curious ear,
Flow my melodious numbers; so shall praise,
If ought of praise the verse I weave may claim,
From just posterity reward my song.
Erewhile to trace the path, to form the fence,
To mark the destin'd limits of the lawn,
The Muse, with measur'd step, preceptive, pac'd.
Now from the surface with impatient flight
She mounts, Sylvanus! o'er thy world of shade
To spread her pinions. Open all thy glades,
Greet her from all thy echoes. Orpheus-like,
Arm'd with the spells of harmony she comes,
To lead thy forests forth to lovelier haunts,
Where Fancy waits to fix them; from the dell

264

Where now they lurk she calls them to possess
Conspicuous stations; to their varied forms
Allots congenial place; selects, divides,
And blends anew in one Elysian scene.
Yet, while I thus exult, my weak tongue feels
Its ineffectual powers, and seeks in vain
That force of ancient phrase which, speaking, paints,
And is the thing it sings. Ah Virgil! why,
By thee neglected, was this loveliest theme
Left to the grating voice of modern reed?
Why not array it in the splendid robe
Of thy rich diction, and consign the charge
To Fame thy handmaid, whose immortal plume
Had born its praise beyond the bounds of Time?
Countless is Vegetation's verdant brood
As are the stars that stud yon cope of heaven;
To marshal all her tribes in order'd file,
Generic, or specific, might demand
His science, wond'rous Swede! whose ample mind,
Like ancient Tadmor's philosophic king,
Stretch'd from the hyssop creeping on the wall
To Lebanon's proudest cedars. Skill like this,
Which spans a third of Nature's copious realm,
Our art requires not, sedulous alone
To note those general properties of form,
Dimension, growth, duration, strength, and hue,

265

Then first imprest, when, at the dawn of time,
The form-deciding, life-inspiring word
Pronounc'd them into being. These prime marks
Distinctive, docile Memory makes her own,
That each its shadowy succour may supply
To her wish'd purpose; first, with needful shade,
To veil whate'er of wall, or fence uncouth
Disgusts the eye, which tyrant Use has rear'd,
And stern Necessity forbids to change.
Lur'd by their hasty shoots, and branching stems,
Planters there are who choose the race of pine
For this great end, erroneous; witless they
That, as their arrowy heads assault the sky,
They leave their shafts unfeather'd: rather thou
Select the shrubs that, patient of the knife,
Will thank thee for the wound, the hardy thorn,
Holly, or box, privet or pyracanth.
They, thickening from their base, with tenfold shade
Will soon replenish all thy judgment prun'd.
But chief with willing aid, her glittering green
Shall England's laurel bring; swift shall she spread
Her broad-leav'd shade, and float it fair and wide,
Proud to be call'd an inmate of the soil.
Let England prize this daughter of the East
Beyond that Latian plant, of kindred name,

266

That wreath'd the head of Julius; basely twin'd
Its flattering foliage on the traitor's brow
Who crush'd his country's freedom. Sacred tree,
Ne'er be thy brighter verdure thus debas'd!
Far happier thou, in this sequester'd bower,
To shroud thy Poet, who with fost'ring hand,
Here bade thee flourish, and with grateful strain
Now chaunts the praise of thy maturer bloom.
And happier far that Poet, if secure
His hearth and altars from the pilfering slaves
Of power, his little eve of lonely life
May here steal on, blest with the heartfelt calm
That competence and liberty inspire.
Nor are the plants which England calls her own
Few or unlovely, that, with laurel join'd
And kindred foliage of perennial green,
Will form a close-knit curtain. Shrubs there are
Of bolder growth, that, at the call of Spring,
Burst forth in blossom'd fragrance: lilacs rob'd
In snow-white innocence, or purple pride;
The sweet syringa yielding but in scent
To the rich orange; or the woodbine wild
That loves to hang, on barren boughs remote,
Her wreaths of flowery perfume. These beside,
Myriads, that here the Muse neglects to name,
Will add a vernal lustre to thy veil.

267

And what if chance collects the varied tribes,
Yet fear not thou but unexpected charms
Will from their union start. But if our song
Supply one precept here, it bids retire
Each leaf of deeper dye, and lift in front
Foliage of paler verdure, so to spread
A canvass, which when touch'd by Autumn's hand
Shall gleam with dusky gold, or russet rays.
But why prepare for her funereal hand
That canvass? she but comes to dress thy shades,
As lovelier victims for their wintry tomb.
Rather to flowery Spring, to Summer bright,
Thy labour consecrate; their laughing reign,
The youth, the manhood of the growing year,
Deserves that labour, and rewards its pain.
Yet, heedful ever of that ruthless time
When Winter shakes their stems, preserve a file
With everduring leaf to brave his arm,
And deepening spread their undiminish'd gloom.
But, if the tall defect demands a screen
Of forest shade high tow'ring, some broad roof
Perchance of glaring tile that guards the stores
Of Ceres; or the patch'd disjointed choir
Of some old fane, whose steeple's Gothic pride
Or pinnacled, or spir'd, would bolder rise
‘In tufted trees high bosom'd,’ here allot
Convenient space to plant that lofty tribe

268

Behind thy underwood, lest, o'er its head
The forest tyrants shake their lordly arms,
And shed their baleful dews. Each plant that springs
Holds, like the people of some free-born state,
Its right fair franchis'd; rooted to a spot
It yet has claim to air; from liberal heav'n
It yet has claim to sunshine, and to showers:
Air, showers, and sunshine are its liberty.
That liberty secur'd, a general shade,
Dense and impervious, to thy wish shall rise
To hide each form uncouth; and, this obtain'd,
What next we from the Dryad powers implore
Is grace, is ornament: For see! our lawn,
Though cloth'd with softest verdure, though reliev'd
By many a gentle fall and easy swell,
Expects that harmony of light and shade,
Which foliage only gives. Come then, ye plants!
That, like the village troop when Maia dawns,
Delight to mingle social; to the crest
Of yonder brow we safely may conduct
Your numerous train; no eye obstructed there
Will blame your interpos'd society:
But, on the plain below, in single stems
Disparted, or in sparing groups distinct,
Wide must ye stand, in wild, disorder'd mood,
As if the seeds from which your scions sprang
Had there been scatter'd from the affrighted beak

269

Of some maternal bird whom the fierce hawk
Pursued with felon claw. Her young meanwhile
Callow, and cold, from their moss-woven nest
Peep forth; they stretch their little eager throats
Broad to the wind, and plead to the lone spray
Their famish'd plaint importunately shrill.
Yet in this wild disorder Art presides,
Designs, corrects, and regulates the whole,
Herself the while unseen. No cedar broad
Drops his dark curtain where a distant scene
Demands distinction. Here the thin abele
Of lofty bole, and bare, the smooth'd-stemm'd beech,
Or slender alder, give our eye free space
Beneath their boughs to catch each lessening charm
Ev'n to the far horizon's azure bound.
Nor will that sov'reign arbitress admit,
Where'er her nod decrees a mass of shade,
Plants of unequal size, discordant kind,
Or rul'd by Foliation's different laws;
But for that needful purpose those prefers
Whose hues are friendly, whose coëval leaves
The earliest open, and the latest fade.
Nor will she, scorning truth and taste, devote
To strange, and alien soils, her seedling stems;
Fix the dank sallow on the mountain's brow,

270

Or, to the moss-grown margin of the lake,
Bid the dry pine descend. From Nature's laws
She draws her own: Nature and she are one.
Nor will she, led by Fashion's lure, select,
For objects interpos'd, the pigmy race
Of shrubs, or scatter with unmeaning hand
Their offspring o'er the lawn, scorning to patch
With many a meagre and disjointed tuft
Its sober surface: sidelong to her path
And polish'd foreground she confines their growth
Where o'er their heads the liberal eye may range.
Nor will her prudence, when intent to form
One perfect whole, on feeble aid depend,
And give exotic wonders to our gaze.
She knows and therefore fears the faithless train:
Sagely she calls on those of hardy class
Indigenous, who, patient of the change
From heat to cold which Albion hourly feels,
Are brac'd with strength to brave it. These alone
She plants and prunes, nor grieves if nicer eyes
Pronounce them vulgar. These she calls her friends,
That veteran troop who will not for a blast
Of nipping air, like cowards, quit the field.
Far to the north of thy imperial towers,
Augusta! in that wild and Alpine vale,

271

Through which the Swale, by mountain-torrents swell'd,
Flings his redundant stream, there liv'd a youth
Of polish'd manners; ample his domain,
And fair the site of his paternal dome.
He lov'd the art I sing; a deep adept
In Nature's story, well he knew the names
Of all her verdant lineage; yet that skill
Misled his taste; scornful of every bloom
That spreads spontaneous, from remotest Ind
He brought his foliage; careless of its cost,
Ev'n of its beauty careless: it was rare,
And therefore beauteous. Now his laurel screen,
With rose and woodbine negligently wove,
Bows to the axe; the rich magnolias claim
The station; now Herculean beeches fell'd
Resign their rights, and warm Virginia sends
Her cedars to usurp them; the proud oak
Himself, ev'n he, the sov'reign of the shade,
Yields to the fir that drips with Gilead's balm.
Now Albion gaze at glories not thy own!
Pause, rapid Swale! and see thy margin crown'd
With all the pride of Ganges: vernal showers
Have fix'd their roots; nutritious summer suns
Favour'd their growth; and mildest autumn smil'd
Benignant o'er them: vigorous, fair, and tall,
They waft a gale of spices o'er the plain.
But Winter comes, and with him watery Jove,
And with him Boreas in his frozen shroud;

272

The savage spirit of old Swale is rous'd;
He howls amidst his foam. At the dread sight
The aliens stand aghast; they bow their heads.
In vain the glassy penthouse is supply'd:
The pelting storm with icy bullets breaks
Its fragile barrier; see! they fade, they die.
Warn'd by his error, let the planter slight
These shiv'ring rarities; or if, to please
Fastidious Fashion, he must needs allot
Some space for foreign foliage, let him chuse
A sidelong glade, shelter'd from east and north,
And free to southern and to western gales;
There let him fix their station; thither wind
Some devious path, that, from the chief design
Detach'd, may lead to where they safely bloom.
So in the web of epic song sublime
The Bard Mæonian interweaves the charm
Of softer episode, yet leaves unbroke
The golden thread of his majestic theme.
What else to shun of formal, false, or vain,
Of long-lin'd vistas or plantations quaint
Our former strains have taught. Instruction now
Withdraws; she knows her limits; knows that Grace
Is caught by strong perception, not from rules;
That undrest Nature claims for all her limbs
Some simple garb peculiar, which, howe'er

273

Distinct their size and shape, is simple still:
This garb to chuse, with clothing dense, or thin,
A part to hide, another to adorn,
Is Taste's important task; preceptive song
From error in the choice can only warn.
But vain that warning voice; vain ev'ry aid
Of Genius, Judgment, Fancy, to secure
The planter's lasting fame: There is a power,
A hidden power, at once his friend, and foe:
'Tis Vegetation. Gradual to his groves
She gives their wish'd effect; and, that display'd,
Oh, that her power would pause! but active still,
She swells each stem, prolongs each vagrant bough,
And darts with unremitting vigour bold
From Grace to wild luxuriance. Happier far
Are you, ye sons of Claude! who, from the mine,
The earth, or juice of herb or flower concrete,
Mingle the mass whence your Arcadias spring;
The beauteous outline of your pictur'd shades
Still keeps the bound you gave it; time that pales
Your vivid hues, respects your pleasing forms.
Not so our landscapes: though we paint like you,
We paint with growing colours; ev'ry year
O'erpassing that which gives the breadth of shade
We sought, by rude addition mars our scene.
Rouse then, ye hinds! e'er yet yon closing boughs
Blot out the purple distance, swift prevent

274

The spreading evil: thin the crowded glades,
While yet of slender size each stem will thrive
Transplanted: twice repeat the annual toil;
Nor let the axe its beak, the saw its tooth
Refrain, whene'er some random branch has stray'd
Beyond the bounds of beauty; else full soon,
Ev'n e'er the planter's life has past its prime,
Will Albion's garden frown an Indian wild.
Forboding fears avaunt! be ours to urge
Each present purpose by what favouring means
May work its end design'd; why deprecate
The change that waits on sublunary things,
Sad lot of their existence? shall we pause
To give the charm of Water to our scene,
For that the congregated rains may swell
Its tide into a flood? or that yon Sun,
Now on the Lion mounted, to his noon
Impells him, shaking from his fiery mane
A heat may parch its channel? O, ye caves,
Deepen your dripping roofs! this feverish hour
Claims all your coolness; in your humid cells
Permit me to forget the planter's toil;
And, while I woo your Naiads to my aid,
Involve me in impenetrable gloom.
Blest is the man (if bliss be human boast)
Whose fertile soil is wash'd with frequent streams,

275

And springs salubrious: he disdains to toss
In rainbow dews their crystal to the sun;
Or sink in subterranean cisterns deep;
That so, through leaden siphons upwards drawn,
Those streams may leap fantastic. He his ear
Shuts to the tuneful trifling of the Bard,
Who trick'd a gothic theme with classic flowers,
And sung of fountains bursting from the shells
Of brazen tritons, spouting through the jaws
‘Of gorgons, hydras, and chimæras dire.’
Peace to his manes! let the nymphs of Seine
Cherish his fame. Thy Poet, Albion! scorns,
Ev'n for a cold unconscious element
To forge the fetters he would scorn to wear.
His song shall reprobate each effort vile,
That aims to force the Genius of the stream
Beyond his native height; or dares to press
Above that destin'd line th' unwilling wave.
Is there within the circle of thy view
Some sedgy flat, where the late-ripen'd sheaves
Stand brown with unblest mildew? 'tis the bed
On which an ample lake in crystal peace
Might sleep majestic. Pause we yet; perchance
Some midway channel, where the soil declines,
Might there be delv'd, by levels duly led
In bold and broken curves: for water loves

276

A wilder outline than the woodland path,
And winds with shorter bend. To drain the rest
The shelving spade may toil, till wint'ry showers
Find their free course down each declining bank.
Quit then the thought: a river's winding form,
With many a sinuous bay, and island green,
At less expense of labour and of land,
Will give thee equal beauty! seldom art
Can emulate that broad and bold extent
Which charms in native lakes; and, failing there,
Her works betray their character and name,
And dwindle into pools. Not that our strain,
Fastidious, shall disdain a small expanse
Of stagnant fluid, in some scene confin'd,
Circled with varied shade, where, through the leaves,
The half-admitted sunbeam trembling plays
On its clear bosom; where aquatic fowl
Of varied tribe, and varied feather sail;
And where the finny race their glittering scales
Unwillingly reveal: There, there alone,
Where bursts the general prospect on our eye,
We scorn these wat'ry patches: Thames himself,
Seen in disjointed spots, where Sallows hide
His first bold presence, seems a string of pools,
A chart and compass must explain his course.
He, who would seize the river's sov'reign charm,
Must wind the moving mirror through his lawn

277

Ev'n to remotest distance; deep must delve
The gravelly channel that prescribes its course;
Closely conceal each terminating bound
By hill or shade oppos'd; and to its bank
Lifting the level of the copious stream,
Must there retain it. But, if thy faint springs
Refuse this large supply, steel thy firm soul
With stoic pride; imperfect charms despise:
Beauty, like Virtue, knows no groveling mean.
Who but must pity that penurious taste,
Which down the quick-descending vale prolongs,
Slope below slope, a stiff and unlink'd chain
Of flat canals; then leads the stranger's eye
To some predestin'd station, there to catch
Their seeming union, and the fraud approve?
Who but must change that pity into scorn,
If down each verdant slope a narrow flight
Of central steps decline, where the spare stream
Steals trickling; or, withheld by cunning skill,
Hoards its scant treasures, till the master's nod
Decree its fall: Then down the formal stairs
It leaps with short-liv'd fury; wasting there,
Poor prodigal! what many a Summer's rain
And many a Winter's snow shall late restore.
Learn that, whene'er in some sublimer scene
Imperial Nature of her headlong floods

278

Permits our imitation, she herself
Prepares their reservoir; conceal'd perchance
In neighb'ring hills, where first it well behoves
Our toil to search, and studiously augment
The wat'ry store with springs and sluices drawn
From pools, that on the heath drink up the rain.
Be these collected, like the miser's gold,
In one increasing fund, nor dare to pour,
Down thy impending mound, the bright cascade,
Till richly sure of its redundant fall.
That mound to raise alike demands thy toil,
Ere art adorn its surface. Here adopt
That facile mode which his inventive powers
First plann'd, who led to rich Mancunium's mart
His long-drawn line of navigated stream.
Stupendous task! in vain stood tow'ring hills
Oppos'd; in vain did ample Irwell pour
Her tide transverse: he pierc'd the tow'ring hill,
He bridg'd the ample tide, and high in air,
And deep through earth, his freighted barge he bore.
This mode shall temper ev'n the lightest soil
Firm to thy purpose. Then let taste select
The unhewn fragments, that may give its front
A rocky rudeness; pointed some, that there
The frothy spouts may break; some slanting smooth,
That there in silver sheet the wave may slide.

279

Here too infix some moss-grown trunks of oak
Romantic, turn'd by gelid lakes to stone,
Yet so dispos'd as if they owed their change
To what they now control. Then open wide
Thy flood-gates; then let down thy torrent: then
Rejoice; as if the thund'ring Tees himself
Reign'd there amid his cataracts sublime.
And thou hast cause for triumph! Kings themselves,
With all a nation's wealth, an army's toil,
If Nature frown averse, shall ne'er achieve
Such wonders: Nature's was the glorious gift;
Thy art her menial handmaid. Listening youths!
To whose ingenuous hearts I still address
The friendly strain, from such severe attempt
Let Prudence warn you. Turn to this clear rill,
Which, while I bid your bold ambition cease,
Runs murmuring at my side: O'er many a rood
Your skill may lead the wanderer; many a mound
Of pebbles raise, to fret her in her course
Impatient: louder then will be her song:
For she will 'plain, and gurgle, as she goes,
As does the widow'd ring-dove. Take, vain Pomp!
Thy lakes, thy long canals, thy trim cascades,
Beyond them all true taste will dearly prize
This little dimpling treasure. Mark the cleft,
Through which she bursts to day. Behind that rock

280

A Naiad dwells: Lineia is her name;
And she has sisters in contiguous cells,
Who never saw the sun. Fond Fancy's eye,
That inly gives locality and form
To what she prizes best, full oft pervades
Those hidden caverns, where pale chrysolites,
And glittering spars dart a mysterious gleam
Of inborn lustre, from the garish day
Unborrow'd. There, by the wild Goddess led,
Oft have I seen them bending o'er their urns,
Chaunting alternate airs of Dorian mood,
While smooth they comb'd their moist cerulean locks
With shells of living pearl. Yes, let me own,
To these, or classic deities like these,
From very childhood was I prone to pay
Harmless idolatry. My infant eyes
First open'd on that bleak and boist'rous shore,
Where Humber weds the nymphs of Trent and Ouse
To His, and Ocean's Tritons: thence full soon
My youth retir'd, and left the busy strand
To Commerce and to Care. In Margaret's grove,
Beneath whose time-worn shade old Camus sleeps,
Was next my tranquil station: Science there
Sat musing; and to those that lov'd the lore
Pointed, with mystic wand, to truths involv'd
In geometric symbols, scorning those,
Perchance too much, who woo'd the thriftless muse.

281

Here, though in warbling whisper oft I breath'd
The lay, were wanting, what young Fancy deems
The life-springs of her being, rocks, and caves,
And huddling brooks, and torrent-falls divine.
In quest of these, at Summer's vacant hour,
Pleas'd would I stray, when in a northern vale,
So chance ordain'd, a Naiad sad I found
Robb'd of her silver vase; I sooth'd the nymph
With song of sympathy, and curst the fiend
Who stole the gift of Thetis. Hence the cause
Why, favour'd by the blue-ey'd sisterhood,
They sooth with songs my solitary ear.
Nor is Lineia silent—“Long,” she cries,
“Too long has Man wag'd sacrilegious war
“With the vext elements, and chief with that,
“Which elder Thales, and the Bard of Thebes
“Held first of things terrestrial; nor misdeem'd:
“For, when the Spirit creative deign'd to move,
“He mov'd upon the waters. O revere
“Our power: for were its vital force withheld,
“Where then were Vegetation's vernal bloom,
“Where its autumnal wealth? but we are kind
“As powerful; O let reverence lead to love,
“And both to emulation! Not a rill,
“That winds its sparkling current o'er the plain,
“Reflecting to the Sun bright recompense
“For ev'ry beam he lends, but reads thy soul

282

“A generous lecture. Not a pansy pale,
“That drinks its daily nurture from that rill,
“But breathes in fragrant accents to thy soul,
‘So by thy pity cheer'd, the languish'd head
‘Of poverty might smile.’ Who e'er beheld
“Our humble train forsake their native vale
“To climb the haughty hill? Ambition, speak!
“He blushes, and is mute. When did our streams,
“By force unpent, in dull stagnation sleep?
“Let Sloth unfold his arms and tell the time.
“Or, if the tyranny of Art infring'd
“Our rights, when did our patient floods submit
“Without recoil? Servility retires,
“And clinks his gilded chain. O, learn from us,
“And tell it to thy nation, British Bard!
“Uncurb'd Ambition, unresisting Sloth,
“And base Dependance are the fiends accurst
“That pull down mighty empires. If they scorn
“The awful truth, be thine to hold it dear.
“So, through the vale of life, thy flowing hours
“Shall glide serene; and, like Lineia's rill,
“Their free, yet not licentious course fulfill'd,
“Sink in the Ocean of Eternity.”
END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

283

BOOK THE FOURTH.


285

Nor yet, divine Simplicity, withdraw
That aid auspicious, which, in Art's domain,
Already has reform'd whate'er prevail'd
Of foreign, or of false; has led the curve
That Nature loves through all her sylvan haunts;
Has stol'n the fence unnotic'd that arrests
Her vagrant herds; giv'n lustre to her lawns,
Gloom to her groves, and, in expanse serene,
Devolv'd that wat'ry mirror at her foot,
O'er which she loves to bend and view her charms.
And tell me thou, whoe'er hast new-arrang'd
By her chaste rules thy garden, if thy heart
Feels not the warm, the self-dilating glow
Of true benevolence. Thy flocks, thy herds,
That browse luxurious o'er those very plots
Which once were barren, bless thee for the change;
The birds of air (which thy funereal yews
Of shape uncouth, and leaden sons of earth,
Antæus and Enceladus, with clubs

286

Uplifted, long had frighted from the scene)
Now pleas'd return, they perch on ev'ry spray,
And swell their little throats, and warble wild
Their vernal minstrelsy; to heav'n and thee
It is a hymn of thanks: do thou, like heav'n,
With tutelary care reward their song.
Erewhile the Muse, industrious to combine
Nature's own charms, with these alone adorn'd
The genius of the scene; but other gifts
She has in store, which gladly now she brings,
And he shall proudly wear. Know, when she broke
The spells of Fashion, from the crumbling wreck
Of her enchantments sagely did she cull
Those reliques rich of old Vitruvian skill,
With what the sculptor's hand in classic days
Made breathe in brass or marble; these the hag
Had purloin'd, and dispos'd in Folly's fane;
To him these trophies of her victory
She bears; and where his awful nod ordains
Conspicuous means to place. He shall direct
Her dubious judgment, from the various hoard
Of ornamental treasures, how to choose
The simplest and the best; on these his seal
Shall stamp great Nature's image and his own,
To charm for unborn ages.—Fling the rest
Back to the beldame, bid her whirl them all
In her vain vortex, lift them now to day,

287

Now plunge in night, as, through the humid rack
Of April cloud, swift flits the trembling beam.
But precepts tire, and this fastidious age
Rejects the strain didactic: try we then
In livelier narrative the truths to veil
We dare not dictate. Sons of Albion, hear!
The tale I tell is full of strange event,
And piteous circumstance; yet deem not ye,
If names I feign, that therefore facts are feign'd:
Nor hence refuse (what most augments the charm
Of storied woe) that fond credulity
Which binds th' attentive soul in closer chains.
At manhood's prime Alcander's duteous tear
Fell on his father's grave. The fair domain,
Which then became his ample heritage,
That father had reform'd; each line destroy'd
Which Belgic dulness plann'd; and Nature's self
Restor'd to all the rights she wish'd to claim.
Crowning a gradual hill his mansion rose
In antient English grandeur: Turrets, spires,
And windows, climbing high from base to roof
In wide and radiant rows, bespoke its birth
Coëval with those rich cathedral fanes,
(Gothic ill-nam'd) where harmony results
From disunited parts; and shapes minute,

288

At once distinct and blended, boldly form
One vast majestic whole. No modern art
Had marr'd with misplac'd symmetry the pile.
Alcander held it sacred: On a height,
Which westering to its site the front survey'd,
He first his taste employ'd: for there a line
Of thinly scatter'd beech too tamely broke
The blank horizon. “Draw we round yon knowl,”
Alcander cry'd, “in stately Norman mode,
“A wall embattled; and within its guard
“Let every structure needful for a farm
“Arise in Castle-semblance; the huge barn
“Shall with a mock portcullis arm the gate,
“Where Ceres entering, o'er the flail-proof floor
“In golden triumph rides; some tower rotund
“Shall to the pigeons and their callow young
“Safe roost afford; and ev'ry buttress broad,
“Whose proud projection seems a mass of stone,
“Give space to stall the heifer, and the steed.
“So shall each part, though turn'd to rural use,
“Deceive the eye with those bold feudal forms
“That Fancy loves to gaze on.” This achiev'd,
Now nearer home he calls returning Art
To hide the structure rude where Winter pounds
In conic pit his congelations hoar,
That Summer may his tepid beverage cool
With the chill luxury; his dairy too
There stands of form unsightly: both to veil,

289

He builds of old disjointed moss-grown stone
A time-struck abbey. An impending grove
Screens it behind with reverential shade;
While bright in front the stream reflecting spreads,
Which winds a mimic river o'er his lawn.
The fane conventual there is dimly seen,
The mitred window, and the cloister pale,
With many a mouldering column; ivy soon
Round the rude chinks her net of foliage spreads;
Its verdant meshes seem to prop the wall.
One native glory, more than all sublime,
Alcander's scene possest: 'twas Ocean's self—
He, boist'rous king, against the eastern cliffs
Dash'd his white foam; a verdant vale between
Gave splendid ingress to his world of waves.
Slanting this vale the mound of that clear stream
Lay hid in shade, which slowly lav'd his lawn:
But there set free, the rill resum'd its pace,
And hurried to the main. The dell it past
Was rocky and retir'd: here art with ease
Might lead it o'er a grot, and filter'd there,
Teach it to sparkle down its craggy sides,
And fall and tinkle on its pebbled floor.
Here then that grot he builds, and conchs with spars,
Moss petrified with branching corallines
In mingled mode arranges: all found here

290

Propriety of place; what view'd the main
Might well the shelly gifts of Thetis bear.
Not so the inland cave: with richer store
Than those the neighb'ring mines and mountains yield
To hang its roof, would seem incongruous pride,
And fright the local genius from the scene.
One vernal morn, as urging here the work
Surrounded by his hinds, from mild to cold
The season chang'd, from cold to sudden storm,
From storm to whirlwind. To the angry main
Swiftly he turns and sees a laden ship
Dismasted by its rage. “Hie, hie we all,”
Alcander cry'd, “quick to the neighb'ring beach.”
They flew; they came but only to behold,
Tremendous sight! the vessel dash its poop
Amid the boiling breakers. Need I tell
What strenuous arts were us'd, when all were us'd,
To save the sinking crew? One tender maid
Alone escap'd, sav'd by Alcander's arm,
Who boldly swam to snatch her from the plank
To which she feebly clung; swiftly to shore,
And swifter to his home the youth convey'd
His clay-cold prize, who at his portal first
By one deep sigh a sign of life betray'd.
A maid so sav'd, if but by nature blest

291

With common charms, had soon awak'd a flame
More strong than Pity, in that melting heart
Which Pity warm'd before. But she was fair
As poets picture Hebe, or the Spring;
Graceful withal, as if each limb were cast
In that ideal mould whence Raphael drew
His Galatea: Yes, the impassion'd youth
Felt more than pity when he view'd her charms.
Yet she (ah, strange to tell) though much he lov'd,
Supprest as much that sympathetic flame
Which love like his should kindle: Did he kneel
In rapture at her feet? she bow'd the head,
And coldly bad him rise; or did he plead,
In terms of purest passion, for a smile?
She gave him but a tear: his manly form,
His virtues, ev'n the courage that preserv'd
Her life, beseem'd no sentiment to wake
Warmer than gratitude; and yet the love
Withheld from him she freely gave his scenes;
On all their charms a just applause bestow'd;
And, if she e'er was happy, only then
When wand'ring where those charms were most display'd.
As through a neighb'ring grove, where ancient beech
Their awful foliage flung, Alcander led
The pensive maid along, “Tell me,” she cry'd,
“Why, on these forest features all intent,

292

“Forbears my friend some scene distinct to give
“To Flora and her fragrance? Well I know
“That in the general landscape's broad expanse
“Their little blooms are lost; but here are glades,
“Circled with shade, yet pervious to the sun,
“Where, if enamell'd with their rainbow-hues,
“The eye would catch their splendour: turn thy taste,
“Ev'n in this grassy circle where we stand,
“To form the plots; there weave a woodbine bower,
“And call that bower Nerina's.” At the word
Alcander smil'd; his fancy instant form'd
The fragrant scene she wish'd; and Love, with Art
Uniting, soon produc'd the finish'd whole.
Down to the south the glade by Nature lean'd;
Art form'd the slope still softer, opening there
Its foliage, and to each Etesian gale
Admittance free dispensing; thickest shade
Guarded the rest.—His taste will best conceive
The new arrangement, whose free footsteps, us'd
To forest haunts, have pierc'd their opening dells,
Where frequent tufts of sweetbriar, box, or thorn,
Steal on the greensward, but admit fair space
For many a mossy maze to wind between.
So here did Art arrange her flow'ry groups
Irregular, yet not in patches quaint,
But interpos'd between the wand'ring lines

293

Of shaven turf which twisted to the path,
Gravel or sand, that in as wild a wave
Stole round the verdant limits of the scene;
Leading the eye to many a sculptur'd bust
On shapely pedestal, of sage, or bard,
Bright heirs of fame, who living lov'd the haunts
So fragrant, so sequester'd. Many an urn
There too had place, with votive lay inscrib'd
To freedom, friendship, solitude, or love.
And now each flow'r that bears transplanting change,
Or blooms indigenous, adorn'd the scene:
Only Nerina's wish, her woodbine bower,
Remain'd to crown the whole. Here, far beyond
That humble wish, her lover's genius form'd
A glittering fane, where rare and alien plants
Might safely flourish; where the citron sweet,
And fragrant orange, rich in fruit and flowers,
Might hang their silver stars, their golden globes,
On the same odorous stem: Yet scorning there
The glassy penthouse of ignoble form,
High on Ionic shafts he bad it tower
A proud rotunda; to its sides conjoin'd
Two broad piazzas in theatric curve,
Ending in equal porticos sublime.
Glass roof'd the whole, and sidelong to the south
'Twixt ev'ry fluted column, lightly rear'd

294

Its wall pellucid. All within was day,
Was genial summer's day, for secret stoves
Through all the pile solstitial warmth convey'd.
These led through isles of fragrance to the dome,
Each way in circling quadrant. That bright space
Guarded the spicy tribes from Afric's shore,
Or Ind, or Araby, Sabæan plants
Weeping with nard, and balsam. In the midst
A statue stood, the work of Attic art;
Its thin light drapery, cast in fluid folds,
Proclaim'd its ancientry; all save the head,
Which stole (for love is prone to gentle thefts)
The features of Nerina; yet that head,
So perfect in resemblance; all its air
So tenderly impassion'd; to the trunk,
Which Grecian skill had form'd, so aptly join'd
Phidias himself might seem to have inspir'd
The chissel, brib'd to do the am'rous fraud.
One graceful hand held forth a flow'ry wreath,
The other prest her zone; while round the base
Dolphins, and Triton shells, and plants marine
Proclaim'd, that Venus, rising from the sea,
Had veil'd in Flora's modest vest her charms.
Such was the fane, and such the Deity
Who seem'd, with smile auspicious, to inhale
That incense which a tributary world

295

From all its regions round her altar breath'd:
And yet, when to the shrine Alcander led
His living goddess, only with a sigh,
And starting tear, the statue and the dome
Reluctantly she view'd. And “why,” she cry'd,
“Why would my best preserver here erect,
“With all the fond idolatry of love,
“A wretch's image whom his pride should scorn,
“(For so his country bids him)? Drive me hence,
“Transport me quick to Gallia's hostile shore,
“Hostile to thee, yet not, alas! to her,
“Who there was meant to sojourn: there, perchance,
“My father, wafted by more prosp'rous gales,
“Now mourns his daughter lost; my brother there
“Perhaps now sooths that venerable age
“He should not sooth alone. Vain thought! perchance
“Both perish'd at Esopus—do not blush,
“It was not thou that lit the ruthless flame;
“It was not thou, that like remorseless Cain,
“Thirsted for brother's blood: thy heart disdains
“The savage imputation. Rest thee there,
“And, though thou pitiest, yet forbear to grace,
“A wretched alien, and a rebel deem'd,
“With honours ill-beseeming her to claim.
“My wish, thou know'st, was humble as my state;
“I only begg'd a little woodbine bower,
“Where I might sit and weep, while all around
“The lilies and the blue bells hung their heads

296

“In seeming sympathy.” “Does then the scene
“Displease?” the disappointed lover cry'd;
“Alas! too much it pleases,” sigh'd the fair;
“Too strongly paints the passion which stern Fate
“Forbids me to return;” “Dost thou then love
“Some happier youth?” “No; tell thy generous soul
“Indeed I do not.” More she would have said,
But gushing grief prevented. From the fane
Silent he led her, as from Eden's bower
The sire of men his weeping partner led,
Less lovely, and less innocent than she.
Yet still Alcander hop'd what last she sigh'd
Spoke more than gratitude: the war might end;
Her father might consent; for that alone
Now seem'd the duteous barrier to his bliss.
Already had he sent a faithful friend
To learn if France the reverend exile held:
That friend return'd not. Meanwhile ev'ry sun
Which now (a year elaps'd) diurnal rose
Beheld her still more pensive; inward pangs,
From grief's concealment, hourly seem'd to force
Health from her cheek, and quiet from her soul.
Alcander mourn'd the change, yet still he hop'd;
For Love to Hope his flickering taper lends,
When Reason with his steady torch retires:
Hence did he try by ever-varying arts,
And scenes of novel charm her grief to calm.

297

Nor did he not employ the syren powers
Of Music and of Song; or Painting, thine,
Sweet source of pure delight! But I record
Those arts alone, which form my sylvan theme.
At stated hours, full oft had he observ'd,
She fed with welcome grain the household fowl
That trespass'd on his lawn; this wak'd a wish
To give her feather'd fav'rites space of land,
And lake appropriate: in a neighb'ring copse
He plann'd the scene; for there the crystal spring,
That form'd his river, from a rocky cleft
First bubbling broke to day; and spreading there
Slept on its rushes. “Here my delving hinds,”
He cry'd, “shall soon the marshy soil remove,
“And spread, in brief extent, a glittering lake
“Chequer'd with isles of verdure; on yon rock
“A sculptur'd river-god shall rest his urn;
“And through that urn the native fountain flow.
“Thy wish-for bower, Nerina, shall adorn
“The southern bank; the downy race, that swim
“The lake, or pace the shore, with livelier charms,
“Yet no less rural, here will meet thy glance,
“Than flowers inanimate.” Full soon was scoop'd
The wat'ry bed, and soon, by margin green
And rising banks, inclos'd; the highest gave
Site to a rustic fabric, shelving deep
Within the thicket, and in front compos'd

298

Of three unequal arches, lowly all
The surer to expel the noontide glare,
Yet yielding liberal inlet to the scene;
Woodbine with jasmine carelessly entwin'd
Conceal'd the needful masonry, and hung
In free festoons, and vested all the cell.
Hence did the lake, the islands, and the rock,
A living landscape spread; the feather'd fleet,
Led by two mantling swans, at ev'ry creek
Now touch'd, and now unmoor'd; now on full sail,
With pennons spread and oary feet they ply'd
Their vagrant voyage; and now, as if becalm'd,
'Tween shore and shore at anchor seem'd to sleep.
Around those shores the fowl that fear the stream
At random rove: hither hot Guinea sends
Her gadding troop; here midst his speckled dames
The pigmy chanticleer of Bantam winds
His clarion; while, supreme in glittering state,
The peacock spreads his rainbow train, with eyes
Of sapphire bright, irradiate each with gold.
Meanwhile from ev'ry spray the ring-doves coo,
The linnets warble, captive none, but lur'd
By food to haunt the umbrage: all the glade
Is life, is music, liberty, and love.
And is there now to pleasure or to use
One scene devoted in the wide domain

299

Its master has not polish'd? Rumour spreads
Its praises far, and many a stranger stops
With curious eye to censure or admire.
To all his lawns are pervious; oft himself
With courteous greeting will the critic hail,
And join him in the circuit. Give we here
(If Candour will with patient ear attend)
The social dialogue Alcander held
With one, a youth of mild yet manly mein,
Who seem'd to taste the beauties he survey'd.
“Little, I fear me, will a stranger's eye
“Find here to praise, where rich Vitruvian art
“Has rear'd no temples, no triumphal arcs;
“Where no Palladian bridges span the stream,
“But all is homebred Fancy.” “For that cause,
“And chiefly that,” the polish'd youth reply'd,
“I view each part with rapture. Ornament,
“When foreign or fantastic, never charm'd
“My judgment; here I tread on British ground;
“With British annals all I view accords.
“Some Yorkist, or Lancastrian baron bold,
“To awe his vassals, or to stem his foes,
“Yon massy bulwark built; on yonder pile
“In ruin beauteous, I distinctly mark
“The ruthless traces of stern Henry's hand.
“Yet,” cry'd Alcander, (interrupting mild

300

The stranger's speech) “if so yon ancient seat,
“Pride of my ancestors, had mock'd repair,
“And by Proportion's Greek or Roman laws
“That pile had been rebuilt, thou wouldst not then,
“I trust, have blam'd, if, there on Doric shafts
“A temple rose; if some tall obelisk
“O'ertopt yon grove, or bold triumphal arch
“Usurpt my castle's station.”—“Spare me yet
“Yon solemn ruin,” the quick youth return'd,
“No mould'ring aqueduct, no yawning crypt
“Sepulchral, will console me for its fate.”
“I mean not that,” the master of the scene
Reply'd; “though classic rules to modern piles
“Should give the just arrangement, shun we here
“By those to form our ruins; much we own
“They please, when, by Panini's pencil drawn,
“Or darkly grav'd by Piranesi's hand,
“And fitly might some Tuscan garden grace;
“But Time's rude mace has here all Roman piles
“Levell'd so low, that who, on British ground
“Attempts the task, builds but a splendid lie
“Which mocks historic credence. Hence the cause
“Why Saxon piles or Norman here prevail:
“Form they a rude, 'tis yet an English whole.”
“And much I praise thy choice,” the stranger cry'd;
“Such chaste selection shames the common mode,

301

“Which, mingling structures of far distant times,
“Far distant regions, here, perchance, erects
“A fane to Freedom, where her Brutus stands
“In act to strike the tyrant; there a tent,
“With crescent crown'd, with scymitars adorn'd,
“Meet for some Bajazet; northward we turn,
“And lo! a pigmy pyramid pretends
“We tread the realms of Pharoah; quickly thence
“Our southern step presents us heaps of stone
“Rang'd in a Druid circle. Thus from age
“To age, from clime to clime incessant borne,
“Imagination flounders headlong on,
“Till, like fatigu'd Villario, soon we find
“We better like a field.” “Nicely thy hand
“The childish landscape touches,” cries his host,
“For Fashion ever is a wayward child;
“Yet sure we might forgive her faults like these,
“If but in separate or in single scenes
“She thus with Fancy wanton'd: should I lead
“Thy step, my friend, (for our accordant tastes
“Prompt me to give thee that familiar name)
“Behind this screen of elm, thou there might'st find
“I too had idly play'd the truant's part,
“And broke the bounds of judgment.” “Lead me there,”
Briskly the youth return'd, “for having prov'd
“Thy Epic Genius here, why not peruse
“Thy lighter Ode or Eclogue?” Smiling thence

302

Alcander led him to the woodbine bower
Which last our song describ'd, who seated there,
In silent transport view'd the lively scene.
“I see, his host resum'd, “my sportive art
“Finds pardon here; not ev'n yon classic form,
“Pouring his liquid treasures from his vase,
“Though foreign from the soil, provokes thy frown.
“Try we thy candor farther: higher art,
“And more luxurious, haply too more vain,
“Adorns yon southern coppice.” On they past
Through a wild thicket, till the perfum'd air
Gave to another sense its prelude rich
On what the eye should feast. But now the grove
Expands; and now the rose, the garden's Queen,
Amidst her blooming subjects' humbler charms,
On ev'ry plot her crimson pomp displays.
“Oh Paradise!” the ent'ring youth exclaim'd,
“Groves whose rich trees weep odorous gums and balm,
“Others whose fruit, burnish'd with golden rind,
“Hang amiable, Hesperian fables true,
“If true here only.” Thus, in Milton's phrase
Sublime, the youth his admiration pour'd,
While passing to the dome; his next short step
Unveil'd the central statue; “Heav'ns! just Heav'ns,”
He cry'd, “'tis my Nerina.” “Thine, mad youth?
“Forego the word,” Alcander said, and paus'd;

303

His utterance fail'd; a thousand clust'ring thoughts,
And all of blackest omen to his peace,
Recoil'd upon his brain, deaden'd all sense,
And at the statue's base him headlong cast,
A lifeless load of being.—Ye, whose hearts
Are ready at Humanity's soft call
To drop the tear, I charge you weep not yet,
But fearfully suspend the bursting woe:
Nerina's self appears; the further isle
She, fate-directed, treads. Does she too faint?
Would Heav'n she could! it were a happy swoon
Might soften her fixt form, more rigid now
Than is her marble semblance. One stiff hand
Lies leaden on her breast; the other rais'd
To heav'n, and half-way clench'd; steadfast her eyes,
Yet viewless; and her lips, which op'd to shriek,
Can neither shriek nor close. So might she stand
For ever: He whose sight caus'd the dread change,
Though now he clasps her in his anxious arm,
Fails to unbend one sinew of her frame;
'Tis ice; 'tis steel. But see, Alcander wakes;
And waking, as by magic sympathy,
Nerina whispers, “all is well, my friend;
“'Twas but a vision; I may yet revive—
“But still his arm supports me; aid him, friend,
“And bear me swiftly to my woodbine bower:
“For there indeed I wish to breathe my last.”

304

So saying, her cold cheek, and parched brow,
Turn'd to a livid paleness; her dim eyes
Sunk in their sockets; sharp contraction prest
Her temples, ears, and nostrils: signs well known
To those that tend the dying. Both the youths
Perceiv'd the change; and had stern Death himself
Wav'd his black banner visual o'er their heads,
It could not more appall. With trembling step,
And silent, both convey'd her to the bower.
Her languid limbs there decently compos'd,
She thus her speech resum'd: “Attend my words
“Brave Cleon! dear Alcander! generous pair:
“For both have tender interest in this heart
“Which soon shall beat no more. That I am thine
“By a dear father's just commands I own,
“Much-honour'd Cleon! take the hand he gave,
“And with it, Oh, if I could give my heart,
“Thou wert its worthy owner. All I can,
“(And that preserv'd with chastest fealty)
“Duteous I give thee, Cleon it is thine;
“Not ev'n this dear preserver, e'er could gain
“More from my soul than friendship—that be his;
“Yet let me own, what, dying, sooths the pang,
“That, had thyself and duty ne'er been known,
“He must have had my love.” She paus'd; and dropt
A silent tear: then prest the stranger's hand;

305

Then bow'd her head upon Alcander's breast,
And “bless them both, kind Heav'n!” she pray'd and died.
“And blest art thou,” cry'd Cleon, (in a voice
Struggling with grief for utterance) blest to die
“Ere thou hadst question'd me, and I perforce
“Had told a tale which must have sent thy soul
“In horror from thy bosom. Now it leaves
“A smile of peace upon those pallid lips,
“That speaks its parting happy. Go, fair saint!
“Go to thy palm-crown'd father! thron'd in bliss,
“And seated by his side, thou wilt not now
“Deplore the savage stroke that seal'd his doom;
“Go hymn the Fount of Mercy, who, from ill
“Educing good, makes ev'n a death like his,
“A life surcharg'd with tender woes like thine,
“The road to joys eternal. Maid, farewell!
“I leave the casket that thy virtues held
“To him whose breast sustains it; more belov'd,
“Perhaps more worthy, yet not loving more
“Than did thy wretched Cleon.” At the word
He bath'd in tears the hand she dying gave,
Return'd it to her side, and hasty rose.
Alcander starting from his trance of grief,
Cry'd “Stay, I charge thee stay:” “and shall he stay,”
Cleon reply'd, “whose presence stabb'd thy peace?
“Hear this before we part: That breathless Maid
“Was daughter to a venerable Sage,

306

“Whom Boston, when with peace and safety blest,
“In rapture heard pour from his hallow'd tongue
“Religion's purest dictates. 'Twas my chance,
“In early period of our civil broils,
“To save his precious life: And hence the Sire
“Did to my love his daughter's charms consign;
“But, till the war should cease, if ever cease,
“Deferr'd our nuptials. Whither she was sent
“In search of safety, well, I trust, thou know'st;
“He meant to follow; but those ruthless flames,
“That spar'd nor friend nor foe, nor sex nor age,
“Involv'd the village, where on sickly couch
“He lay confin'd, and whither he had fled
“Awhile to sojourn. There (I see thee shrink)
“Was he, that gave Nerina being, burnt!
“Burnt by thy countrymen! to ashes burnt!
“Fraternal hands and christian lit the flame.—
“Oh thou hast cause to shudder. I meanwhile
“With his brave son a distant warfare wag'd:
“And him, now I have found the prize I sought,
“And finding lost, I hasten to rejoin;
“Vengeance and glory call me.” At the word,
Not fiercer does the tigress quit her cave
To seize the hinds that robb'd her of her young,
Than he the bower. “Stay, I conjure thee, stay,”
Alcander cry'd; but ere the word was spoke
Cleon was seen no more. “Then be it so,”
The youth continued, clasping to his heart

307

The beauteous corse, and smiling as he spoke,
(Yet such a smile as far out-sorrows tears)
“Now thou art mine entirely—Now no more
“Shall duty dare disturb us—Love alone—
“But hark! he comes again—Away vain fear!
“'Twas but the fluttering of thy feather'd flock.
“True to their custom'd hour, behold they troop
“From island, grove, and lake. Arise my love,
“Extend thy hand—I lift it, but it falls.
“Hence then, fond fools, and pine! Nerina's hand
“Has lost the power to feed you. Hence and die.”
Thus plaining, to his lips the icy palm
He lifted, and with ardent passion kiss'd;
Then cry'd in agony, “on this dear hand,
“Once tremblingly alive to Love's soft touch,
“I hop'd to seal my faith:” This thought awak'd
Another sad soliloquy, which they,
Who e'er have lov'd, will from their hearts supply,
And they who have not will but hear and smile.
And let them smile; but let the scorners learn
There is a solemn luxury in grief
Which they shall never taste; well known to those,
And only those, in Solitude's deep gloom
Who heave the sigh sincerely: Fancy there
Waits the fit moment; and, when Time has calm'd
The first o'erwhelming tempest of their woe,

308

Piteous she steals upon the mourner's breast
Her precious balm to shed: Oh, it has power,
Has magic power to soften and to sooth,
Thus duly minister'd. Alcander felt
The charm, yet not till many a ling'ring moon
Had hung upon her zenith o'er his couch,
And heard his midnight wailings. Does he stray
But near the fated temple, or the bower?
He feels a chilly monitor within
Who bids him pause. Does he at distance view
His grot? 'tis darken'd with Nerina's storm,
Ev'n at the blaze of noon. Yet there are walks
The lost one never trod; and there are seats
Where he was never happy by her side,
And these he still can sigh in. Here at length,
As if by chance, kind Fancy brought her aid,
When wand'ring through a grove of sable yew,
Rais'd by his ancestors: their Sabbath-path
Led through its gloom, what time too dark a stole
Was o'er Religion's decent features drawn
By puritanic zeal. Long had their boughs
Forgot the sheers; the spire, the holy ground
They banish'd by their umbrage. “What if here,”
Cry'd the sweet soother, in a whisper soft,
“Some open space were form'd, where other shades,
“Yet all of solemn sort, cypress and bay
“Funereal, pensive birch its languid arms
“That droops, with waving willows deem'd to weep,

309

“And shiv'ring aspens mixt their varied green;
“What if yon trunk, shorn of its murky crest,
“Reveal'd the sacred fane?” Alcander heard
The Charmer; ev'ry accent seem'd his own,
So much they touch'd his heart's sad unison.
“Yes, yes,” he cry'd, “Why not behold it all?
“That bough remov'd shews me the very vault
“Where my Nerina sleeps, and where, when heav'n
“In pity to my plaint the mandate seals,
“My dust with her's shall mingle.” Now his hinds,
Call'd to the task, their willing axes wield:
Joyful to see, as witless of the cause,
Their much-lov'd lord his sylvan arts resume.
And next, within the centre of the gloom,
A shed of twisting roots and living moss,
With rushes thatch'd, with wattled oziers lin'd,
He bids them raise: it seem'd a hermit's cell;
Yet void of hour-glass, scull, and maple dish,
Its mimic garniture: Alcander's taste
Disdains to trick, with emblematic toys,
The place where he and Melancholy mean
To fix Nerina's bust, her genuine bust,
The model of the marble. There he hides,
Close as a miser's gold, the sculptur'd clay;
And but at early morn and latest eve
Unlocks the simple shrine, and heaves a sigh:
Then does he turn, and through the glimm'ring glade

310

Cast a long glance upon her house of death;
Then views the bust again, and drops a tear.
Is this idolatry, ye sage ones say?—
Or, if ye doubt, go view the num'rous train
Of poor and fatherless his care consoles;
The sight will tell thee, he that dries their tears
Has unseen angels hov'ring o'er his head,
Who leave their heav'n to see him shed his own.
Here close we, sweet Simplicity! the tale,
And with it let us yield to youthful bards
That Dorian reed we but awak'd to voice
When Fancy prompted, and when Leisure smil'd;
Hopeless of general praise, and well repaid,
If they of classic ear, unpall'd by rhyme,
Whom changeful pause can please, and numbers free,
Accept our song with candour. They perchance,
Led by the Muse to solitude and shade,
May turn that art we sing to soothing use,
At this ill-omen'd hour, when Rapine rides
In titled triumph; when Corruption waves
Her banners broadly in the face of day,
And shews th' indignant world the host of slaves
She turns from Honour's standard. Patient there,
Yet not desponding, shall the sons of Peace
Await the day, when, smarting with his wrongs,
Old England's Genius wakes; when with him wakes
That plain integrity, contempt of gold,

311

Disdain of slav'ry, liberal awe of rule
Which fixt the rights of people, peers, and prince,
And on them founded the majestic pile
Of British Freedom; bad fair Albion rise
The scourge of tyrants; sovereign of the seas;
And arbitress of empires. Oh return,
Ye long-lost train of Virtues! swift return
To save ('tis Albion prompts your Poet's prayer)
Her throne, her altars, and her laureat bowers.
END OF THE FOURTH BOOK.

425

RELIGIO CLERICI.

OR THE FAITH OF A CLERGYMAN OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND;

WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF MR. DRYDEN'S RELIGIO LAICI, 1796.

επαγωνιζεσθαι τη απαξ παραδοθειση
τοις αγιοις πιστει.
ΙΟΨΔΑ. 3.


427

I. PART THE FIRST.

Dryden, if rightly of his powers I deem,
Apply'd with skill his numbers to his theme:
If 'twas heroic, then his nervous rhyme
Rose on an eagle's plume, and soar'd to heights sublime;
Or, if preceptive, then in vernal skies,
As near the ground the circling swallow flies
And skims, not touches; so his verses keep
Their march pedestrian, stoop, yet scorn to creep,
And, like his prose, perspicuous, manly, free,
Surpass it only in its melody.
Rare excellence! In this how few succeed!
How few, like him, could write a Layman's Creed,
Make logic's rules to metre's laws submit,
Blend truth with fancy, argument with wit!
Yet this he did; and in so smooth a lay,
It satisfied the nicer ear of Gray,
Who always held it as the guide supreme
Of bards employ'd on a didactic theme.

428

Yet whether or from mother-wit or use,
For constant practice surely drilled his Muse,
He here succeeded may create a doubt;
A veteran's talents let not me dispute:
Yet, now, so universal is the rage
Of writing, in our most enlighten'd age,
That myriads of each sex (I scorn to fib)
Now scan so nimbly, and now rhyme so glib,
They seem to claim all Dryden's eloquence,
And leave him merely spirit, meaning, sense.
So much for introduction. Now, my friend,
Best lov'd of few remaining, condescend
To hear his senior, though of after time
Yet mere apprentice in the craft of rhyme,
Produce his creed, not laical, yet free,
He trusts, from theologic pedantry,
Which you, who know him, will believe his own,
And not put on with surplice, band, and gown.
Nor blame him, if its import be the same
With that, which bears th' Egyptian bishop's name,
Whose rigid preface though the Bard arraign'd,
He own'd “the creed eternal truth contain'd.”
But here lay Dryden's error. He conceiv'd
The zealous prelate bade it be believ'd
On his own ipse dixit, and we find
Many good churchmen still of Dryden's mind:

429

Indeed so many mid a sceptic crowd,
I scarce can wonder Tillotson avow'd
His wish 'twere from the Liturgy remov'd.
Not because false; he ne'er suppos'd it so,
But if remov'd (vain hope) that it might draw,
By firmer cords of unity and love,
To one true faith, that creed who disapprove.
But why arraign the preface? if it came
From man, if scripture did not say the same;
Or if discordant from its gen'ral code,
With Dryden I'd refuse the Pharisaic load.
Yet if in Christian soil, and that alone,
The tree must spring, that by its fruit is known;
And if its root be Faith, all must agree
To take the scion from the parent tree;
No foreign stem, if grafted there, can shoot;
No truth can bloom on error's baneful root:
All hope to save it is a vain desire,
Down it is dash'd, and flung into the fire.
Methinks, I hear some pert Priestleian cry,
“Must Christians then on metaphors rely?
“The creed, you copy, tells us plain and brief,
“Endless perdition follows unbelief.”
Quit then the metaphor; its meaning take;
You'll find it His who spake as no man spake.

430

From him, not man, I copy; and his word
Shall be the sum and substance I record,
Touching my creed; if from his word I learn,
That faith in him is my supreme concern;
If wanting that, I lose the blessing high,
His blood has purchas'd, Immortality,
What may I hope? If I from reason draw
Conclusions unsupported by his law,
Mistate, abridge the doctrines he has given,
I lose all place in my Redeemer's heav'n;
And, whether I or Athanasius speak,
The prize is lost, he purchas'd for my sake.
What then remains? the unbeliever's doom,
Endless perdition in a life to come?
Who founds his faith on Revelation's base
Must hold, that all of Adam's sinful race
Inherit death from their delinquent sire:
Yet still may christian Charity aspire,
To nurse a modest hope that those who lie
Uncherish'd by the Day-spring from on high
May still be blest, ev'n though a tenfold shade
Of Pagan darkness now involves their head;
And only those, the obstinately blind,
Will meet the doom intail'd on lost mankind.
Hence the same Charity, heart-cheering guest,
That burnt, with fervent flame, in Dryden's breast,

431

Inspirits mine; that Charity, which Paul
Says “hopeth all things, and believeth all,”
But this is not reveal'd: what is alone
The true believer dares to call his own.
More he may hope, and he that hopes the most,
Though haply by some waves of error tost,
Will steer his Christian bark from quicksands free,
Whose helm is Faith, whose sail is Charity.
This stumbling-stone remov'd, I scarce shall need
To free our Alexandrian prelate's creed
From those objectors, who conceive it meant
Purely to threaten those, who dare dissent
From Faith established, not by Heav'n but man,
And hence abjure its persecuting plan.
Alas! while man is man there will be found
Those, who on this, or any creed will ground,
Or none at all, some false pretence to draw
The scymitar; and, scorning every law
Divine or human, like the deluge, flood
Their native country with their brethren's blood.
Ask you for proof from bigot zeal? review
Charles's dread deeds on Saint Bartholomew.
Ask you for proofs from want of Faith? They're clear
In the dread deeds of Danton and Robespierre.
Weigh'd on the beam of justice, not of Bayle!
See then which separate evil turns the scale,

432

What, equal! Surely then Lucretius ly'd,
Who cast his make-weight on Religion's side.
But he, who duly marks th' historic page,
Will find my creed confess'd in that same age,
When Arius triumph'd now, was now subdu'd,
As emp'rors or as empresses allow'd,
When common-sense was scorn'd, and quibbling priz'd,
When myst'ry found itself more mysticis'd,
Will sanely judge a creed, whose ev'ry phrase
Was form'd to free from the scholastic maze
Well-meaning christians: might securely fix
Their faith on Scripture, not on schismatics.
Thus far, methinks, with prudent step I steer,
Nor yet can have offended L---'s ear
With Trinity, to him a word of fear:
L---, who learns his heresy by rote,
And would be nothing, if deny'd to quote.
Nor will I use it from its adjunct free,
But join it evermore with Unity;
Reclaim the term, he and his tribe have stole,
(With them such larceny, though great, is small)
For, this purloin'd, they but to us concede
One fragment of this mutilated creed;
A creed, to those, who take its meaning right,
That strictly keeps one Deity in sight;

433

Form'd as a bulwark, and a bulwark strong,
'Gainst all, on that dread theme who swerve from right to wrong;
Yet, if we leave them of that term possest,
They brand us for idolators profest,
Who to three Gods our adoration pay,
And might with Papists to God's mother pray;
While they relinquishing their former name,
Flutter on Unitarian wings to fame,
To Unitarian worship rear the dome,
And bid all half-believing Christians come,
Provided they put off their wedding vest,
Like halt and blind, to their new-garnish'd feast
Of dishes second-hand, and badly drest.
But quit we these; and while we scorn to own
Our faith refers to Trinity alone,
Yet still it holds, as Scripture held before,
One undivided, one exalted pow'r,
That in the Father and the Son resides,
And Sacred Spirit, purest, best of guides.
But wherefore holds? only as far as man
The mystic height of godliness may scan,
We may conceive God gives our mortal race
Salvation, not for merit, but from grace;
That from the Son divine Redemption springs,
That the pure Spirit, once on dove-like wings

434

Descending visibly, still deigns to dart
Its secret aid on each submissive heart.
Thus, though deriv'd from one exhaustless spring
Three plenteous streams redundant blessings bring,
The fountain head united with them all
We may not three, but One conjointly call.
“This too is metaphor?” Socinian, yes:
But, if a false one, prove me that it is.
Water is still call'd water, if it glide
Or in a trinal, or a single tide;
So God in Gospel language is apply'd
To all the wonders of supernal power,
That from the Sire, and Son, and Spirit show'r.
Resting on this, I first believe with Paul
One God, who is, was, shall be, all in all;
Yet, as with him I find in holy writ,
Another person, and another yet
Reveal'd distinct, the Father, and the Son,
And hallow'd Spirit; I include in one
The three distinctions, and believe all three
One comprehensive sole Divinity.
Thus on the terms, by which I was baptis'd,
That charter great, which seal'd me christianiz'd,
I take with confidence the certain road,
That leads through Scripture up to Scripture's God.

435

That he is One, plain Reason can descry;
And when his word presents him to the eye,
Reliev'd by faith from error, still must shine
One Being indivisibly divine.
Hence, howsoe'er the artful Arians aim
This old confession of our faith to blame,
'Twas meant to One Divinity to raise
Due adoration both in prayer and praise:
Else why does it repeat “not three, but one”
Ev'n to tautology? Why not alone
To ev'ry person of the sacred Three
Ascribe a single, disjoin'd Deity?
Too soon, alas! ev'n in th' Apostles' age
Did heresy defile the Gospel page,
Led by false science and scholastic rage.
Then rose that zeal for novelty, which made
Verbal theology a gainful trade:
Nor could a common scholar open shop,
Till he of terms had gain'd a num'rous crop
To fill his mental granary: with his hoard
Of these he first the market price explor'd,
Then 'gan to speculate, as farmers do,
Reserv'd the old and traffick'd with the new:
And, if he well could vend false eloquence,
Car'd not what famine starv'd poor common sense.
But when scholastic owl-light was withdrawn,
And real science now had past its dawn,

436

Divines there were, who deem'd the deed no theft
To borrow what their ancestors had left,
Yet sifted ev'ry term before they us'd,
The good adopted, and the bad refus'd;
Then stampt the first for sterling. Thus, we see,
With others they selected Trinity;
Nor scrupled they, if Paganish, to use
A word, that none but Deists could abuse;
A word, with Unity when closely join'd,
Which brief and clear the scripture truth defin'd;
That God in trinal persons, trinal ways,
His one eternal majesty displays.
“But how?”—That question soon may be dismiss'd,
When Darwin shows how he and I exist;
For, by Lavoisier taught (that sage I mean
Whom Freedom's bastards chose to guillotine).
He knows two Gnomes produced from mine or moat,
In Gallic-Greek call'd Carbone and Azote,
By secret spells allure to their embrace
Bright Oxygen, a Sylph of heavenly race,
Mix with her purity their filth and fire
To form that atmosphere we both respire
Which did they not, nor he could screw his lyre
To that high pitch, which blabs what strange amours
Are carried on in Flora's secret bowers,
Nor I unscrew my own to tones so low,
It merely gives to prose a verse-like flow,
Truths to describe, which clearly to explain
Reason's dim lamp has burnt for centuries in vain.

437

“A strange confession!”—But does Darwin more?
He names three fluids; he describes their pow'r
When separate; he demonstrates that they give
Conjoin'd that pabulum by which we live;
But how they join'd at first, and why they still
Th' ethereal void with the same mixture fill,
Let him explain, ere you demand from me
What forms the undivided Trinity.
No more of Deity, than Gospel light
Reveals, can ere be plain to Reason's sight.
Is more reveal'd, than clearly she conceives?
Calm she submits, yet piously believes.
But, though she here perceives herself confin'd,
Let none but Atheists dare to call her blind.
She still is Reason, still exerts the pow'r,
By which she fixt her premises before,
That God is truth, and this conclusion drew
Justly, that all he speaks must needs be true,
Though all not clear alike to her contracted view.
Of these what follow are in Scripture strain,
Some beyond Reason, some to Reason plain.
It says creative Power, redeeming Love,
And sanctifying Grace are from above:
It bids us duely venerate the Son,
Ev'n as the Sire; it tells us not alone
From Sire, but Son, the Comforter is sent
To man; if then by both that gift be lent,

438

Which only they can lend, the three combine
In one ineffable sublime design,
And are, as one, all equally divine.
It tells us that, though nominally three,
And thence call'd persons, some diversity
To two attaches. All are uncreate,
Yet is the Son's a generated state,
Before all worlds begotten by the Sire,
And thence from both thy soul-inspiring fire,
O sacred Paraclete! proceeding free
Gives thee with both divine equality,
Which, whether God or Lord we choose to call,
Must not be said of One, but said of all.
Thus far some truths, all Christians should receive
Who hope salvation, I have try'd to give
In careless metre, not in labour'd lays;
Yet if a verse (as pious Herbert says)
“May chance to find him, who a sermon flies,
“And turn delight into a sacrifice,”
So these perus'd with candour, may dispel
Some scruples, that with almost-Christians dwell.
I trust, at least, that the impartial few
Will find that doctrine, they before thought true,
Not here disguis'd, though clad in vesture new.

439

II. PART THE SECOND.

Of all the aberrations I can find
In the mixt memoirs of the human mind,
None so eccentric veers from common sense
As theirs, who to believing make pretence,
Who text on text adapt to systems vain,
Reject the difficult, perplex the plain,
And, weighing in false scales Redemption's plan,
Decide the Lord, who bought them, was but man;
A prophet, if you please, or somewhat more,
A sage endow'd with legislative power,
As was the son of Jethro, and inspir'd
Far as his mission, but no more requir'd:
Yet this to preach, to publish o'er and o'er,
Modern philosophy has stretch'd her power,
And doubtless will to giddier heights advance,
When she has fully fraterniz'd with France.
Give me such foes as Frederic or Voltaire,
Who wage with Revelation open war,
Or two less lively, but not less profane,
------, M. P. and Citizen Tom Paine;
But these of sceptics the left-handed fry,
So primly liberal, so demurely sly,
Who say our faith they mean but to refine,
While at its base they try to spring the mine

440

Laid long ago by Polish pioneers;
These move my scorn, they cannot rouse my fears;
Firm on that faith, its heav'nly builder plann'd,
The time-proof fabric of the Church shall stand,
And ev'ry human enemy repel,
For fortified by heav'n, it braves the gates of hell.
If then in England's fruitful nursery rise
Such heresies as this of giant size,
Through which a thousand minor planters run,
Busy as day-flies in the noontide sun,
To propagate by cuttings, or to graft
On varying stocks, as suits their varying craft,
I much suspect their labour will be lost,
Now the head-gard'ner, in himself a host,
Self-exil'd wanders to New England's coast.
Vain man! the tares he in the Old has sown,
He thinks are to such full perfection grown,
Will now so little care, or wat'ring want,
L---, or L--- may nurse each plant,
When, by some lucky opposition hit,
They've over-turn'd the Church, the Test, and Pitt.
“Imprudent Poet!” says some grave divine,
“Let not a Muse so orthodox as thine
“Descend to wit or humour.”—Pardon, Sir;
The readers of this age require a spur

441

Nicely apply'd to tickle, not to goad,
If you would wish to keep them in your road.
Pope, when he reason'd, deem'd it right to steer
“From grave to gay, from lively to severe”—
“Admit he did, the difference you must see
“Is great; his theme was mere morality,
“While yours”—I know 'tis of that torrent kind,
It quite o'erflows all bounds of human mind;
Nay, fill'd angelic minds with warm desire
Some glimpse of that high myst'ry to acquire;
But I, who other readers have in view,
Frankly confess, I do not write for you.
You can from Chillingworth or Hooker gain
Drugs, that best purge from heresy the brain;
And antidotes to errors so absurd
Prepar'd by Jones, Burgh, Cleaver, Horseley, Hurd.
But their prescriptions, Doctor, ne'er would mend
The fashionable patients I attend:
Their malady, at once both old and new,
Partakes of fever, and of dropsy too:
He, therefore, who with skill their case would treat,
Must give them med'cines that both cool and heat.
For you, and such as you, a solemn theme
Must still be handled solemn in extreme:
If controversial, heavy arms alone,
The weaver's beam, and not the sling and stone,
Must be each champion's weapon; to employ
A flash of wit, by way of feu de joie,

442

Like Warburton; you deem incongruous quite,
And, though a victor, blame the dang'rous wight,
Adhering ever to this golden rule,
A stanch Polemic must be strictly dull.
I'll not, for his trim periods, court the thief
Who tries to swindle me of my belief;
Nor the dull game of mock politeness play,
With men involv'd in Paul's anathema.
Yet I, like you, Lord Shaftsbury's rule detest,
Which sets up ridicule, of truth the test:
You surely then with safety may admit
Detected falsehood, a fair butt for wit.
Hence on my present theme, as on the past,
I sprinkle grains of salt to give it taste,
That those may read, who never redde before,
And those, who read already, may read more.
With this apology, my reverend Friend,
Perchance, Right Reverend, I my preface end,
And here assert, just as I first began,
That all, who Scripture's genuine sense would scan,
Must hold the Son of God both God and Man.
God, whom the eternal generating Sire
Did with his full divinity inspire;
First of the first of all, and last of last,
Beyond all count of future, present, past;
For merely from beginning down to end,
Our pigmy calculating powers extend,

443

From step to step o'er days, years, ages, climb,
Curb'd by the scant arithmetic of time;
And can but mark, by mensuration clear,
A few brief digits of duration's sphere;
Hence all we know is that with God he sprung
Before heav'n's curtain o'er creation hung,
Before the morning stars their first glad chorus sung.
True, as the turnsole to the orb of light,
The genuine Christian keeps this faith in sight,
Nor doubts the fact, because he knows the end,
For which that God did from his Sire descend,
Disrob'd himself of glory, and became
A man in substance, and a man in name;
Of woman-born, in whom each mortal eye
Saw all itself, save its impurity:
Thus, while a perfect man on earth he shone,
The perfect Deity was still his own;
Inferior only to his Sire on high
But as invested with humanity:
Thus when with heav'nly earthly we compare,
Both soul and body claim an equal share
In our formation; so in his were join'd
Terrestrial substance with celestial mind.
Hence, though both God and Man, as Christ alone
We from his birth but one Redeemer own;
That wond'rous birth, by which he man became,
While his pure godhead still remain'd the same,

444

Yet, by such union intimately join'd,
As in our frame, the body, soul, or mind;
They therefore, who preserve the Gospel clue,
As God and Man their sole Messiah view.
“But is such union possible?” With God
All things are possible—Take Butler's road;
Travel the path of plain analogy,
'Twill lead at least to probability,
And sure, when demonstration is deny'd,
Reason should in the next best thing confide.
Think ye, if Locke or Newton in a glass
Survey'd the reflex image of his face,
Would he from thence conclude he view'd the whole?
No, he would know he had an unseen soul
Illumining each feature, and decide
That soul, he could not from himself divide.
This granted, next suppose the soul, thus join'd
To substance, were not to that mass confin'd,
But could diffuse itself; the thoughts discern
Of other souls, their wants, their weakness learn,
And hence, with faculties of amplest reach,
Far, far beyond the puny powers of speech,
Transfuse by intuition, and dispense
All that was needful of superior sense;
In such a Newton, or a Locke you'd see
No faint resemblance of a Trinity;

445

Two parts of which, when nature first began,
Form'd God's own image, and was call'd a man,
But when the Word, made flesh, with mortals dwelt,
That Word alone the trinal Union felt.
Till then the world was wrapt in shades of night.
Glory to Israel, to the Gentiles light
His saving advent spread. Where'er he trod
Creation bow'd, and own'd th' incarnate God.
Celestial pow'rs his mighty mission seal'd;
Dæmons he vanquish'd, raging storms he still'd;
Gave to the deaf to hear, the dumb to speak,
Eyes to the blind, and sinews to the weak;
To sinners pardon, precepts to mankind,
And to each rule his bright example join'd.
In these blest works his ev'ry hour employ'd;
For man he liv'd in toil, in torments died;
Died, though his voice before its power had prov'd
To call from death to life the friend he lov'd;
Yet prompt to execute his Father's will,
Prompt the sure word of prophecy to seal
With his own blood, he pass'd through thy domain,
Dread Hades! from the grave he rose again,
Sojourn'd some space with his selected few,
Enough to prove his resurrection true,
Then on a brilliant cloud ascending high,
Sat at his Sire's right hand, the filial Deity.

446

Come, ye vain worldly disputants, and read
This single portion of my general Creed!
Then say, if here I paint his portrait true,
First in an earthly, then a heav'nly view;
And when each sacred feature I define,
From scripture copying closely line by line,
I am not justified, on reason's plan,
To deem my Saviour God, as well as Man,
And with him to the Sire and Spirit raise
One undivided hymn of equal praise?
Deny you this?—Then go, as you think meet,
Or to America or Essex-street,
The last is nearest, and you there may buy,
Neat as imported, ev'ry fresh supply
Of that lean faith, which suits your palates best,
Much like the food in new French kitchens drest,
A la Republicaine; no need to carve,
The soupe's so maigre, you may eat, yet starve.
For me, I wait that future day of doom
With hope, through faith, which soon or late must come,
When man's probation finally shall end,
When Christ, the King of glory, shall descend
Amply triumphant, borne on Seraph's wing;
When all Heav'n's chorus loud Hosannas sing,
When earth convulsive bursts, when Ether flames,
When the last trumpet of my God proclaims

447

Messiah present; when that Judge most just
Shall weigh the merits of the sons of dust,
Rais'd in immortal bodies, yet the same,
That some must wear to honour, some to shame,
Yet all must wear; for Death, the last of foes,
Subdu'd, Mortality's vain scene will close,
And good and bad eternally remain,
Those crown'd with glory, these consign'd to pain,
This is the faith, the sacred page reveals;
This the sole Charter of Salvation seals.
And now, my friend, if thy severest eye
An error in my Christian creed descry;
An error but in substance, not in style,
I pray thee use thy hatchet, not thy file,
And hew it down. Let slighter faults remain.
Enough for me, if this familiar strain
Give to the general ear its meaning plain.
There are, who, more than pathos or sublime,
Love fluent verse when link'd with easy rhyme;
For these I write. Let those who write for fame,
Or trade in print, pursue their humbler aim.
Truth! Truth reveal'd! be thou my hallow'd theme,
And if, through vacant youth's delirious dream,
Or ev'n maturest manhood, far too long
I've wander'd, with more favour'd sons of song,

448

Through fancy's maze; 'tis meet my green old age
Should prompt me, or to check the tuneful rage,
Or clothe in verse truths, when ordain'd to teach
In prose, by duty I was bound to preach;
And, when those truths surpass'd all human wit,
Bid Reason modestly to Faith submit,
Holding this best of maxims still in view,
What God declares, though darkly, must be true.
Confirm'd in this, yet witless of the ways,
By which that God his inward grace conveys
To sinful souls, in many a musing hour
I've thus invok'd his salutary power—
Spirit of inward purity, control
The wild conceptions of my wayward soul!
When memory, counting long past follies o'er,
Delights to dwell on what it should deplore,
And, musing or on vain, or vicious toys,
The fruits of rising penitence destroys,
Come to thy vot'ry, come, celestial guest,
And drive the busy demon from my breast!
So shall each passion, purified by thee,
Be all dissolv'd in fervent Piety;
So shall weak reason, strengthen'd by thy grace,
The path, that leads to sure salvation, trace
Through that firm faith alone, which justifies,
In my Redeemer's living sacrifice;

449

Prov'd by its works, which, like the Saints above,
Abounds in acts of Charity and Love.”
Thus I—Let others, who despise the strain,
And deem all aid of grace internal vain
To cure the general atrophy of mind,
Their sov'reign cure in their own reason find.
Grant, Heav'n, they may! Such cures, I fear, are rare.
Let me with David give myself to prayer;
Prayer, the true solace of the sickly soul,
When rul'd by Resignation's meek control,
Or join'd to that, the tribute of the heart,
Which, fir'd with fervour unallay'd by art,
Rolls the pure stream of gratitude along,
In prose prepar'd, or soul-expanding song,
For blessings pour'd from blessings sov'reign spring
Fir'd with such gratitude, I now will sing
What best may sanctify, and best may end
That Christian Creed, a Christian Priest has penn'd.
“Father, Redeemer, Comforter divine!
This humble off'ring to thy equal shrine
Here thy unworthy servant grateful pays
Of undivided thanks, united praise,
For all those mercies, which at birth began,
And ceaseless flow'd through life's long-lengthen'd span;
Propt my frail frame through all the varied scene,
With health enough for many a day serene;

450

Enough of science clearly to discern
How few important truths the wisest learn;
Enough of arts ingenuous to employ
The vacant hours, when graver studies cloy;
Enough of wealth to serve each honest end,
The poor to succour, or assist a friend;
Enough of faith in Scripture to descry,
That the sure hope of immortality,
Which only can the fear of death remove,
Flows from the fountain of Redeeming Love.