Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes

Polwhele, Richard (1760-1838)

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

III.

VOL. III.

LYRIC PIECES.

HEROIC PIECES.

COMIC AND MOCK-HEROIC PIECES.

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III. VOL. III.

LYRIC PIECES.

ODE;

SUNG BY THE GREEK GIRL IN THEOCRITUS; IDYLL. XV.

Sweet smiling Arbitress of Love,
Queen of the soft Idalian grove;
Whom Golgos and the Erycian height,
And thy fair fanes of gold delight—
How lov'd the down-shod Hours have led
Thy own Adonis from the dead,
To all thy ardent wishes dear;
Restor'd—to bless the closing year!
Still, tho' they move on lagging wing,
The Hours some balmy blessing bring!

Hail, daughter of Dione, hail,
Whose power from dark Avernus' vale

Caught Berenice to the blest,
And with ambrosia fill'd her breast!
For thee, bright Goddess of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
The child of Berenice comes,
Arsinoe; (Helen-like she blooms)
With nature's luxuries to adorn
Thy lov'd Adonis' festal morn!
Lo! fruits, whate'er creation yields,
Lo! the ripe produce of the fields
And gardens, mingling many a dye,
In silver baskets round him lie!
See, richly cas'd in glowing gold,
Yon' box of alabaster hold
The sweets of Syrian groves; and stor'd
With honey'd cakes, the luscious board!
Observe, whatever skims the air,
Or lives on earth, assembled there!
And green shades, arch'd with anise, rise,
Where many a little Cupid flies,
Like the young nightingales that love,
New-fledg'd, to flutter thro' the grove—

Now perching, now with short essay
Borne on weak wing from spray to spray!
Of gold—of ebon what a store!
And see two ivory eagles soar
Severing the dark cloud where, above,
They bear young Ganymede to Jove!

Behold that tapestry diffuse
The richness of the Tyrian hues!
Ev'n they who tend Milesian sheep
Would own, 'tis softer far than sleep!

Amid this bed's relieving shade,
Mark rosy-arm'd Adonis laid!
And from that couch survey the bride
Bend o'er his cheek with blushes dy'd,
His chin's soft down; as fond to sip
New rapture from the ruby lip!
Now let her joy—But ere the morn
Shall dry the dews that gem the thorn,
His image to the shore we'll bear,
With robes unzon'd, and flowing hair—

With bosoms open'd to the day;
And warble thus the choral lay:

‘Thou—thou alone, dear youth, 'tis said,
‘Canst leave the mansions of the dead;
‘And, passing oft the dreary bourne,
‘Duly to earth's green seats return!
‘Such favour not the Atridæ knew,
‘Nor who the fleecy flocks o'erthrew!
‘Nor Hector, his fond mother's joy;
‘Nor Pyrrhus, proud of plunder'd Troy!
‘Nor ev'n Patroclus great and good;
‘Nor they who boast Deucalion's blood;
‘Nor Pelops' sons; nor, first in fame,
‘The high Pelasgians blazon'd name.’

Propitious, O Adonis, hear;
Thus bring delight each future year!
Kind to our vows Adonis prove,
And greet us with returning love!

ODE TO THE CICADA.

I.

Cicada lov'd, whose little limbs are spread
On yonder soft luxuriant bed;
Who hopp'st the lawns along,
Chaunting an idle song:
Whether, amid full-blown flowers,
Blythe thou sipp'st refreshing showers—
Drunk with heaven's fragrant tears;
Or where green waters glide,
Thou lovest to reside
In the moist grass of shady plains;
Or modulating dulcet strains
Thy emulative throat
Outvies the shepherd's note,
Whilst all the village round thy accents hears.

II.

Or when the sun darts down its scorching ray
To vex the rustic's weary way;

By a sweet murmuring rill,
Thou gratest, shrieking shrill:
Or if the deities of heaven
Nectarian sweets to thee have giv'n
With ministerial rains;
And bounteously bestrew
Thy bed with pearly dew—
Assist my song; while skill'd in rhymes
Thy poet thro' all future times
To last, a temple rears;
And thro' the listening spheres
Still more and more thy fame immortal honour gains.

MONA.

I.

“Shroud, in the billowy mist's deep bosom shroud
“My ravag'd isle!”—the voice was vain—
Mona! mark yon kindling cloud
That seems to fire the main;
As, flashing to the distant skies,
Broad the hostile flames arise
From the reverential wood;
Red its central gloom with blood!
Many a white-rob'd Druid hoar
Totters in the stream of gore;
Meets the faulchion's furious blow;
Sinking, execrates the foe;
Or, across the Cromlech's stone,
Pours his dark mysterious moan;
Or grasps his shrine, and hails the stroke,
Stabb'd beneath the holy oak;

Yelling, whilst the maniac-maid
Hurries down the dimwood glade;
And uproots her bristling hair,
Paler amid the ghastly glare!

II.

But lo! the scenes of other days are fled!
Yet mysterious horror fills
The long-scoop'd dales, where Druids bled,
And deepens the dark hills!
Thro' the tufted rock that wide
Opens its encavern'd side,
Ivied ruins gleaming gray,
Break the torrent's foamy way.
There the Enthusiast loves to dwell,
Low in the romantic dell;
Tracing temples, abbey walls,
Shiver'd arches, castle halls:
Whether the sun dart his light
Mid the branches, mossy white;
Or the star of eve, aslant,
Glimmer on the spectre-haunt;

Oft as the moon-light echoes round
Add their store of mellow sound,
To the crash of tumbling heaps
That o'erbrow'd the craggy steeps;
To the murmurs of the cave,
Fretted by many a restless wave!

THE FAITHLESS COMALA.

Where wanders the breeze from the mist-cover'd vale,
With the reeds of blue Lora to play;
To Comala young Connal would breathe the love-tale,
And with sighs her soft glances repay.
Her eyes with a beautiful azure were bright;
Like the plume of the raven, her hair:
And, loveliness beaming around her as light,
Like the snow her full bosom was fair.
His forehead with open sincerity glow'd:
His eye, as an eagle's, was keen:
His long yellow tresses with gracefulness flow'd;
And majesty shone in his mien.
But his clan was now rous'd by the tumult of arms,
And he tremblingly bade her adieu;
Tho' she swore that to him were devoted her charms,
That her heart should be never untrue.

“If a moment from truth I depart (she would cry)
“If the love of my Connal I slight;
“May I ride on the wings of the tempest, and fly
“Till I plunge into fathomless night.”
Yet scarce had he rush'd to the battle of spears,
Ere Morlo the virgin address'd:
Her brow was o'erclouded awhile; and her tears,
Like the dew, trickled over her breast.
Alas! the career of his wonderful deeds
Each tongue was too prompt to proclaim:
Of his chariot of war, and his thunder-clad steeds
Too often re-echoed the fame.
Perfidious, the maiden was pleas'd with his vows,
And smil'd on his wishes to wed:
And Morlo appointed the day when a spouse
He should bear her in bliss to his bed.
That day was at hand. The pale shadows were still:
The moment of midnight was nigh;
When in terror she listen'd to wheels on the hill,
And the trampling of horses hard by—

And a voice, as in fear: “Haste, my charmer, away!
“Comala! my chariot ascend!
“'Tis Morlo invites—and thy Morlo obey:
“O'er the heath let us speedily bend.
“Lo! Connal with vengeance approaches—e'en now
“The clashing of armour I hear!
“He comes with his warriors; and, death on his brow,
“He brandishes wildly the spear.”
She sprung to the seat; while aloft on the pole,
And straight as an arrow he stood:
And the chariot roll'd hoarse, as the waterfalls roll,
When Winter descends in a flood.
Like a frost o'er the heath the cold moon-beams were spread:
The shaggy rocks glitter'd on high:
And the three mossy stones that gleam over the dead,
Caught, often, Comala! thine eye.
And now at the foot of a mountain they came:
The coursers paw wildly the ground,
Then wind up the steep, like two volumes of flame,
To their hoofs as the caverns resound.

Save the din of their course, not a murmur was heard:
And, as echoed the dingles below,
Each oak in a pause of still horror appear'd,
And motionless, gaz'd the fleet roe.
On the top of the mountain scarce rattled the car,
When off like a meteor it flew:
And he said, as his steeds lightly gallop'd on air—
“Now, Connal, 'tis vain to pursue!”
“Ah whither, my Morlo! ah where are we borne?”
(With a cold shriek of horror she cry'd)
“Never fear! never fear! ere the glimpse of the morn
“I shall hail thee my high-bosom'd bride.”
Where they rush'd, the pale tower and the lake and the wood
Swam in dizzy confusion beneath;
Till the moon no more glimmer'd, descending in blood,
To the blast that sang shrill on the heath.
Wide over the foam of the ocean they flew,
As a gleam from the north would disclose
The waters that deep in a hollow withdrew,
Or, roaring in surges, arose.

Dark-red in the west now a fabric appear'd,
Like cromlechs on cromlechs up-pil'd:
At the sight, the steeds neigh'd, and then dreadfully rear'd,
And snorted, with extasy wild.
“Lo yonder (he shouted) my turrets arise;
“The castle stupendously swells:
“See lights thro' the windows illumine the skies—
“Far within is the feast of the shells.
“The bridemaids look out from the chambers: behold!
“They beckon, as swift we advance!
“And hark! the magnificent portals unfold:
“Full soon shall we waken the dance.”
“'Tis the House of the Thunder (she utter'd) O save—
“See—see—thro' the breaches they dart!
“O Morlo! look back!—and the lightnings I brave,
“If Comala yet live in thy heart.”
He look'd—It was Connal! “I fell, yester-morn,
“In the sight! But thy bed I prepare!”
Cried the Spectre, his eyes flashing vengeance and scorn;
Then vanish'd, at once, with his car!

Down—down, as to cling to the Thunder she tried,
She dropp'd like an arrow of light:
And, whirl'd thro' the tempest, the treacherous bride
Was plung'd into fathomless night.

HIGHLAND ODE.

I

Ere Arven vanish'd from my eyes,
And left my widow'd soul to sighs,
How sweet, where summer breezes blow,
To trace the heath-flower's gradual glow,
Hail the grey linnet's song, or mark
Veil'd in a cloud, the mounting lark,
Or wander, where the lucid rill
Prattles beside the pine-crown'd hill,
Or, deep within the forest, start
Mid intertwisted boughs the hart,
Or wake, with my old hunting-horn,
The echoes of the merry morn,
Then seek the hall, where plenty dwells,
And share, at eve, the feast of shells!

II

But Arven's feet, with gentle print,
Gave to the tender flower its tint:

Soon as its matin song was heard
My Arven plum'd the soaring bird:
She bade the clear stream tinkling flow,
Or with pleas'd eye pursu'd the doe:
Her image only render'd dear
The wildwood chace, the festal cheer!
Alas! when, mild as morning-break,
I view'd the blush steal o'er her cheek,
When heav'd her snowy breast, more fair
In contrast with her raven hair,
She seem'd all nature to absorb
In the pure brightness of her orb.

III

And once, when o'er the thistly waste
Murmur'd the melancholy blast,
When from the dark-red thunder broke
The flame that rent the towering oak,
When spectres clad in sable shrouds,
Gleam'd from the chambers of the clouds;
When slow, along the midnight heath,
Mov'd the prophetic pomp of death;

When helmets, hung in darksome rows,
Shook, to the moon, their steely brows;
'Twas then I deem'd some danger near,
And own'd my bosom chill'd with fear;
For, as I saw her pallid hue,
Her shuddering frame, I trembled too!

IV

Yet now the lightning's shaft may fly:
And ghosts may beckon from on high.
Tho' others quiver as the leaf;
I fear not—I am full of grief!
Tho' pale processions threaten fate,
I dread not the funereal state!
Others may shrink, in lonely halls,
From casques that sigh along the walls;
Unterrified I sit alone,
Nor heed the lifted vizor's groan!
'Tis only at my Arven's tomb
I see, how dark! the gather'd gloom:
Yet, as I drink the charnel air,
I weep, but cannot tremble there!

EGYPTIAN ODE.

Where pleasures too intensely glow,
We oft observe the intruder Woe!—

See tufted Faioum breathe delight
From rose-trees kindling on the sight,
From orange-blooms, pomegranate flowers
Of scarlet, or soft tamarind bowers,
And loftier palms, that wave, between,
Their foliage of a deeper green,
Relieving the bright azure skies
Where scarce a rainy vapour flies;
While thro' the fragrance as it blows
A stream of liquid amber flows,
While nestles many a gurgling dove
In the deep bosom of the grove,
And the plum'd ostrich on the sands,
Or pelican majestic stands.

To cool the sun's meridian beams,
There fruits refreshing kiss the streams,
Or blushing to eve's purple ray
Amid the breezy verdure play—
As its leaves shade each silver sluice
The pulpy water-melon's juice,
To eager thirst delicious balm;
And sugary dates that crown the palm.

Yet from the rocks that skirt the wood,
Fell tigers bound, to thirst on blood;
Yet the wide-water'd landscapes smile,
Where lurks the treacherous crocodile;
And, ere the melting fruit we grasp,
Death-doom'd, we feel the envenom'd asp.

Then hail my Albion's hoary coast,
Where, tho' no scenes Elysium boast,
We court not temperate joys in vain,
Nor thrill'd by bliss, nor stung by pain.

ODE WRITTEN AFTER A THUNDER-STORM.

1785.

Red thro' a labouring cloud, that bore
Against the winds its lurid store,
Arose the lunar beam:
The foliage lash'd the forest-steep,
Then shrunk into a gloom more deep,
And with a sullen murmur foam'd the troubled stream.

O'er the dun skirtings of the dale,
The brooding spirit of the gale
In pitchy darkness hung;
When on a lofty-crested oak,
Sudden, the forked lightning broke,
And down the rocky dell its shiver'd branches flung.

Appall'd I saw the sulphur'd front
Of heaven! Above my sylvan haunt

I saw the tempest roll;
Till Fancy lent her magic aid,
Dispell'd the terrours of the shade,
And wing'd to distant climes my desultory soul.

“Fear not,” she cried, “the thunder's wreck,
“Since Albion's guardian genii check
“The demons of the storm:
“Far other is the fever'd air,
“That kindles with eternal war,
“Where nature starts aghast at many a fiendlike form.

“Lo! where, amidst Messene's towers,
“That angel of perdition lours,
“Pavilion'd in the gloom!
“Mark—mark the dead portentous pause—
“See, earth distends her flaming jaws;
“And myriads sink ingulph'd in one disastrous tomb.

“Fell as the grisly lion prowls,
“Yon desolating whirlwind howls

“O'er Afric's savage waste:
“Save where the billowy horrors sail,
“In sultry stillness sleeps the gale;
“And, if the black air breathe, it breathes a poison'd blast.

“And, as the fierce Arabian bands
“Guide o'er immeasurable sands
“The camel's fiery way;
“Behold the raging Samiel rise,
“Pass in pale pomp athwart the skies,
“Shake his pestiferous wing, and rush to seize his prey.

“His giant strides survey—his head
“Half viewless in a cloud of red;
“Ah! death was in that grasp!—
“To earth they fall: in thunders hoarse
“He riots o'er each shrivel'd corse,
“Catches the expiring groan, and stores the envenom'd gasp.

“Or turn thee, where the purest day
“Unsoften'd in its torrid ray

“Is all one glaring sky;
“Where no cool evening spreads its shade;
“No mellow tints of purple fade;
“But, as the sun retires, the blazing meteors fly.

“See in the livid heavens appear
“Yon speck, that swells its dusky sphere,
“And dims the boiling deep:
“Still broader it expands its orb;
“And bursting, as it would absorb
“All earth, destruction speeds the dread tornado's sweep.

“Ah! ruin wide as this extends
“Full oft, where panting India bends
“To drink the sacred stream,
“And roaring to the host of heaven,
“Views from their dens her panthers driv'n,
“Whilst all her citron groves are wrapt in one wide flame.

“And ruin, dire as this, hath spread
“Where Montezuma's offspring bled

“Beneath the ruffian blade;
“Where, blackening over Andes' height,
“The Condor wheels its monster flight,
“And bids the enormous plume its iceclad mountain shade.

“Yet here, tho' loud the tempest's roar,
“From Piercefield's castle, to the shore
“Where rough Tintadgel frowns,
“Thy Albion's temperate skies shall smile,
“And summer bless the genial isle,
“While her green clustering hills the unblasted fruitage crowns.

“Here, tho' the keener lightnings play,
“'Tis but to give the unfolding day
“A more salubrious breeze;
“And, whirling sulphur to the skies,
“Tho' Thules sink, and Thules rise,
“Her firm-bas'd rocks shall stand, begirt with friendly seas!”

ODE WRITTEN IN A PICTURE GALLERY.

1786.

On the dun portrait, duskier in decay,
Slept the silver orb of night;
When in a fleecy cloud the broken light,
Fainting fled. His tresses gray
To the brightening moon he shook,
And, with awaken'd wildness in his look
That on deeds of battle mus'd,
From his majestic brow a sabler shade effus'd.

“Ah! where the worthies of old time, (he sigh'd)
“Where the richly-pictur'd race
“That fronted the long gallery's scutcheon'd grace?
“Where the chief, whose mailed pride
“Near yon pillar erst repos'd;
“Whilst through the lifted beaver he disclos'd
“The Crusader's ardent soul,
“That bade the unhallow'd blood in one wide torrent roll.

“What though in ermin'd dignity I view
“Glanville's venerable mien?
“Alas, with life's expression dimly seen,
“Clay-cold is the pictur'd hue!
“Pale his consort's gorgeous train:
“Scarce glimmer the faint honours of her chain;
“Tho' but erst the ponderous gold
“Flung its resplendent light across each fluid fold.

“What tho' where proud Godolphin crowns the plain
“Turreted in antique gloom,
“These hoary forms beneath the fretted dome
“Rise, in sweeping robes, again?
“There, unheeded too, they fade,
“Ah! never by the gazing eye survey'd;
“While their pensive shadows fall
“In solitary state along the banner'd hall.

“There once, when Chivalry's romantic flame
“Fiercely burnt in warrior breasts,
“The hospitable Baron hail'd his guests,
“Steel-clad by his tissued dame!
“Rich the goblet's golden gleam,
“Their plum'd casques nodding o'er its spiced stream:
“And, as many a deed was sung
“Of valorous enterprize, the roofs high-raft'd rung.

“There echoed to the minstrel-harp divine
“Tales of battling swords that clash'd,
“As all the tournament its glory flash'd
“On the chiefs of Cornish line—
“Tales of Kaliburn, that mow'd
“A million down, where slaughtering Arthur strode;
“Who, tho' strong by magic steel'd,
“Fell a gigantic corse, and shook all Camlan's field!

“There, in heroic song, the adventurous blade,
“Storming the dim castle, broke
“The wizard spell, and, at the massy stroke,
“Rescued the long-prison'd maid!

“There, impetuous, from the van
“The red-cross knight along the ramparts ran;
“And, distain'd with paynim gore,
“From Salem's battlements the sacred trophies tore.

“Such themes, familiar to Godolphin's walls,
“Midst the Baron's festal cheer,
“Fill'd, when the deeds of warlike worth were dear,
“All Cornubia's castle-halls!
“Buried with the mighty dead,
“From human eye the bardic fires are fled:
“Hers'd I saw Lanhydroc's lord!
“There Chivalry last hail'd the high baronial board.

“To prop yon desolated arch were vain,
“Mouldering by the moated streams!
“The unvaulted gate-way thro' its ivy gleams;
“As athwart the Gothic fane
“Yonder wildly-rifted yew,
“That o'er the cloyster its broad branches threw,
“Darksome in the days of yore,
“The wreck of each rude storm still echoes in the roar.

“Perish'd are all the triumphs of romance!
“Yet, along the drear walls dank,
“The dinted target's and riv'n corslet's clank
“Tell of many a bloody lance;
“Where, Restormal's rampires round,
“To the rough fragment's mass the hills resound;
“Where Dunheved, frowning deep,
“Slopes its embattled towers with necromantic sweep.”

He ceas'd: and kindling fearful to the view—
Rapid as the lightning's ray,
A spectre on the moon-beam glanc'd away!
Sudden his blank visage grew
Paler than the stiffen'd dead!
(Each column shivering as the spectre fled)
And, the shade of mortal mould,
Dim was his feeble form, his sombre eye was cold.

TO THE RIVER COLY.

1789.

Ah! soothing stream, whose murmurs clear
Meet, once again, my pensive ear,
That wand'rest down thine osier'd vale,
Where passion told her melting tale;
Thy evening banks to memory sweet,
I fondly trace, with pilgrim feet!
Here, stealing thro' the willow shade
That quiver'd o'er my charming maid,
Full oft hath youthful ardour prest
Trembling, the bloom on Laura's breast,
While to the languish of her eyes
That bosom heav'd and blush'd in sighs!
Then every twinkling leaf above
Seem'd conscious to the breath of love.
Sudden, the pathway's easy flow
Wav'd in a gentler curve below;
Each flower assum'd a soften'd hue,
And clos'd its cup in brighter dew!

Tho' not the same these views appear,
As when I rov'd a lover here;
Tho' far from Laura's smile I stray,
And slope my solitary way;
Yet—yet, with no cold glance I see
This winding path, that willow tree;
Yet, musing o'er thy channel bend,
And in each pebble find a friend;
And eager catch, at every pace,
Of former joys some fading trace—
Some features of the past, that seem
The faery painting of a dream!
But ah! the twilight shadows fall;
Dun evening hastes to darken all:
A duskier verdure clothes the dale;
The mossy branches glimmer pale:
And, Coly! the fair scene is o'er,
Thy lovelorn waters mark'd no more!

ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF FRESHNESS;

SKET CHEDON THE FIRST OF MAY 1790, AT MAMHEAD, NEAR AN EVERGREEN OAK.

------ nigrum
Ilicibus crebris sacra nemus accubet umbra.
Virgil.

O thou, the daughter of the vernal dew
That, glistering to the morn with pearly light
The gentle Aura woo'd
Beside a dripping cave;
There, midst the blush of roses, won the nymph
To dalliance, as in sighs she whisper'd love;
There saw thee born, as May
Unclos'd her laughing eye;
Spirit of Freshness, hail! At this dim hour
While, streakt with recent grey, the dawn appears,
Where sport thy humid steps,
Ambrosial essence, say?

Haply, thy slippers glance along my path
Where frosty lilies veil their silver bells
Beneath the lively green
Of their full-shading leaves.
Or dost thou wander in the hoary field
Where, overhead, I view the cautious hare
Nibbling, while stillness reigns,
The barley's tender blade?
Or dost thou hover o'er the hawthorn bloom,
Where, in his nest of clay, the blackbird opes
His golden lids, and tunes
A soft, preluding strain?
Or, art thou soaring thro' the fleeced air
To meet the day-spring, where the plume-wet lark
Pours, sudden, his shrill note
Beneath a dusky cloud?
I see thee not—But lo! a vapoury shape
That oft belies thy form, emerging slow
From that deep central gloom,
Rests on the moontipt wood;

Now, by a halo circled, sails along,
As gleams with icicles his azure vest,
Now shivers on the trees,
And feebly sinks from sight.
'Tis cold! And lo, upon the whitening folds
Of the dank mist that fills the hollow dell,
Chill damp with drizzly locks
Glides in his lurid car;
Where a lone fane o'er those broad rushes nods
In torpid slumber; save when flitting bats
Stir the rank ivy brown
That clasps its oozing walls!
Yet, yet, descending from yon eastern tent,
Whose amber seems to kiss the wavy plain,
A form, half-viewless, spreads
A flush purpureal round.
I know thee, Freshness! Lo, delicious green
Sprinkles thy path. The bursting buds above
With vivid moisture glow,
To mark thy gradual way.

The florets, opening, from their young cups dart
The carmine blush, the yellow lustre clear:
And now entranc'd, I drink
Thy breath in living balms!
And not a ryegrass trembles, but it gives
A scent salubrious: not a flower exhales
Its odours, but it breathes
O'er all, a cool repose.
Mild shadowy power! whilst now thy tresses bath'd
In primrose tints, the snowdrop's coldness shed
On sky-blue hyacinths,
Thy chaste and simple wreath;
While flows to zephyr thy transparent robe
Stealing the colours of the lunar bow,
How short thy vestal reign
Amid the rosy lawn!
Yes! if thou mix the saffron hues that stream
From the bright orient with the roscid rays
Of yonder orb that hangs
A silvery drop, on high;

Or, if thou love, along the lucent sod,
To catch the sparkles of thy modest star;
With all the mingled beams
Heightening some virgin's bloom;
Fleet as the shadow from the breded heaven
Brushing the gossamer, thy steps retire
Within the gelid gloom
Of thy green-vested oak.
There, as its ambient arch with airy sweep
Chequers the ground, thine “eyes of dewy light”
Pursue the turf that floats
In many a tremulous wave.
And now, retreating to the breezy marge
Of the pure stream, thy ruby fingers rear
The new-blown flowers that wake
To tinge its crystal tide:
Or gently on thine alabaster urn
Thy head reclines, beneath some aged beech
That mid the crisped brook
Steeps its long-wreathed roots;

While from the cave where first thine essence sprung,
Where the chaste naiads rang'd their glittering spars,
Rills, trickling thro' the moss,
Purl o'er the pebbled floor.
There sleep till eve; as now the tyrant Heat
Kindles, with rapid strides, the extensive lawn,
And e'en thy favourite haunt,
The verdurous oak, invades.
And may no vapours from that osier'd bank
Annoy thee—thou, whose delicacy dreads,
Tho' shrinking from the sun,
The sallow's stagnant shade.
There sleep till eve; unless the spring-lov'd showers
Pattering among the foliage, bid thee rise
To taste those transient blooms
That with the rainbow live.
There sleep till eve; when, as thy parent Air
With feathery softness flutters o'er thine urn,
And midst the vermeil bower,
The dew thy feet impearls;

Joy'd shalt thou hail the watery-tinted cloud,
Whose radiant skirts half-hide the westering orb,
Whilst a fine emerald hue
The whole horizon stains;
Till thro' the fragrance of his sweet-briar leaves
Thy glow-worm flings a solitary ray,
As Peace descends, to hush
The twilight-bosom'd scene!

ODE ON THE SUSCEPTIBILITY OF THE POETICAL MIND.

1791.

'Tis not for vulgar souls to feel
Those sacred sympathies refin'd,
That o'er the Poet's bosom steal,
When nature, to his glowing mind,
Each varied form, each colour gives,
Where rich the bloom of beauty lives.

For him yon smooth and shadowy green
In contrast with the craggy steep,
Hath charms, by common eyes unseen;
As o'er the lawn with airy sweep
That oak's extensive foliage flows,
And to the summer-sunbeam glows.

By fancy fir'd, his eye perceives
New pleasure in the unsullied stream,
That to the rose's vivid leaves
Reflects a crimson-tinctur'd gleam;
And wanders down the daisied vale,
To the tall aspin twinkling pale.

For him yon fawns in many a maze
The splendour of the morning court;
Or group'd, enjoy the genial blaze,
As satiate of their frolic sport;
And, with a charm confest by few,
The setting glory still pursue.

He sees some faery power illume
The orient hills with richer light,
Chasing the mist's disparted gloom:
He sees, upon the mountain-height,
Some faery power the pencil hold
To paint the evening-cloud with gold.

There, as the deep and stilly shade
On night's pale bosom seems to rest,
And, from the glimmering azure, fade
The last cool tints that streak the west;
He heaves—tho' others wonder why—
He cherishes the pensive sigh.

If, then, a livelier passion move
The Poet's breast, to nature true;
If in such scenes, with looks of love,
He trace a more attractive hue;
His heart what exstacy inspires,
The female form when beauty fires!

Light, as on air, her steps advance:
Others may gaze with pleasur'd eye—
He casts a more enamour'd glance;
He breathes a more delicious sigh!
Others may hail the enchanting sight—
He faints with tremulous delight!

That graceful negligence of mien;
And, mantling as emotions rise,
The blush of languishing sixteen
To win the soul by sweet surprize;
Those tresses, which luxuriant rove
To kiss the heaving bloom of love—

And melting o'er the accordant keys
Touch'd by her rosy fingers fleet,
Those tones, which, as the dying breeze,
Mix with a voice divinely sweet—
Others unwonted ardours boast;
But, O Letitia, he is lost!

Nor less his Taste and Genius prize
The gay Honoria's artless youth;
Oft as her more effulgent eyes,
Beaming intelligence and truth,

And, kindling quick with fancy, dart
The expression of the untroubled heart—

Ere with a spirit unreprest
Her easy converse steal the hours,
Where shines, in blessing others blest,
A soul unconscious of its powers;
Ere warbled yet a woodnote wild
Proclaim her, Nature's favourite child.

And, if a Mary's glance so meek,
So gentle—so retir'd an air,
Her native loveliness bespeak;
While, as the radiance of the star
That softly gilds the evening-dew,
Her's is a trembling lustre too;

O, if her heart such feelings breathe,
So tender as her blushes tell,
His hand shall weave a modest wreath
To suit her timid sweetness well;

And ever to her worth awake,
Shall guard it for his Mary's sake.

Such are the forms he values most:
Waves the rich foliage o'er the lawn;
The dales their roseate treasures boast;
In sunny mazes sports the fawn;
The rills their liquid amber pour—
Still, still he fondly fancies more.

“Come, Mary! grace the Poet's shade;
“O come, to harmonize the whole!”
Yet, if he meet the melting maid,
Her beauty fills his ravish'd soul!
The lawn, the vale, new charms may own—
The charms he sees in her alone!

THE GENIUS OF DANMONIUM.

1794.

Where restless Teign, with many a surge
Foams to his sacred Logan's height,
The rockstone, at the wood's dark verge,
Shook to the moon, array'd in light;
When, as a cloud far off, disparting, flew,
A shadowy form appear'd, majestic to my view.

“Child of the dust”—the Genius cried—
“To thee (no trivial boast) 'tis giv'n
“To hear with emulative pride,
“How Concord links the inspir'd of Heaven
“Not with the Muse's silken ties alone,
“But in that harmony which Friendship deems her own.

“'Twas Concord bade the Bards of old
“To Inspiration's numbers string
“Their sweet-ton'd harps of burnisht gold
“By sunny mount, or mossy spring—

“Bade them, where Echo loves the sylvan dell,
“The Druid's mystic pomp, the Hero's prowess tell.

“The soul-subduing strain was high!
“Still, still it vibrates in mine ear!
“I catch the holy minstrelsy
“To Devon's faery vallies dear—
“Tho' central oaks no more, in forest deep,
“Around the grey-stone cirque their twilight umbrage sweep.

“Snatcht from the altars of the East
“I see the fires of Danmon rise!
“To mark the new-moon's solemn feast,
“Behold, they lighten to the skies;
“And, as assembled clans in silence gaze,
“The distant Karnes draw near, and kindle to the blaze!

“Fast by yon chasmed hill that frowns
“Cleft by an elemental shock,
“As ashen foliage light embrowns
“Its rude side ribb'd with massy rock;

“Lo, on the pillar'd way the white-robe'd bands
“In long procession move, where proud the Cromlech stands.

“But see, where breaking thro' the gloom,
“Danmonium's warriour-genius speeds
“That scythed car, the dread of Rome!
“See, fiercer than the lightning, steeds
“Trampling the dead, their hoofs with carnage stain,
“Rush thro' the spear-strown field, and snort o'er heaps of slain.

“Such was the heart-inspiring theme
“Of Bards who sung each recent deed;
“Whether amid the mailed gleam
“Of war, they saw the hero bleed;
“Or whether, in the Druid's circling fane,
“They hymn'd to dreadful rites, the deep mysterious strain.

“No more to boast a spotless green,
“Erelong their garlands deck'd the dead;
“As, fading from the sight, the scene
“Of oriental glory fled!

“Then written verse for oral numbers came,
“And lays of little worth were consecrate to fame.

“Then Saxon Poets swept their lyres,
“But harsh was their untutor'd song:
“Then Norman minstrels vaunted fires
“That ill to Phœbus' train belong;
“Not that the Bard of Isca's elder'd vale
“Told to the sparkling stream an inharmonious tale.

“And still, along the waste of years
“Devonia mark'd some scatter'd rhymes;
“But oft, her eyes suffus'd with tears,
“Wistful, she look'd to ancient times—
“Ah! few, monastic Tavy's banks beside,
“Few were the Brownes that trac'd the silver-winding tide.

“And tho' of fancy and of taste
“A Rowe, the first-begotten child,
“By dark romantic woods embrac'd,
“Warbled his native carols wild;
“'Twas from the lonely copse that high o'erhung
“The Tamar's haunted wave, his ditty sweet he sung!

“Tho' Gay attun'd his Dorian oat,
“Such as beseems a simple swain;
“He only pip'd a rustic note
“To cheer the solitary plain—
“Where, since the Bards of old, hath social love
“Assenting Genius woo'd, to grace the Muse's grove?

“Where, as in Danmon's myrtle bowers
“The race of Iran caught the flame,
“Exerting their congenial powers,
“Not envious of a rival's name;
“Where now, in close fraternal union meet
“Spirits that court the Muse by friendship doubly sweet?

“E'n now they live! E'en here they hail
“Their reddening cliffs, in strains sublime;
“Embosom'd in the vermeil dale,
“Nurst by the rosy-breathing clime!
“Here many a letter'd minstrel, more refin'd
“Than Bards of other times, displays the ingenuous mind.

“Behold, where lingering Isca laves
“The turrets on her sloping banks,
“While, far reflected by the waves
“Rise her rich elms in tufted ranks,
“The wreaths of Genius and of Taste adorn
“Those whom with partial smile I greet in Devon born.

“What tho' the Bards shall harp no more
“To wondering ears their magic lays;
“Yet shall my chosen tribe restore
“The long-lost fame of other days—
“Rapt with diviner energies, aspire
“E'en to empyreal worlds, and catch the seraph's fire!”

He ceas'd: and to the faultering sound
The Spirit of the rock replied:
The old oaks bending kiss'd the ground
Then wav'd their boughs with conscious pride;
While, borne on his translucent shell, hoar Teign
Joy'd that two sons were his, to rival Isca's reign.

TO A GENTLEMAN AND HIS FAMILY ON THEIR DEPARTURE FROM THEIR COUNTRY-HOUSE IN SEPTEMBER 1800.

While, joyous 'mid the vernal blooms,
My warblers sleek their golden plumes
And chaunt their woodnotes clear;
I bid them, thro' my laurel sprays,
Still glance their hues, and pour their lays,
Nor heed the passing year.

But, transient as the blush of Spring,
Far, far away, each vagrant wing
Betrays the unpitying breast:
And, as its gleam my heart deceives,
I mark, among the shivering leaves,
A solitary nest.

Ye too, while summer-suns are gay,
My every ardent with repay
With social converse kind:
But, when the winds blow cold and drear,
Leave, as ye sudden disappear,
A lonely roof behind.

Yet shall my warblers, blithe again,
Burnish the plume, and trill the strain,
As wintry tempests cease:
And, shall your smiles new lustre grant
To those chill walls? Again, the Aunt
Restore ------ her charming Niece?

HEROIC PIECES.

HIERO.

FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XVI.

The Sons of Virtue mark with high regard
The Muse's laurel'd priest—the holy bard;
Left in the grave their unsung glory fade,
And their cold moan pierce Acheron's dreary shade.
What tho' Aleua's and the Syrian's domes
Saw crouding menials fill their festal rooms;
What tho' o'er Scopas' fields rich plenty flow'd,
And herds innumerous thro' his vallies low'd;
What tho' the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous flock, thro' many a grove;
Yet when expiring life could charm no more,
And their sad spirits sought the Stygian shore;

Their grandeur vanish'd with their vital breath,
And riches could not follow them, in death!
Lo these, for many a rolling age, had lain
In blank oblivion, with the vulgar train,
Had not their Bard, the mighty Ceian, strung
His many-chorded harp, and sweetly sung
In various tones, each high-resounded name,
And giv'n to long posterity their fame!

Verse can alone the steed with glory grace,
Whose wreaths announce the triumph of the race!
Could Lycia's chiefs, or Cycnus' changing hues,
Or Ilion live, with no recording Muse?
Not ev'n Ulysses, who thro' dangers ran
For ten long years, in all the haunts of man;
Who ev'n descended to the depths of hell,
And fled, unmangled, from the Cyclops' cell—
Not he had liv'd, but sunk, Oblivion's prey,
Had no kind Poet stream'd the unfading ray!
Thus too Philoetius had in silence past,
And nameless old Laertes breath'd his last;

And good Eumæus fed his herds in vain,
But for Ionia's life-inspiring strain.

For me, who now pursue the paths of fame,
Rough are these paths, and dim the Muse's flame;
Unless a patron's kind regard inspire,
And Jove's auspicious omens fan the fire.

The unwearied sun still rolls from year to year:
Still shall proud victors in the race appear!
Great as the stern Pelides' self, erelong
A man shall shine, the subject of my song;
Or in the might of towering Ajax rise,
Who fought on Simois' plain, where Ilus lies.
Ev'n now where Libya views the westering day,
Phœnician armies shrink in pale dismay!
Ev'n now, the Syracusians take the field,
Couch the strong spear, and bend the sallow shield;
While, as the chiefs by hymning poets blest,
Great Hiero comes, and nods the horse-hair crest!

Hear, O Minerva, and paternal Jove,
And ye, who honour with your guardian love
The walls of wealthy Syracuse, that throw
Their awful shadows on the lake below—
Hear! and may destiny o'erwhelming sweep
Our foes away, far distant thro' the deep!—
Far from this isle, a scatter'd few, to tell
Widows and orphan sons, what myriads fell!

CASTOR AND POLLUX.

FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XXII.

Leda's and Jove's great sons my verse inspire—
The sons of Jove, their ægis-bearing sire!
Castor;—and Pollux dreadful in the lists,
The cestus brac'd with thongs around his wrists!
My frequent song shall hymn your manly grace,
Ye twins, the glory of the Spartan race!
Powers, who protect us from the foe, and shield
Our scar'd steeds trampling on the carnag'd field!
Powers that o'erlook the struggling ship, and save,
When stars arise malignant o'er the wave!
Behold the loosen'd tempests swell the tide,
Lash the high helm, and bulge each bursting side,
And pour into the poop the mountain-surge;
While the rent vessel reels upon the verge
Of fate—its torn sails hanging in the blast,
And wildly dasht around each shatter'd mast!

Clouds big with hail the midnight heavens deform,
And the broad ocean thunders to the storm!
But ye, tho' now the closing waves pursue,
From the chasm rescue the despairing crew!
Lo! the clouds break! their scatter'd fragments fly,
Whilst the drear winds in whispering murmurs die;
And each mild star that marks the tranquil night
Gilds the reposing wave with friendly light.

Midst shores, that threaten'd, as in act to close
Their adverse rocks, and Pontus drear with snows,
When Argo pass'd, (her freight the sons of gods)
And safely reach'd Bebrycia's wild abodes;
Strait down the vessel's sides the chiefs descend,
And o'er the shelter'd beach their footsteps bend;
Place on the kindling fires the vase; and spread
Soft on a shaded spot, their leafy bed.

The Royal Brothers, eager to explore
The sylvan scenes, far wander'd from the shore;
O'er a fair mountain's woodland summits stray'd,
The varied beauties of its brow survey'd;

And, tracing the recesses of the mount,
Found, deep-retir'd, a cool perennial fount.
Brimful beneath a craggy rock it gleam'd;
Whilst, at the bottom of the woodland beam'd
Full many a scatter'd pebble to the light,
As crystal or as polisht silver bright.
Beside this spot, the plane-tree quivering play'd,
And pensive poplars wav'd a paler shade;
While many a fir in living verdure grew,
And the deep cypress darken'd on the view:
And there each flower that marks the balmy close
Of Spring, the little bee's ambrosia, blows!

Hard by (his couch the rock) a chieftain frown'd,
His ears fresh reeking from the gauntlet's wound.
Dire was his giant form; and amply spher'd
The broad projection of his breasts appear'd:
Like some Colossus wrought too firm to feel,
His back all sinewy seem'd of solid steel.
On his strong brawny arms his muscles stood,
Like rocks, that, rounded by the torrent flood,

Thro' the clear wave their shelving ridges show,
One smooth and polisht prominence below.

Rough round his loins a lion's spoils were flung:
Suspended by the paws the trophy hung.

HERCULES.

FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XXV.

And now, as broad enough for two
The social path, inviting converse, grew,
He walk'd attentive by the hero's side,
Who thus, to gratify his wish, replied:
‘The Argive's story you recount, is true;
‘And hence, great Prince, the just surmise you drew:
‘Since then you ask, enamour'd of my fame,
‘How bled the furious beast, and whence he came;
‘My tongue shall tell you, in authentic strain,
‘What other Argives might attempt in vain.
‘Sent by some god, 'tis said, the monster flew
‘In vengeance, 'mid the base Phoronean crew,
‘For sacrifice unpaid; and rush'd amain,
‘One flood of carnage, thro' Pisæum's plain;
‘And o'er the Bembinœan glades, more fell,
‘Bade all the deluge of his fury swell!

‘Euristheus first enjoin'd me to engage
‘This beast, but wish'd me slain beneath his rage.
‘Arm'd with my bow, my quiver'd shafts, I went,
‘And grasp'd my club, on bold defiance bent—
‘My knotted club, of strong wild olive made,
‘That, rugged, its unpolisht rind display'd;
‘That with a wrench from Helicon I tore,
‘Its roots and all, and thence the trophy bore.
‘Soon as I reach'd the wood, I bent my bow,
‘Firm-strung its painted curve, and couching low,
‘Notch'd on the nerve, its arrow—look'd around,
‘And from my covert trac'd the forest-ground.
‘'Twas now high noon. No roar I heard, nor saw
‘One print that might betray the prowler's paw;
‘Nor rustic found, amidst his pastoral care,
‘Nor herdsman, who might shew the lion's lair.
‘Nor herds nor herdsmen venture to the plain;
‘All, fix'd by terror, in their stalls remain.
‘At length, as up the mountain-groves I go,
‘Amidst a thicket, I espy my foe:
‘Ere evening, gorg'd with carnage and with blood,
‘He sought his den deep-buried in the wood.

‘Slaughter's black dyes—his face—his chest distain,
‘And hang, still blacker, from his clotted mane;
‘While shooting out his tongue with foam besmear'd,
‘He licks the grisly gore that steep'd his beard.
‘Midst bowering shrubs I hid me from his view,
‘Then aim'd an arrow, as he nearer drew,
‘But from his flank the shaft rebounding flew.
‘His fiery eyes he lifted from the ground,
‘High rais'd his tawny head, and gaz'd around,
‘And gnash'd his teeth tremendous—when again,
‘(Vex'd that the first had spent its force in vain)
‘I launch'd an arrow at the monster's heart;
‘It flew—but left unpierc'd the vital part:
‘His shaggy hide repulsive of the blow,
‘The feather'd vengeance hiss'd, and fell below.
‘My bow, once more with vehemence I tried—
‘Then first he saw—and rising in the pride
‘Of lordly anger, to the fight impell'd,
‘Scour'd with his lashing tail his sides, and swell'd
‘His brindled neck, and bent into a bow
‘His back, in act to bound upon his foe!

‘As when a wheeler his tough fig-tree bends,
‘And flexile to a wheel each felly tends,
‘Thro' gradual heat—awhile the timber stands
‘In curves, then springs elastic from his hands;
‘Thus the fell beast, high bounding from afar,
Sprung, with a sudden impulse, to the war.
My left hand held my darts, and round my breast
‘Spread, thickly-wrought, my strong protecting vest.
‘My olive club I wielded in my right;
‘And his shagg'd temples struck, with all my might:
‘The olive snapp'd asunder on his head—
‘Trembling he reel'd—the savage fierceness fled
‘From his dimm'd eyes; and all contus'd his brain
‘Seem'd swimming in an agony of pain.
‘This—this I mark'd; and ere the beast respir'd,
‘Flung down my painted bow; with triumph fir'd,
‘Seiz'd instant his broad neck; behind him prest,
‘From his fell claws unsheath'd to guard my breast;
‘And twin'd, quick-mounting on his horrid back,
‘My legs in his, to guard from an attack
‘My griping thighs—then heav'd him (as the breath
‘Lost its last struggles in the gasp of death)

‘Aloft in air; and hail'd the savage dead!
‘Hell yawn'd—to hell his monster-spirit fled!
‘The conquest o'er, awhile I vainly tried
‘To strip with stone and steel the shaggy hide:
‘Some god inspir'd me, in the serious pause
‘Of thought, and pointed to the lion's claws.
‘With these full soon the prostrate beast I slay'd,
‘And in the shielding spoils my limbs array'd.
‘Thus drench'd with flocks and herds and shepherds' blood
‘Expir'd the monster of the Nemean wood.’

COMIC AND MOCK-HEROIC PIECES.

THE SYRACUSIAN GOSSIPS.

FROM THEOCRITUS. IDYLL. XV.

[An Interlude in Three Acts.]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

GORGO,
EUNOE,
PRAXINOE,
OLD WOMAN,
MAN,
STRANGER,
GREEK SINGING-GIRL.

ACT THE FIRST.

Scene, Praxinoe's House, in the Suburbs of Alexandria.
GORGO, PRAXINOE, EUNOE.
GORGO.
My dear little girl, is Praxinoe at home?

EUNOE.
She is—but how late, Mrs. Gorgo, you come!

PRAXINOE.
Indeed! I thought, madam her head would ne'er push in—
But, Eunoe, see for a chair and a cushion.

EUNOE.
I have—

PRAXINOE.
Pray sit down—

GORGO.
What a terrible din!
What a pother! 'tis well I escap'd in whole skin!
What a brave heart have I! to pass so many folks
That clatter'd in sandals, and jostled in cloaks!
And coaches—you cannot imagine the throng!
I'm quite out of breath—and the way is so long!

PRAXINOE.
Too true: 'tis the fault of my plaguy old soul!
And here must we live, and put up with a hole.
What a desart! To vex me he tries all he can;
He was ever a strange unaccountable man!
He knew I could almost have died for the loss
Of your chat—but my schemes 'tis his pleasure to cross.

GORGO.
[Pointing to the child.]
Hush, madam—observe him—how earnest his eye—
Don't talk of your husband, when Zopy is by.

PRAXINOE.
I don't mean your papa, my sweet little jewel!

GORGO.
But he understands—no—papa's not so cruel.

PRAXINOE.
This fellow then (we may disguise it, you know,
And talk of the thing as if some time ago)
This block of a fellow once happen'd to stop,
To buy me some nitre and paint at a shop;
When, for nitre, he purchas'd bay-salt; and, for rouge,
The long-lubber gawky bought yellow gambouge.

GORGO.
Lord! mine is as bad! you could hardly have thought,
For five fleeces like dogs-hair, and dear in a groat,
That he squander'd away seven drachms! the sweet honey!
Well might it be said, he was fleec'd of his money!

But come, take your cloak—to Adonis we haste—
And fasten your robe with its clasps to your waist;
Our queen is preparing a sight so divine—

PRAXINOE.
Aye—all things, besure, with fine people are fine!
But describe to me these preparations, so novel
To me, who am coop'd in this lone little hovel.

GORGO.
'Tis high time to go; and we'll talk at our leisure.

PRAXINOE.
Bring water: come quickly, you slut! What a pleasure
These cats must enjoy on the down of a bed!
Go, drive them away: but, you statue of lead,
First bring me the water: See—see how you fill!
Enough!—And how dare you so carelessly spill
Such a flood on my gown? Well, I'm wash'd—God be blest!
Here, hussey—and give me the key of my chest.

GORGO.
Your robe—let me see—I protest, 'tis not clumsy:
Pray what did it cost? Nay, it vastly becomes ye.

PRAXINOE.
Don't ask me—it cost two good pounds and a crown;
And my life I'd near into the bargain laid down.

GORGO.
No waste of your time or your money, however.

PRAXINOE.
True, Gorgo: Come bring me my scarf, and be clever
In putting it on—and see there my umbrella.
But as for my Zopy, the dear little fellow—
You cannot go with us; the horses will bite;
You may cry—but the goblin will come in the night:
Cry on, if you please, sir; you shall not get hurt—
Yet, girl, pray endeavour the child to divert!
Bolt the door; but first call in the house-dog to watch;
And see you don't lift, while I'm absent, the latch.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

Scene, the Street at Alexandria.
PRAXINOE, GORGO, OLD WOMAN, MAN, &c.
PRAXINOE.
Good Heav'ns! what a tide! how or when shall we stem it?
The street is as full as the bank of an emmet!
O Ptolemy, great are the deeds thou hast done,
Since thy father hath left, for Olympus, the throne!
A thief or a robber how seldom we meet;
Tho' pickpockets formerly crouded the street!
—Heavens! what shall we do? The war-horses advance.
Friend! do not ride over me! See how they prance!
That terrible bay how he rears! let's be gone—
Come, Eunoe—the rider, I'm sure, will be thrown.
Thank Heaven that my boy is at home—let us haste—

GORGO.
Cheer up, dear Praxinoe—the danger is past.

PRAXINOE.
Well—now I begin to recover my fright—
From a child I've been ready to faint at the sight
Of an horse or an adder—But let's keep our ground—
The mob from all quarters is thronging around.

Enter old woman.
GORGO.
From the hall, mother?

OLD WOMAN.
Yes.

GORGO.
Can we press, thro' the swarm, in?

OLD WOMAN.
That's a point which the trial can only determine.
He only, my daughter, who tries, can enjoy—
By trying, the Greeks became masters of Troy.

[Exit.

GORGO.
The crone! what a learned, oracular exit!
Sure women have knowlege—but love to perplex it!
So high is their soaring sagacity carried—
They can tell you, how Jove to his Juno was married.
Praxinoe! see what a croud at the gate!

PRAXINOE.
Immense! but 'tis troublesome, Gorgo, to wait!
Come, give me your hand! and thou, Eunoe, stick
(Take care not to lose her) to Madam Eutyck!
Let us enter together! Good God! what a gap!
My spring-silk has met with a horrid mishap!
And my scarf in a moment—Oh! oh! Sir—forbear—
And may Jupiter bless you—

MAN.
Dear madam, my care
Be assur'd—

PRAXINOE.
How they thrust! I am sure I am hurt!

MAN.
Good madam! cheer up, we are riding in port!

PRAXINOE.
And there may you ride, sir, this year and the next—
Still Eunoe's terribly jostled and vext!
Struggle stoutly, my girl!—Very well! as he cried—
“We're all in!”—when he lock'd himself up with his bride.

[Scene closes.

ACT THE THIRD.

Scene, the Hall of the Palace.
GORGO, PRAXINOE, STRANGER, GREEK SINGING-GIRL.
GORGO.
Praxinoe! see the rich-tapestried room!
How exquisite! sure it was wrought in the loom
Of the gods!

PRAXINOE.
And how striking! how bold the designs!
No pencil could draw such elaborate lines!
Minerva! they rise above critical strictures!
For what animation enlightens the pictures!
Man's indeed a wise animal! See how they move—
Nay, start from the hangings: they cannot be wove!
But look on yon' figure: how charming he lies!
All silver the couch, and so vivid the dyes
Of his young downy beard—'tis not hard to discover
The features of Venus's beautiful lover.

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STRANGER.
Cease—cease—idle dames, your impertinent tattle!
As hoarse and as broad as the pigeons ye prattle.

GORGO.
Indeed! who are you? Tho' we talk, shall you curb us?
Seek those who will listen, nor dare to disturb us!

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Dost think Syracusians will tamely knock under,
That can trace to the city of Corinth their founder?
No, Master Officious! 'Tis seldom you hear of one
A slave, that's descended from mighty Bellerophon.
And as to our tongue, you've no reason to teaze us:
'Tis our own mother language of Peloponnesus.

PRAXINOE.
We have husbands, beside, that will bluster and cuff!
One tyrant, besure, is in conscience enough.

GORGO.
Hush—hush—my dear life! She's preparing the song:
The sweet little Grecian! How still is the throng!
She'll excel pensive Sperchis! See—see her prepare
With a languish so soft—so delicious an air!
So meltingly plaintive her musical tone is—
But hark!—She's beginning the death of Adonis. [OMITTED]
How sweetly she sings! Lord! how much she must know!
Happy minstrel! But bless me, 'tis high time to go.

102

Should my husband return before dinner is ready,
With his blustering vagaries my head would be giddy.
Adieu, then, at present, my sweetest Adonis!
And again may you meet such a crowd of your cronies!

103

THE VISION OF SIR AARON.

His coming was with lying wonders.
St. Paul.

His vision, a diabolical delusion.
Lavington.

Festa infesta Deo, Divumque sacerrima sacra.

The full moon rising, shed a sanguine ray;
Whilst Aaron hurried to the cobler's cell:
And sudden, by the spirit borne away,
Both, with alacrity no tongue can tell,
Setting their honest faces towards Hell,
Began to give their families the slip:
Nathless, as if recovering from a spell,
“What! no provision, sir, for such a trip,”
Said Drywit, “not a drop, to wet the parched lip?”

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He, deaf and mute, to where at distance seen,
A glimmering rock reliev'd the sullen waste,
Swallow'd the ground, till roll'd a mist between,
And every feature of the crag effac'd.
“Homeward, (cried Drywit) master, let us haste,
“Nor wander here, while glooms around us close!”
When Aaron, full of joy, his clerk embrac'd—
“No! they are devils, my friend, that interpose,
“And victors shall we rise o'er all our ghostly foes.”

Certes, no sooner had Sir Aaron said,
Than, far off, a dim radiance met the view,
That now appear'd an orb of vivid red,
Now trembled, dying to a paly blue.
And, “See,” said Aaron, “to the saints so true,
“Already hath the spirit vouchsaf'd its light.
“What tho' still rage the dire obstructing crew;
“That splendour on the trees shall guide aright
“Our steps, and strait for Heaven provoke the glorious fight.”

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The whistling of rude boughs assails his ear;
And, kindling from above the ruddy copse,
The heavenly lustre seems to shine more clear:
Away, with a triumphant air he hops,
Nor by the spirit urg'd, a moment stops,
Till to a quagmire giving way, so civil,
He bows, and makes obeisance with his chops!
“Zounds! (says the cobler) evil follows evil:
“We have, indeed, commenc'd a journey to the devil!”

Arising from the embraces of the fen,
“Come, Drywit, never fear!” the hero cries:
“Drywit rejoice! I see the hollow glen—
“'Tis there the treasure of the spirit lies!”
When, as at once his fancy seiz'd the prize,
Down went the antagonist of death and sin;
Tho' swore the varlet, with uplifted eyes,
His service never more should Aaron win,
If he could once get home, escaping in whole skin.

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Deep in the glenwood, nigh a sombrous cave,
He saw, and told his transports in a bound,
Its snowy leaves the Leucophyllon wave,
And wrench'd it, by the roots, from out the ground;
When, as it quiver'd, with a mighty sound
The cavern to his sense expanded wide;
And many a dog-star flam'd the vault around:
And at his feet there foam'd a sulph'rous tide;
And far within, in troops, dun shadows seem'd to glide.

Strait where he stalk'd, arose the unceasing cries
Of infants, who, by too severe a doom,
Ere yet they could enjoy these upper skies,
Were hurried, all untimely, to the tomb.
Lorn innocents! no sooner from the womb
Ye struggled into life, than, unappriz'd
Of sin, ye sunk into the oblivious gloom!
Ah, why, when sinners grey are canoniz'd,
Why weep so sore?—ye died, poor wretches, unbaptiz'd!

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There, too, innumerous shapes, in sable clad,
Curates and parish priests, would flit along;
There silken deans would rustle thro' the shade,
And lawn-sleeves gleam, the cassock'd tribe among!
Ah! what avail'd the vicar's sober tongue
That to a blameless life the meed assign'd?
What, the pure precepts that o'eraw'd the throng,
Where prelates, destin'd to adorn mankind,
To courtly splendour join'd an apostolic mind?

At Aaron's nod the yellow waves flew back,
Whilst on the fronting bank, two shapes appear'd
Dire-menacing: the one as midnight black,
A form, half-billow, and half-flame, up-rear'd,
And shook a dreadful dart with blood besmear'd!
The other roll'd, tho' woman to the waist,
As horrid yelpings from her womb were heard,
A scaly tail voluminous! Aghast,
Yet both in silence stood, as, calm, Heaven's champion pass'd.

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First, to his sight, a choir of boys and girls
Were whirl'd about in one perpetual dance,
Swift as her restless wheel the spinster whirls;
While from their hollow eyes they look'd askance
With loose desires, and pin'd at every glance:
Nor could the votaries of religious whim
One step beyond the circling line advance;
As still St. Vitus, round a caldron's brim,
Urg'd his fantastic imps convuls'd in every limb.

Next, in a chair of pearl, beneath a roof
Of gold, a female methodist embrac'd
A puny petit-maitre, whilst aloof
The fashions of the world each other chac'd.
Charm'd with the visions of caprice or taste,
The fair one from her eye new rapture glanc'd;
And, tho' in life a devotee strait-lac'd,
Yet “in her heart a rake,” now gaily danc'd
To pleasure, now more calm, appear'd as one entranc'd.

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He, in himself absorb'd, his brilliant rings
Runs over, or his pink-rosettes that glow
On each sharp shoe; while, tied with silken strings,
His muslin trowsers, and the plumes that flow
From his light cap, proclaim the child of show.
And, as his fan of feathers trembles oft,
A nosegay of the faintest flowers that blow,
Rests on a ribbon; since a heart so soft,
Might rue the load, if chance the petit-maitre cough'd.

Soon rattling in rude dissonance, their chains,
Vertigo and pale Spleen the gaudy glare
Would interrupt; and to a windmill's vanes
Fasten, unheeding their shrill screams, the pair,
And drive them dizzily around in air,
Till, in a livid swoon each died away;
When now, recovering, from the rich pearl chair

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They witness'd as before, in bright array,
The fleeting fashions rise, and o'er the cieling play.

On a rush bed, amidst a cavern damp,
A damsel lay, to dreadful penance doom'd,
The victim of fell Incubus and Cramp,
Who had, in life, to pleasure idly bloom'd,
As in the prurient love-feast she consum'd,
Mid sister saints, the hypocritic night;
Till pale from watchings, and at length entomb'd,
She sunk into the shades, a beauteous sprite,
Tho' form'd for sensual bliss, debarr'd each keen delight.

Beside her, Cramp, as, shrivell'd up he clung
To clustring swallows, caught the damsel's sighs,
When on a sudden, up the pigmy sprung,
To a dire monster of enormous size,
Then shrunk into himself in agonies.
Now, as all muscle, he appear'd to strain
His limbs, and look'd as if his bursting eyes
Within their sockets he could scarce contain,
Now hiccup'd thrice, and laugh'd, and hiccup'd thrice again.

111

Scarce could the weary maid a moment doze,
(Ah, never her's was balmy slumber sweet)
Ere a cold touch benumb'd her legs, and froze
The extremer parts, like winter's arrowy sleet.
“One little pause of rest no more to greet
“Is mine!” (she cried) “no earthly cataplasm
“Alas! could ease the torment of my feet!”
While grinn'd invisible the fiend of spasm,
Then sought his swallow-nook, within the noisome chasm.

Meantime had Night-mare, midst a meteor's glare,
Stretch'd her huge limbs, when out flew many a bat,
That slept within her leathern breasts, and there
Oft drew her paps, like any human brat;
Or fann'd her, on her hairy buttock squat,
Spreading their skinny pinions of tann'd hue:
Then ruminating as the monster sat,
She gather'd from the cypress and dark yew,
Mixt with the froth of toads, a deleterious dew.

112

Eftsoons in office, that infernal imp,
Whose power can youth's gay visions intercept,
Not emulous, it seems, of Vulcan's limp,
But apeing Mercury, on the rush-couch leap'd,
As one short moment, tho' with sighs, she slept,
And shook the cavern with a gamesome jerk;
With stealthy cunning on her belly crept,
Ey'd the lorn fair one with a hideous smirk,
And, half-relenting, cried—“Alas! 'tis rueful work!”

Deep-fever'd blushes ting'd her lovely face,
Her mouth half-open'd to the murky night:
Her bosom panting with disorder'd grace,
Heav'd its blue veins, and glow'd with rosy light.
Loose were her shadowy tresses: snowy-white
Her right hand, backward thrown, sustain'd her head
That seem'd to throb with anguish; when the sprite
Shook o'er her breast the mane of dingy red,
And rais'd the poison'd hoof, and all its venom shed.

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While quiver'd in paralysis her limbs,
With suffocative sighs opprest she lay:
And lo, as in the dews of death she swims,
She strives to scream with many a vain essay;
And starts from ghostly forms in chill dismay!
At length she moans, and utters a low shriek;
When, as she seems to feel a lump of clay
From her breast tumbling, tremulously weak,
Scarce can she lift her hand to touch her hectic cheek.

Insulting sore a methodistic crone,
With pallid hand as Hypochondria stroak'd
Her aching stomach to a bladder blown;
The sufferer, with throat-globules well nigh choakt,
Now crawl'd a bloated toad, and crawling croak'd;
Now, seiz'd with dizziness, o'er many a rood
Lay floating a huge whale, and oft provok'd
By fell harpooners, dash'd the fervent flood;
And in delirium seem'd to fill all space with blood.

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Here Catalepsy, lost in thought intense,
Her heavy temples with the poppy crown'd,
Her victim would benumb in every sense,
And fix his leaden eye-balls to the ground,
And his stone tongue chain up, “without a sound.”
There too, her sister bade a wan wretch smite
His breast, and high to catch the vapours bound,
Dash in the dust his writhing limbs, and bite
His livid lips in foam, and dart pernicious light.

There, whilst the Dog-star pour'd upon his head
Siriasis! thy pestilential blaze,
Struck by the beams, thy victim, as he fled,
Stopp'd in mid-course, and star'd with ghastly gaze;

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And, as the mist of darkness seem'd to glaze
His eye-balls, strove to seize, with ardour vain,
A cooling rill that curl'd thro' many a maze;
Then, smitten by the fiery beams again,
Pursued the elusive lymph, and beat his burning brain.

There Terror, mounting an infuriate horse,
Towards a precipice of bare rock flew,
And its mane grasping, in a bloody corse
Oft bath'd its hoofs, and oft a saint o'erthrew,
While from the steed's broad nostrils vapours blue
Stream'd forth, and from its eyes the Siroc's glare;
When laughing midst his methodistic crew,
Madness danc'd round, and started grim Despair;
And Terror's self shrunk back, and rais'd his bristling hair.

So dire the fiends, amidst hell's concave rag'd,
Who, the earth vexing, by a kindred train,
War, ever and anon, with mortals wag'd,
But, chiefly with the votaries of the fane;

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Who, as descending to the dark domain
A saintly ghost demure attention drew,
Would, each, the mental and corporeal pain
That from the body rent the soul, renew,
And with appropriate pangs the suffering wretch pursue.

The doughty chief, while thus, to daze the sight,
The vision floating round and round him, rose,
Spied the devil seated on a mountain's height,
That flaming labour'd with volcanic throes;
And beckoning to the throne his fearstruck foes,
Bade them ‘no more their tyrant's nod obey,
‘On Methodists inflicting bitter woes,
‘But pour their vengeance on their proper prey—
‘On infants unbaptiz'd, and priests more damn'd than they.’

He spoke. And Satan, a fierce lightning fork
That hiss'd within the hollow crater, seiz'd,
And seem'd in act to speed its deathful work,
When Aaron high his Leucophyllon rais'd;

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And, as in air the sulphur idly blaz'd,
Fix'd Satan trembling to the mountain's crest!
The vassal monsters, as in triumph, gaz'd;
St. Vitus paus'd, his rapid rounds represt,
Vertigo firmly stood, and e'en Despair had rest.

“Subdued” (says Aaron, as he swell'd in size
Gigantic) “see, subdued the dire domain!
And, (waving strait his rod) “Behold,” he cries,
“Hell vanishes! we tread on earth again!”
“Indeed” (quoth Drywit, in a doleful strain,)
“Whether on earth or not, I scarce can tell!
“Something, methinks, disturbs your Honour's brain!
“But, d---me! by to-morrow, if you dwell
“In this accursed hole, you'll find yourself in hell!”

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PASTORAL PIECES.

THYRSIS.

FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. I.

THYRSIS.
Yon breezy pine, that shades the limpid springs,
In many a vocal whisper sweetly sings:
Sweet too the warblings of thy breathing reed:
Thine, Goatherd, next to Pan, is music's meed!
For, if the god receive a horn'd he-goat,
The female shall attend thy Dorian oat:
But if the rights of Sylvan Pan forbid,
And he the female claim, be thine a kid.

GOATHERD.
Sweeter thy music, than the streams that roll
In liquid murmur down yon rocky knoll!

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If one white ewe reward the Muse's strain,
A stall-fed lamb awaits the shepherd-swain:
But if the gentler lambkin please the Nine,
Melodious Thyrsis, then the ewe be thine.

THYRSIS.
Come, where these tamarisks cool the fervid air,
Rest on this bank—the vocal reed thy care!
Come, wilt thou tune, to charm the nymphs, thy lay?
I'll feed thy goats, if thou consent to play.

GOATHERD.
We dare not, shepherd, at the hour of noon,
Our pipes to rustic melodies attune:
'Tis Pan we fear: from hunting he returns,
As all in silence hush'd, the noon-day burns;

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And, tir'd, reposes 'mid the woodland scene,
Whilst on his nostrils sits a bitter spleen.
But come, (since Daphnis' woes to thee are known;
And well we deem the rural Muse thine own,)
Let us, at ease, beneath that elm recline,
Where sculptur'd Naïds o'er their fountains shine;

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While gay Priapus guards the sweet retreat,
And oaks, wide-branching, shade yon pastoral seat.
And, Thyrsis, if thou sing so soft a strain
As erst contending with the Libyan Swain;
Thrice shalt thou milk that goat for such a lay;
Two kids she rears, yet fills two pails a day.
With this, I'll stake (o'erlaid with wax it stands,
And smells just recent from the graver's hands)
My large two-handled cup, rich-wrought and deep;
Around whose brim pale ivy seems to creep,
With helichryse entwin'd: small tendrils hold
Its saffron fruit in many a clasping fold.
Within, high-touch'd, a female figure shines;—
Her cawl—her vest—how soft the waving lines!

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And near, two youths (bright ringlets grace their brows)
Breathe in alternate strife their amorous vows!
On each, by turns, the faithless fair-one smiles,
And views the rival pair with wanton wiles.
Brimful, thro' passion, swell their twinkling eyes;
And their full bosoms heave with fruitless sighs!
Amidst the scene, a fisher, grey with years,
On the rough summit of a rock appears;
And labouring, with one effort, as he stands,
To throw his large net, drags it with both hands!
So muscular his limbs attract the sight—
You'd swear the fisher stretch'd with all his might.
Round his hoar neck, each swelling vein displays
A vigour worthy youth's robuster days!
Next, red ripe grapes in bending clusters glow:
A boy, to watch the vineyard, sits below!
Two foxes round him skulk: this slily gapes,
To catch a luscious morsel of the grapes;
But that, in ambush, aiming at the scrip,
Thinks 'tis too sweet a moment to let slip—
And cries: “It suits my tooth—the little dunce—
“I'll send him dinnerless away, for once!”

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He, idly-busy, with his rush-bound reeds
Weaves locust-traps; nor scrip nor vineyard heeds.
Flexile around its sides the acanthus twin'd,
Strikes as a miracle of art the mind.
This cup (from Calydon it cross'd the seas)
I bought for a she-goat, and new-made cheese!
As yet unsoil'd, nor touch'd by lip of mine,
My friend, this masterpiece of wood be thine,
For thy lov'd hymn so sweet, a willing meed!
Sure sweeter flows not from the pastoral reed!
And yet I envy not thy proudest boast—
Thy music cannot reach oblivion's coast.

THYRSIS.

Begin, sweet Muses, your bucolic woe,
Lo, Etna's swain! 'tis Thyrsis' notes that flow!

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Where stray'd ye, nymphs, when Daphnis pin'd with love?
Thro' Peneus' vale, or Pindus' steepy grove?
For not Anapus' flood your steps delay'd—
Or Acis' sacred wave, or Etna's shade!

Begin, sweet Muses, your bucolic woe,
In melting cadence may the numbers flow.
Gaunt wolves and pards deplor'd his parting breath;
And e'en the forest-lion mourn'd his death.

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Begin, &c.
Bulls, cows, and steers, stood drooping at his side,
And wail'd, in sorrow, as the shepherd died.

Begin, &c.
First, the wing'd Hermes from the mountain came:
“Whence, Daphnis, whence, he cried, this fatal flame?”

Begin, &c.
The Goatherds, Hinds, and Shepherds, all enquir'd—
“What ail'd the Herdsman? and what fever fir'd?”
Priapus came—and cried—‘Ah, Daphnis, say,
‘Does Love, poor Daphnis, steal thy soul away?

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‘She with bare feet, thro' woods and fountains roves—
‘Exclaiming, “Hah, too thoughtless in thy loves!
“Hah! what tho' Herdsman be thy purer name,
“Sure, all the Goatherd marks thy lawless flame.
“He views with leering eyes his goats askance,
“Notes their keen sport, and pines in every glance!

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“Thus, while the virgin-train, fleet bounding by,
“Weave the gay dance, and titter at thy sigh;
“Perfidious man! each laugh lights up desire,
“That wastes thy gloting eyes with wanton fire!”
Silent he sat—and burning every vein
Throbb'd thro' dire love, 'till Death extinguish'd pain.

Begin, &c.
Next Venus' self the hapless youth addrest,
(With faint, forc'd smiles, yet anger at her breast)
‘Well, Daphnis, art thou still a match for Love?
‘Say, does not Cupid now the victor prove?’

Begin, &c.
But he: ‘Too true, thou say'st, that Love hath won!
‘Too sure thy triumphs mark my setting sun!’

Begin, &c.
‘Fly, where Anchises—to his arms away—
‘And screen your pleasures from the garish day,
‘On Ida's hill: there spread o'er-arching groves;
‘There many an oak will hide your covert loves;

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‘There the broad rush, in matted verdure, thrives;
‘There bees, in busy swarms, hum round their hives.

Begin, &c.
‘Adonis too—tho' delicately fair—
‘He feeds his flocks, and hunts the flying hare.

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Begin, &c.
‘Say,—if arm'd Diomed should meet thy sight—
‘I've conquer'd Daphnis—come, renew the fight!

Begin, &c.
‘Ye wolves and bears and panthers of the woods;
‘Ye glens and copses and ye foaming floods;
‘Ye waters, who your waves of silver roll
‘Near Thymbris' towers, that once cou'd soothe my soul—
‘And thou, dear—dear auspicious Arethuse!
‘O once the sweet inspirer of my Muse,
‘Farewell:—no more, alas! shall Daphnis rove
‘Amidst your haunts; for Daphnis dies of love!

Begin, &c.
‘I—I am he, who lowing oxen fed;
‘Who to their well-known brook my heifers led.

Begin, &c.
‘Pan—Pan—of all our woodlands the delight,
‘Whether thou rovest on Lycæum's height,

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‘Or o'er the mighty Mænalus, O deign
‘To visit sweet Sicilia's pastoral plain.
‘Leave Lycaonian Helicas' high tomb,
‘Tho' gods revere the monumental gloom!

Close, heavenly Muse, the tale of pastoral woe!
Ah! let the melting cadence cease to flow!
‘O Pan, my reeds so close-compacted take,
‘And call forth all their tones for Daphnis' sake!
‘Bent for thy lip this pipe be thine to play—
‘To the drear grave love hurries me away!

Close, &c.
‘Ye thorns and brambles the pale vi'let bear—
‘Ye junipers, produce narcissus fair!
‘Ye pines, with fruitage from the pear-tree crown'd,
‘Mark Daphnis' death, while all things change around—
‘Let stags pursue the beagles o'er the plain,
‘And screech-owls rival Philomela's strain.’

Close, &c.

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He ceas'd—and Venus would have rais'd his head—
But Fate had spun his last-remaining thread;
And Daphnis past the lake! The o'erwhelming tide
Buried the nymphs' delight—the Muse's pride!

Close, &c.
Now, fairly, friend, I claim the cup and goat—
Her milk, a sweet libation, I devote
To you, ye Niue, inspirers of my lay!
Be mine a loftier song, some future day.

GOATHERD.
Thyrsis! thy mouth may figs Ægilean fill;
And luscious honey on thy lips distil!
For sweeter, shepherd, is thy charming song,
Than ev'n Cicadas sing the boughs among.
Behold thy cup, so scented, that it seems
Imbued with fragrance at the fountain streams,
Where sport the Hours!—Come, Ciss! May Thyrsis' pail
Bespeak the richness of thy pasture-vale!

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THE HARVEST-FEAST;

OR, THE VERNAL VOYAGE.

FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. VII.

Twas at the time when reigns the rural joke,
That Eucritus and I, from city-smoke,
(Join'd by our friend Amyntas) pac'd our way
To the fresh fields that green round Halys lay
There Lycops' sons their harvest-offerings paid,
And the rich honours of the feast display'd—
Great Lycops' generous sons—if any good
Flow down, transmitted with illustrious blood!
From Clytia's and from Chalcon's line they came,
Ev'n Chalcon shining in the rolls of fame;
From whose strong knee imprest upon the rock,
In sudden springs the Burine fountain broke!
Elms, rising round, in various verdure glow'd;
And the dim poplar's quivering foliage flow'd!

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Scarce half the journey measur'd, (ere our eyes
Could see the tomb of Brasylas arise,)
Glad we o'ertook young Lycidas of Crete,
Whose Muse could warble many a ditty sweet!
His rustic trade might easily be seen,
For all could read the goatherd in his mien.
A goat's white skin that smelt as newly flay'd,
His shoulders loosely with its shag array'd:
His wide-wove girdle brac'd around his breast
A cloak, whose tatter'd shreds its age confest!
His right hand held a rough wild olive-crook,
And as we join'd, he cast a leering look
From his arch hazle-eye—while laughter hung
Upon his lips, and pleasure mov'd his tongue:
‘Where—where my friend Simichidas so fast,
‘Ere now the heats of sultry noon are past,
‘While sleeping in each hedge the lizard lies,
‘And not a crested lark swims o'er the skies?
‘Hah! thou art trudging for some dainty bit;
‘Or tread'st, besure, the wine-press for a cit!

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‘Struck by thy hurrying clogs, the pebbles leap!
‘And, I'll be sworn, they ring at every step!’

‘Well met, dear Lycidas, (I strait replied)
‘No shepherd-swain, or reaper, e'er outvied
‘The music of thy pipe, as stories tell;—
‘I'm glad on't—Yet, I hope, I pipe as well!
‘Invited by our liberal friends, we go
‘Where the rich first-fruits of the harvest flow
‘To bless the fair-veil'd goddess, who with stores
‘Of ripen'd corn high-heap'd their groaning floors.
‘But let us carol the bucolic lay,
‘Since ours one common sun, one common way:
‘Alternate transport may our songs infuse—
‘The “honey'd mouth”—all name me—of the Muse!
‘All praise, in rapture, my poetic worth:
‘But I'm incredulous, I swear by earth!
‘I rival (conscious of my humbler strain)
‘Philetas or Sicelidas, in vain!
‘And tho' my melodies may soothe a friend,
‘A croaking frog with locusts, I contend!’

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Thus, artful, I.—But with arch smiles the youth
Exclaim'd, ‘Thou art a sprig of Jove, in truth!
‘And need'st not, sure, from just applauses shrink—
‘This crook be thine, to witness what I think.
‘I scorn the builder, as of mean account,
‘Whose lofty fabric would o'ertop the mount
‘Of proud Oromedon! Thus idly vie
‘The muse-cocks, who the Chian bird defy.
‘But let's begin, since time is on the wing;
‘And each, in turn, some sweet bucolic sing!
‘I'll chaunt (your ear with pleasure may they fill)
‘The strains I lately labour'd, on the hill.

“O may the ship that wafts my Daphne, glide
“To Mitylene, o'er a favouring tide!
“Tho' southern winds their watery pinions spread,
“And stern Orion broods o'er Ocean's bed.
“So may her smile a lenient med'cine prove,
“To cool the fever of consuming love!
“And may the bleak south-east no longer rave,
“But gentle Halcyons smooth the ripling wave—

136

“Sweet Halcyons, lov'd by all the Nereid train
“Above each bird that skims, for food, the main.
“O may my fair-one reach the quiet bay;
“And every blessing speed her destin'd way!
“Then with white vi'lets shall my brows be crown'd
“With anise-wreaths, or rosy garlands bound!
“Then, at my hearth, the Ptelean bowl be quaff'd—
“And the parch'd bean add flavour to the draught!
“Then, as my elbows high my couch shall swell,
“Of parsley form'd, and golden asphodel;
“Then to my Daphne's health I'll drink, at ease,
“The sparkling juice, and drain it to the lees!
“Whilst with their pipes two swains delight my ear;
“And Tityrus sweetly sings, reclining near,
“How herdsman Daphnis lov'd the frowning maid;
“And, with vain sighs, o'er many a mountain stray'd:—
“How the rough oaks, where Himera's waters flow,
“Told to the passing stream, his tale of woe.

137

“For as on Caucasus, or Athos brow,
“Or Rhodope's, he breath'd the fruitless vow—
“Or Hœmus' hill; he sunk, thro' love, away,
“Like snows dissolving in the solar ray.
“Next shall he sing—how tyranny opprest
“The goatherd, prison'd in his ample chest!
“And how the bees from flowery meadows bore
“Their balms, and fed him with the luscious store!
“For on his lips the favour of the Muse
“Distill'd the nectar of her sweetest dews!
“To thee, Comates, tho' confin'd so fast,
“Sure, with quick pace, the vernal season past;
“Happy, amid thy prison, all day long,
“While honey dropp'd delicious on thy tongue!
“O hadst thou liv'd with us, a brother swain,
“How oft my charmed ears had caught thy strain!
“Thy goats upon the mountains had I fed,
“Or o'er the tufted vales, with pleasure led!
“Then had thy voice its sweetest powers display'd,
“Beneath the embowering oak, or pine-tree shade.”

138

He ceas'd—and thus alternate I replied:
‘Sweet Lycidas, of goatherd-youths the pride!
‘What time I drove my herds, the hills along,
‘The charming Wood-Nymphs taught me many a song:
‘Then hear (since thou hast gain'd the Muse's love)
‘Strains, whose high fame hath reach'd the throne of Jove!
‘Then hear the choicest of the lays I know—
‘In honour of thy name the numbers flow.

“On me the Cupids sneez'd, who Myrta love
“As kids the verdure of the vernal grove!
“With the same fires my dear Aratus glows;
“And this full well the soft Aristis knows—

139

“Aristis, who can Phœbus' self inspire,
“In sweet accordance, ev'n with Phœbus' lyre!
“O Pan, for whom fair Omole displays
“Its green abodes, attend Aratus' lays!
“O bid her fly uncall'd into his arms,
“Whether dear Myrta, or Philina charms!
“So shall no more Arcadian youths deface
“With scaly squills thy form, tho' vain the chace!
“But if thou smile not on the lover's cause,
“Be stung by nettles—torn by harpy-claws;
“Freeze, in mid winter, near the torpid pole,
“On Edon, where the streams of Hebrus roll;
“And as an Æthiop burn, while summer glows,
“Where the hot Blemyan rocks o'er Nilus close.
“Ye Loves, whose cheeks the apple's bloom outvie—
“Come—from your Byblis' favourite murmurs fly!
“Leave—leave the waves of Hyetis; and bless
“The yellow-hair'd Dione's sweet recess!
“Shoot, with unerring aim, the tinctur'd dart;
“And pierce Philina's yet unwounded heart!
“But—‘as the melting pear’—(the rival maids
“Exclaim)—‘Philina's mellow beauty fades!”

140

“Then, dear Aratus! let us watch no more,
“Nor wear, with nightly toil, the bolted door!
“Some other, as the morn begins to peep,
“May the cock's clarion give to broken sleep!
“His limbs in listless languor may he stretch,
“And so we rest, a halter end the wretch!
“Ours be repose—and some enchantress wait,
“To ward, far off, each evil from our gate.”

I sung, and (as presenting me his crook
He smil'd) the hospitable token took!
Then, parting, to the left, for Pyxa's towers
He turn'd; while we to Phrasidamus' bowers
Slop'd o'er the right-hand path our speedy way,
And hail'd the pleasures of the festal day.
There, in kind courtesy, our host had spread
Of vine and lentisk the refreshing bed!
Their breezy coolness elms and poplars gave,
And rills their murmur, from the Naïds cave!
Cicadas now retiring from the sun,
Amid the shady shrubs, their song begun.

141

From the thick copse we heard, far off, and lone,
The mellow'd shrillness of the woodlark's tone!
Warbled the linnet and the finch more near,
And the soft-sighing turtle sooth'd the ear!
The yellow bees humm'd pleasant in the shade,
And round the fountain's flowery margin play'd.
All breath'd of every summer-smell, that greets
The sense—all breath'd of ripe autumnal sweets—
Here pears, and thick-strown apples, there the glow
Of bending plums, that kiss'd the turf below!
Our wines four years had mellow'd in the cask—
And could Alcides boast so rich a flask,

142

(Say nymphs of Castaly) when Chiron gave
The generous juice, in Pholus' stony cave!
Or did such nectar, at Anapus' stream,
Rouse to the dance the Cyclops Polypheme
(Who hurls the mountain-rocks across the brine)
As, nymphs, ye mix'd at Ceres' glowing shrine?

O! may I fix the purging fan, again,
Delightful task! amid her heaps of grain;
And, in each hand, the laughing goddess hold
The poppy's vivid red—the ears of gold!

144

EUNICA;

OR, THE NEATHERD.

FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XX.

Lord! when to kiss the city-maid I tried,
How proud she look'd; and flouted me, and cried,
‘Away, thou rustic! nor my lips profane—
‘Dost think I ever learnt to kiss a swain?
‘No—I delight in city-lips alone—
‘Thou should'st not kiss me in a dream—begone.
‘No—Caitiff—hands so tawny—lips so thick—
‘And such a smell! Begone! for I am sick!’
She spoke—and spitting thrice, the saucy slut
Titter'd, and ey'd me o'er from head to foot;

145

And frown'd, and winc'd about to shew her shape,
And laugh'd aloud, and mutter'd—‘What an ape!’
Wild as she flung away, I speechless stood:
In anger boil'd the current of my blood!
Quick to my face the flushing crimson flew,
And like a rose I look'd o'ercharg'd with dew!
Still—still resentment in my breast I bear—
That she should scorn a youth so passing fair!

But say, my comrade-swains, and tell me truth—
Am not I bright in all the bloom of youth?
Or else what god hath fashion'd me anew?
Erst my fair form shone lovely to the view!
My beard, soft spread, like clasping ivy, clung;
My locks, like parsley, down my temples hung!

146

White o'er my sable eye-brows—snowy-white—
My open forehead seem'd one lustrous light!
My eyes, a living azure as they stream'd,
Than bright Minerva's more divinely beam'd.

147

My lips, like cream, with dulcet sounds replete,
Dropp'd music than the honey-comb more sweet;
And all enchanting flow'd the liquid note,
Or from my pipe, or flute, or Dorian oat!
The girls upon the hills confess my charms,
And, sighing, long to clasp me in their arms!
But for this flirt—so tinctur'd with the town—
Who scorns, forsooth, the proffers of a clown;
She never knew that Bacchus, tho' divine,
Pastur'd, amidst the vales, his lowing kine;
That Venus ev'n to cits a swain preferr'd,
And help'd him, on the hill, to feed his herd;
Or, fir'd by fair Adonis, that in groves
The Paphian Queen enjoy'd and mourn'd her loves.

And was not sweet Endymion's self a swain—
Whom Luna lov'd, descending to the plain,

148

Whilst for the Latmian lawn she left her sphere?
And did not Rhea hold a herdsman dear?
Nay—'twas thy will thro' woodland haunts to rove
Ev'n for a little herdsboy, Father Jove!

And yet a neatherd's love Eunica thinks
Beneath her notice—the conceited minx!
And vaunts her graceful air—unmatch'd, I ween,
By Rhea, Cynthia, or the Cyprian Queen!
Bewitching beauty! Tho', besure, we see
A second Cytherea bloom in thee,
O may'st thou sigh, for aye—and sigh in vain—
To kiss thy lover of the town again!
Despis'd by every cit, be thine to prove
The hill's rude breezes for a herdsman's love;
But may the rustic's scorn thy crime atone,
And slighted, may'st thou sleep all night—alone!

149

DAPHNIS AND SHEPHERDESS.

FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XXVII.

DAPHNIS.
Young Paris the Trojan, who tended his herd,
To the fair-ones of Troy a Greek beauty preferr'd.
He stole the gay charmer, an amorous felon;
I boast a free kiss from a sweeter than Helen!

SHEPHERDESS.
A kiss is so empty: You satyr!—Poh! poh!

DAPHNIS.
And yet there's some pleasure in kissing, I trow!

[Kisses her.
SHEPHERDESS.
I wipe then my mouth, and your kisses disdain!

DAPHNIS.
Do you wipe? Come, I'm ready for bussing again—

150

SHEPHERDESS.
Kiss your heifers; nor worry a virgin, you lout!

DAPHNIS.
Indeed! but remember, tho' now you may flout,
That your beauty, however 'tis held in esteem,
Will fade, haughty girl, and be gone, like a dream.

SHEPHERDESS.
The grape, when it's dried, is delicious in taste,
And the rose is still sweet when its blushes are past.

DAPHNIS.
Come hither; I've something to whisper, my maid—
These wild olives form an agreeable shade.

SHEPHERDESS.
No—no—Mr. Wag! 'tis a little too soon
To be dup'd so again!

DAPHNIS.
Then I'll play you a tune
Beneath yonder elms!

151

SHEPHERDESS.
Go, and play to yourself!
I cannot attend to so wretched an elf!

DAPHNIS.
Ah, maiden, of Venus's anger beware!

SHEPHERDESS.
Her anger! Diana alone is my care!

DAPHNIS.
Take heed, lest the goddess, whom thus you defy,
Should rivet a knot you may never untie!

SHEPHERDESS.
No fear, while Diana continues to watch;
Be quiet—hands off—or, I swear, I will scratch.

DAPHNIS.
You may vaunt, as you like, your slim delicate shape—
But the fate of your sex you can never escape!

SHEPHERDESS.
Believe me, by Pan, I'll be never a wife;
But may you bear the yoke all the days of your life!

152

DAPHNIS.
In the end, I much fear you will marry some brute.

SHEPHERDESS.
Many wooers I've had, but no wooer would suit!

DAPHNIS.
What think you of me?

SHEPHERDESS.
Why, my friend, without jest,
I think Hymen's yoke is a burthen at best.

DAPHNIS.
No: marriage is nothing but pleasure—

SHEPHERDESS.
When wives
By their husbands are terrified out of their lives!

DAPHNIS.
No, maiden! the fact is, that wives domineer:
Whom was ever a woman discover'd to fear?

SHEPHERDESS.
I'm most of the perils of child-birth afraid—

153

DAPHNIS.
Your guardian Diana's a midwife by trade.

SHEPHERDESS.
Yet I tremble! it ruins, at last, the complexion!

DAPHNIS.
Your children will make up the loss in affection!

SHEPHERDESS.
But where is my jointure, if I should consent?

DAPHNIS.
My fields and my woodlands, in all their extent,
With my flocks and my herds—

SHEPHERDESS.
Then an oath you shall take
That you love me with truth, and will never forsake.

DAPHNIS.
Yes, tho' you endeavour to force me away,
By Pan, whom we worship, I swear I will stay.

SHEPHERDESS.
Will you build me a lodging, and sheep-cote, and bed?

154

DAPHNIS.
Yes all—and my pastures with flocks are o'erspread.

SHEPHERDESS.
But how shall I tell my old father my love?

DAPHNIS.
No fear: If you mention my name, he'll approve.

SHEPHERDESS.
Pray what are you call'd? There are charms in a name—

DAPHNIS.
I'm Daphnis: my father of musical fame,
Old Lycid: my mother, Nomea.

SHEPHERDESS.
The blood
Runs rich in your veins; and yet mine is as good.

DAPHNIS.
Not better, besure; for your father I know—
Menalcas, who lives in the valley below.

SHEPHERDESS.
Then shew me your groves; and the cote where it lies.

155

DAPHNIS.
Come hither; and mark how my cypresses rise!

SHEPHERDESS.
Browse yonder, my goats, while I haste to the grove!

DAPHNIS.
And feed, my brave bulls—while I wanton in love!

156

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

WRITTEN ON MIDSUMMER-EVE, 1786.

“Thrice hail with magic song this hallow'd hour!”
Theocritus, Idyl. ii.

Sweet to the fond poetic eye
The evening-cloud that wanders by;
Its transitory shadow pale
Brushing, so still, the purpled vale!
And sweet, beyond the misty stream,
The wild wood's scatter'd tuftings gleam,
(Where the horizon steals from sight)
Cool-tinctur'd in the fainting light!
Yet, sweeter than the silent scene,
The manners of yon cottag'd green;
Where nature breathes the genuine heart,
Unvarnish'd by the gloss of art!

Now glimmer scarce the hill-tops near,
As village murmurs catch mine ear:

157

And now yon cot, beside the lea,
(Whence oft I hear the peasant's glee)
Fades to the glimpse of twilight grey,
And, in the gloom, slow sinks away!
There, as her light of frugal rush
Twinkles thro' the white-thorn bush,
Reflected from the scanty pane,
The rustic maid invokes her swain;
And hails, to pensive damsels dear,
This eve, tho' direst of the year!

Oft on the shrub she casts her eye,
That spoke her true-love's secret sigh;
Or else, alas! too plainly told,
Her true-love's faithless heart was cold.

The moss-rose that, at fall of dew,
(Ere eve its duskier curtain drew)
Was freshly gather'd from its stem,
She values as the ruby gem;

158

And, guarded from the piercing air,
With all an anxious lover's care,
She bids it, for her shepherd's sake,
Await the new-year's frolic wake—
When, faded, in its alter'd hue
She reads—the rustic is untrue!
But, if its leaves the crimson paint,
Her sickening hopes no longer faint.
The rose upon her bosom worn,
She meets him at the peep of morn:
And lo! her lips with kisses prest,
He plucks it from her panting breast.

Dearer than seas of glowing pearl,
The illusion soothes the cottage girl,
Whilst, on this thrice-hallow'd eve,
Her wishes and her fears believe
All that the credulous have taught
To stir the quivering pulse of thought.

Now, to relieve her growing fear,
That feels the haunted moment near

159

When ghosts in chains the church-yard walk,
She tries to steal the time by talk.
But hark! the church-clock swings around
With a dead pause each sullen sound,
And tells, the midnight hour is come
That wraps the groves in spectred gloom!

To issue from beneath the thatch,
With trembling hand she lifts the latch,
And steps, as creaks the feeble door,
With cautious feet her threshold o'er;
Lest, stumbling on the horse-shoe dim,
Dire spells unsinew every limb.

Lo, shuddering at the solemn deed,
She scatters round the magic seed,
And thrice repeats, “The seed I sow;
“My true-love's scythe the crop shall mow.”
Strait, as her frame fresh horrors freeze,
Her true-love with his scythe she sees!

160

And next, she seeks the yew-tree shade,
Where he who died for love is laid;
There binds upon the verdant sod
(By many a moon-light faery trod)
The cowslip and the lily wreath
She wove, her hawthorn-hedge beneath:
And, whispering, “Ah, may Colin prove
“As constant, as thou wast, to love—”
Kisses with pale lip, full of dread,
The turf that hides his clay-cold head!
Then homeward, as thro' rustling trees
She hears a shriek in every breeze,
In forms her flutter'd spirits give
Each shivering leaf appears to live.
At length, her love-sick projects tried,
She gains her cot the lea beside;
And on her pillow sinks to rest,
With dreams of constant Colin blest;
While, east-along, the ruddy streak
Colours the shadows at day-break!

161

Such are the phantoms love can raise;
As first his gradual ardour strays
O'er the young virgin's thrilling frame;
A sweet delirium in the flame!
Her bosom's gently rising swell,
And purple light, the tumult tell—
The melting blush upon her cheek,
The sigh, the glance, her passion speak!
And now, some favourite object near,
She feels the throbs of hope and fear;
And, all unknowing to conceal
The ingenuous soul by fashion's veil,
Tries every art to feed her fires
That fond credulity inspires.

Nor love alone, in vernal youth,
Bids airy fancy mimic truth.
The cottager, or maid, or wife,
Each dear deception owns thro' life:
Whether, as superstitions sway,
O'er upland dews she slopes her way,

162

Hailing, on Easter's holy morn,
The spotless lamb thro' ether borne,
Which her adoring eyes behold,
Mid orient skies of molten gold;
Or whether, if disease assail
In shape of shivering tertian pale,
For Tray, what time the fit began,
She breaks the salted cake of bran,
Transferring with the charmed bit
To fawning Tray her ague fit;
Or, as the recent grave she delves,
(Ere dawn dissolve the circling elves)
Where the last youth was lock'd in sleep,
The sacred salt she buries deep—
Thus nine times (no companion nigh
To cheer the night-envelop'd sky)
Revisiting the charnel ground,
“Her tongue chain'd up without a sound.”

'Tis thus fantastic visions rise,
To cheat the unweeting damsel's eyes.

163

Nor bending age, nor pining want,
The faery prospect disenchant:
But, stor'd with many a trancing charm,
A thousand phantoms round her swarm;
'Till now the villagers, o'eraw'd,
Her various feats in wonder laud;
And, arm'd with her associate switch,
She dwindles to—a wither'd witch!

164

ELEGIAC PIECES.

THE ELEGIES OF TYRTÆUS.

ELEGY THE FIRST.

I would not value, or transmit the fame
Of him, whose brightest worth in swiftness lies;
Nor would I chaunt his poor unwarlike name
Who wins no chaplet but the wrestler's prize.

165

In vain, for me, the Cyclops' giant might
Blends with the beauties of Tithonus' form;
In vain the racer's agile powers unite,
Fleet as the whirlwind of the Thracian storm.

In vain, for me, the riches round him glow
A Midas or a Cinyras possess'd;
Sweet as Adrastus' tongue his accents flow,
Or Pelops' sceptre seems to stamp him blest.

Vain all the dastard honours he may boast,
If his soul thirst not for the martial field;
Meet not the fury of the rushing host,
Nor bear o'er hills of slain the untrembling shield.

166

This—this is virtue: This—the noblest meed
That can adorn our youth with fadeless rays;
While all the perils of the adventurous deed,
The new-strung vigour of the state repays.

Amid the foremost of the embattled train,
Lo the young hero hails the glowing fight;
And, tho' fall'n troops around him press the plain,
Still fronts the foe, nor brooks inglorious flight.

His life—his fervid soul oppos'd to death,
He dares the terrours of the field defy;
Kindles each spirit with his panting breath,
And bids his comrade-warriours nobly die!

See, see, dismay'd, the phalanx of the foe
Turns round, and hurries o'er the plain afar;
While doubling, as afresh, the deadly blow,
He rules, intrepid chief, the waves of war.

167

Now fall'n, the noblest of the van, he dies,
His city by the beauteous death renown'd;
His low-bent father marking, where he lies,
The shield, the breast-plate hackt by many a wound.

168

The young, the aged, alike mingling tears—
His country's heavy grief bedews the grave;
And all his race in verdant lustre wears
Fame's richest wreath, transmitted from the brave.

Tho' mixt with earth the perishable clay,
His name shall live, while glory loves to tell,
‘True to his country how he won the day,
‘How firm the hero stood, how calm he fell!’

But if he 'scape the doom of death (the doom
To long—long dreary slumbers) he returns,
While trophies flash, and victor-laurels bloom,
And all the splendour of the triumph burns.

The old—the young—caress him, and adore;
And with the city's love, thro' life, repay'd,

169

He sees each comfort, that endears, in store,
Till, the last hour, he sinks to Pluto's shade.

Old as he droops, the citizens, o'eraw'd,
(Ev'n veterans) to his mellow glories yield;
Nor would in thought dishonour or defraud
The hoary soldier of the well-fought field.

Be your's to reach such eminence of fame;
To gain such heights of virtue nobly dare,
My youths! and, 'mid the fervour of acclaim,
Press, press to glory; nor remit the war!

170

ELEGY THE SECOND.

Rouse, rouse, my youths! the chain of torpour break;
Spurn idle rest, and couch the glittering lance!
What! Does not shame with blushes stain your cheek
Quick-mantling, as ye catch the warriour's glance?

Ignoble youths! Say, when shall valour's flame
Burn in each breast? Here, here, while hosts invade,
And war's wild clangours all your courage claim,
Ye sit, as if still peace embower'd the shade.

But, sure, fair honour crowns the auspicious deed,
When patriot love impels us to the field;
When, to defend a trembling wife, we bleed,
And when our shelter'd offspring bless the shield.

171

What time the fates ordain, pale death appears:
Then, with firm step and sword high drawn, depart;

172

And, marching thro' the first thick shower of spears,
Beneath thy buckler guard the intrepid heart.

173

Each mortal, tho' he boast celestial sires,
Slave to the sovereign destiny of death,
Or mid the carnage of the plain expires,
Or yields unwept at home his coward breath.

Yet sympathy attends the brave man's bier;
Sees on each wound the balmy grief bestow'd;
And, as in death the universal tear,
Thro' life inspires the homage of a god.

For like a turret his proud glories rise,
And stand, above the rival's reach, alone;
While millions hail, with fond adoring eyes,
The deeds of many a hero meet in one!

174

ELEGY THE THIRD.

Yet are ye Hercules' unconquer'd race—
Remand, heroic tribe, your spirit lost!
Not yet all-seeing Jove averts his face;
Then meet without a fear the thronging host.

175

Each to the foe his steady shield oppose,
Accoutred to resign his hateful breath:
The friendly sun a mild effulgence throws
On valour's grave, tho' dark the frown of death.

Yes! ye have known the ruthless work of war!
Yes! ye have known its tears—its heavy woe;
When, scattering in pale flight, ye rush'd afar,
Or chas'd the routed squadrons of the foe.

176

Of those who dare, a strong compacted band,
Firm for the fight their warriour-spirits link,
And grapple with the foeman, hand to hand,
How few, thro' deadly wounds expiring, sink.

They, foremost in the ranks of battle, guard
The inglorious multitude that march behind;
While shrinking fears the coward's step retard,
And dies each virtue in the feeble mind.

But 'tis not in the force of words to paint
What varied ills attend the ignoble troop,
Who trembling on the scene of glory faint,
Or wound the fugitives that breathless droop.

Basely the soldier stabs, with hurried thrust,
The unresisting wretch, that shieldless flies!
At his last gasp dishonour'd in the dust
(His back transfix'd with spears) the dastard lies!

177

Thus then, bold youth, the rules of valour learn:
Stand firm, and fix on earth thy rooted feet;
Bite with thy teeth thy eager lips; and stern
In conscious strength, the rushing onset meet:

And shelter with thy broad and bossy shield
Thy thighs and shins, thy shoulders and thy breast;
The long spear ponderous in thy right-hand wield,
And on thy head high nod the dreadful crest.

Mark well the lessons of the warlike art,
That teach thee, if the shield with ample round
Protect thy bosom, to approach the dart,
Nor chuse with timid care the distant ground.

But, for close combat with the fronting foe,
Elate in valorous attitude draw near;
And aiming, hand to hand, the fateful blow,
Brandish thy temper'd blade or massy spear.

178

Yes! for the rage of stubborn grapple steel'd,
Grasp the sword's hilt, and couch the long-beat lance;
Foot to the foeman's foot, and shield to shield,
Crest ev'n to crest, and helm to helm, advance.

But ye light-arm'd, who, trembling in the rear,
Bear smaller targets, at a distance, throw
The hissing stone, or hurl the polisht spear,
(Plac'd nigh your panoply) to mar the foe.

179

ELEGY THE FOURTH.

If, fighting for his dear paternal soil,
The soldier in the front of battle fall;
'Tis not in fickle fortune to despoil
His store of fame, that shines the charge of all.

But if, opprest by penury, he rove
Far from his native town and fertile plain;
And lead the sharer of his fondest love
Is youth too tender, with her infant train;

180

And if his aged mother—his shrunk sire
Join the sad groupe; see many a bitter ill
Against the houseless family conspire,
And all the measure of the wretched fill.

Pale shivering want, companion of his way,
He meets the lustre of no pitying eye,
To hunger and dire infamy a prey:
Dark hatred scowls, and scorn quick passes by.

Alas! no traits of beauty or of birth—
No blush now lingers in his sunken face!
Dies every feeling (as he roams o'er earth)
Of shame transmitted to a wandering race.

But be it ours to guard this hallow'd spot,
To shield the tender offspring and the wife;
Here steadily await our destin'd lot,
And, for their sakes, resign the gift of life.

181

The valorous youths, in squadrons close combin'd,
Rush, with a noble impulse, to the fight!
Let not a thought of life glance o'er your mind,
And not a momentary dream of flight.

[illeg.] your hoar seniors bent by feeble age,
Whose weak knees fail, tho' strong their ardour glows;
[illeg.] leave such warriours to the battle's rage,
But round their awful spirits firmly close.

Base—base the sight, if, foremost on the plain,
In dust and carnage the fall'n veteran roll;
And ah! while youths shrink back, unshielded, stain
His silver temples, and breathe out his soul!

185

THE EPITAPH ON ADONIS.

FROM BION.

‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
[illeg.] hapless Queen, thy purple robes forego—
Leave thy gay couch, and snatch the weeds of woe!

186

Beat—beat thy breast, and tell: ‘Tho’ fair he shone,
‘Alas, Adonis, tho' so fair, is gone!

‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
I see his thigh in weltering horror bare,
The wound all open to the mountain-air.
He breathes! Yet, yet his eyes a pale mist dims,
As the black crimson stains his snowy limbs:
Lo! from his lips the rosy colour flies,
And ev'n thy soothing kiss, O Venus, dies!

187

That kiss (I view thy anguisht image near)
That last fond kiss, to thee so doubly-dear!
But the vain ardours of thy love give o'er—
Cold—cold he lies, and feels thy breath no more.

‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
[illeg.] in the chace his dogs stand howling round,
And the pale Oreads mourn the fatal wound.

188

The Cyprian Queen abandon'd to despair
(A deeper wound her heart was doom'd to bear)
Wanders amidst the thickets of the wood,
Her torn unsandal'd feet distain'd with blood;
And her wild tresses floating in the gale,
Wails her Assyrian lord, thro' many a long, long vale!
But on the mountain-brow Adonis lies,
Nor hears one echo of her ceaseless cries;
While, spouting from his thigh, the streams of gore
His bosom erst so white empurple o'er.

‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
Lo! Venus blooms no more in beauty's pride;
With him her graces liv'd! with him they died!
Those vivid blushes—those entrancing charms—
That form glow'd only for Adonis' arms!
The mountain-springs—the rivers, as they flow—
And the hill-oaks re-murmur to her woe!
The florets blush, in sorrow, at her feet;
While sad in every grove, thro' every street

189

Cythera chaunts: ‘Thy favourite youth is fled!’
Ah, Venus, mourn the fair Adonis dead!
Responsive echo sighs!—Who, who can hear
The lovelorn goddess moan, without a tear?

Soon as she saw her lover press the ground,
Wither'd his crimson thigh, and wide the wound,
She stretch'd her trembling arms, and deeply sigh'd;
[illeg.], ‘Stay, dear youth, a moment stay,’ (she cried)
That I may clasp thee, on thy breast recline,
Suck thy faint breath, and glue my lips to thine!
One tender token, dear Adonis, give—
Yet a short moment, while thy kisses live!
Then, as in death thy sinking eyes shall roll,
I'll catch the quivering spirit of thy soul,

190

‘Draw its quick flame, rekindled as we part;
‘Drink thy fond love, and store it in the heart!
‘Thus the last relic of affection take,
‘And here inclose it, for thy charming sake!
‘Far—far from me, to Pluto's spectred coast,
‘Belov'd Adonis! flies thy gentle ghost!
‘Wretch that I am, to breathe immortal breath,
‘That cannot join thee in the realms of death!
‘Queen of the shades, whom Fate hath giv'n to share
‘Whatever blooms on earth, or good or fair;
‘Far happier thou, take all my soul adores!
‘He comes, blest Queen, he hastens to thy shores!
‘Alas! while here my fruitless sorrows stream,
‘Love, golden love, is vanisht as a dream:
‘Their wanton charms no more my Cupids own;
‘They droop, and perisht is my virgin zone.

191

‘Why, form'd so fair, with every softer grace,
‘Why, sweet Adonis, urge the savage chace?’
‘Thus Venus griev'd: and—‘Ah! thy joys are o'er’—
‘Her Cupids sobb'd—‘Adonis is no more.’

Wide as her lover's torrent-blood appears,
As copious flow'd the fountain of her tears!
The rose starts blushing from the sanguine dyes,
And from her tears anemonies arise.

192

‘Perisht Adonis!’ my full sorrows sigh!
‘Perisht!’ the Loves—the weeping Loves reply!
But cease to sigh unpitied to the groves
The hapless story of thy vanisht loves!
His velvet couch survey—nor longer weep—
See his fair limbs, and mark his beauteous sleep!
Come, let the bridal vest those limbs infold,
And pillow his reposing head in gold!
Tho' fix'd in death its pallid features frown,
That visage with the flowery chaplet crown!
Alas! no florets boast their glowing pride:
With him their fragrance, and their colour, died!
Shade him with myrtles—pour the rich perfumes—
No—perish ev'ry sweet—No more Adonis blooms!

193

His pale corse cover'd with a purple vest,
Behold he lies! And lo! the Loves distrest
Shear their bright locks, in agony of woe,
And spurn the useless dart, and break the bow!

194

Some quick unbind his buskin'd leg, and bring
In golden urns pure water from the spring;
While others gently bathe the bleeding wound,
Or with light pinions fan him, fluttering round.
See Hymen quench his torch, in wild despair,
And scatter the connubial wreath in air!
For nuptial songs, the dirge funereal sighs,
While Hymen sorrows, and Adonis dies!
The Graces mourn their sweet Adonis slain;
And louder ev'n than thou, Dione, plain!

195

Hark, from the Nine elegiac accents fall,
(Each plaintive cadence murmuring to recall
Their favourite bard) solicitous to save—
Ah! can he hear? or cross the irremeable wave?
Yet, Venus, cease: thy tears awhile forego—
Reserve thy sorrows for the year of woe!

196

THE EPITAPH ON BION

FROM MOSCHUS.

Mourn, Dorian stream, departed Bion mourn!
Pour the hoarse murmur from thy pallid urn!

197

Sigh, groves and lawns! Ye plants, in sorrow wave;
Ye flowers, breathe sickly sweets o'er Bion's grave!

198

Anemonies and roses, blush your grief;
Expand, pale hyacinth, thy letter'd leaf!
Thy marks of anguish more distinctly show—
Ah! well the tuneful herdsman claims your woe!

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Ye nightingales that soothe the shadowy vale,
Warble to Arethusa's streams the tale

199

Of Bion dead: lamenting nature's pride,
He sunk! Ah then the Dorian music died!

Begin, &c.
Ye swans of Strymon, bid so sweet a note
As Bion breath'd along your green banks, float
O'er the still wave! and tell Bistonia's maids,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the glades.

Begin, &c.
Dear to the Muse, alas! no more he sings,
By yon' lone oak that shades the plashy springs.
He roams a spectre thro' the glooms of fear,
And chaunts the oblivious verse to Pluto's ear.
O'er the hush'd hills his pensive heifers rove,
Refuse their pasture, and forget their love!

Begin, &c.
Thee—thee, O Bion, snatch'd from earth away,
The satyrs wail'd, and ev'n the God of day!
Pan for thy numbers heav'd his sighing breast,
And sad Priapus mourn'd in sable vest.

200

The Naïds in despairing anguish stood,
And swell'd with briny tears their fountain-flood.
Mute Echo, as her mimic music dies,
Amidst her dreary rocks lamenting lies.
The trees resign'd their fruitage, at thy death,
And all the faded flowers, their scented breath.
The ewes no milk—the hives no honey gave:
But what avail'd it, the rich stores to save?
What, that the bee no balmy floret sips,
Extinct the sweeter honey of thy lips?

Begin, &c.
Not with such grief the dolphin fill'd the seas,
Or Philomela's plaint, the woodland breeze,

201

Or Progne's bitter woe, the mountains hoar,
Or wild Alcyone, the fatal shore;
Or faithful Cerylus, the cave where lies
His mate still breathing fondness as she dies;
Or Memnon's screaming birds, his orient tomb,
As now they utter at their Bion's doom!

202

Begin, &c.
The love-lorn nightingales that learnt his song,
The swallows twittering shrill, the boughs among,
Join their sad notes; the vocal groves reply—
Sigh too, ye turtles, for your Bion sigh!

Begin, &c.
Who now, regretted swain, thy pipe shall play;
Touch the fair stops, or trill the melting lay?
Faint from thy lips still breathe the mellow reeds;
Still on their dying sweetness Echo feeds:
To bear those melodies to Pan be mine;
Tho' he may fear to risk his fame with thine!

Begin, &c.
And Galatea too bewails thy fate—
Fair nymph, who oft upon the sea-shore sat
Sooth'd by thy songs, and fled the Cyclops' arms—
Far other strains were thine! far other charms!
Now on the sand she sits—forgets the sea—
Yet feeds thy herds, and still remembers thee!

203

Begin, &c.
With thee, O swain, expir'd the Muse's bliss—
The roseate bloom of youth, the roseate kiss!
The fluttering Cupids round thy ashes cry,
And fond—fond Venus mixes many a sigh!
She loves thee, as Adonis' parting breath—
As his last kisses so endear'd by death!

Here—here, O Meles, musical in woe,
And for another son thy tide shall flow!
For thy first poet mourn'd thy plaintive wave;
Each murmur deepen'd at thy Homer's grave:
Another grief (melodious stream) appears!
Alas! another poet claims thy tears!
Dear to the fountains which inspire the Muse,
That drank of Helicon—this, Arethuse!
That bard his harp to beauteous Helen strung;
And the dire anger of Pelides sung:
[illeg.]—in his softer lay no wars display'd,
But chanted Pan all peaceful in the shade!
And fram'd his reeds, or milk'd his kine, or led
His herds to pasture, singing as they fed!

204

And oft, so dear to Venus, he carest
The little Cupid in his panting breast.

Begin, &c.
The cities and the towns thy death deplore—
Than her own Hesiod Ascra mourns thee more!
Not thus her Pindar Hylæ's grief bemoans—
Not Lesbos thus Alcæus' manly tones!
Not Ceos, Paros, thus regret their bards—
And Mitylene yet thy reed regards
Beyond her Sappho's lyre; and every swain
Pipes thee, O Bion, on his native plain.
The Samian's gentle notes thy memory greet—
Philetas too—and Lycidas of Crete!
Now, breathing heavy sighs, each heart despairs,
Tho' erst full many a jocund revel theirs.
Thee too, dear Bard, Theocritus bewails,
The sweetest warbler of Sicilia's dales!
And I, who suit to sorrow's melting tone
The Ausonian verse, but mimic music own.
If e'er the charms of melody I knew,
'Tis to thy forming skill the praise is due.

205

Others may claim thy gold—the gold be theirs!
Our be the Doric Muse, thy wealthier heirs.

Begin, &c.
Tho' fade crisp anise, and the parsley's green,
And vivid mallows from the garden-scene,
The balmy breath of spring their life renews,
And bids them flourish in their former hues!
But we, the great, the valiant, and the wise,
When once the seal of death hath clos'd our eyes,
Lost in the hollow tomb obscure and deep,
Slumber, to wake no more, one long unbroken sleep!
Thou too, while many a scrannel reed I hear
Grating eternal harshness on my ear—
Thou too, thy charm of melting music o'er,
But in the silent earth, shalt rise no more!

206

Begin, &c.
'Twas poison gave thee to the grasp of death—
Ah! could not poison sweeten at thy breath?

207

Who for those lips of melody could dare
The venom'd chalice (murderous wretch) prepare?
Such wretches rove with vengeance at their heels;
While now at this drear hour my bosom feels
The bursting sigh! Like Orpheus could I go,
Or wise Ulysses, to the shades below;
To Pluto's dome my steps should strait repair,
To hear what numbers thou art chaunting there.
But sing, as in the genial realms of light,
Some sweet bucolic to the Queen of Night.
She once amid those golden meadows play'd,
And sung the Dorian song in Ætna's shade.
Thy music shall ascend with all the fire—
With all the strong effect of Orpheus' lyre!

208

Fair Proserpine shall listen to thy strain,
And, pitying, send thee to thy hills again.
O that, as Orpheus' lyre reclaim'd his wife,
My pipe had power to bring thy shade to life!

209

THE LOCK TRANSFORMED.

TO LAURA.

Dear was the moment, when the gentle Fair
Gave to my wishes with consenting eyes,
A Lock that sever'd from her lovely hair
Could soften all my bosom into sighs!

And dear those moments that so sweetly stole
A pang from absence, and impell'd my lyre
To wake the fond emotions of the soul,
In melting ardours and a poet's fire!

Then Fancy stream'd her visions on the Muse,
And many a transitory form portray'd,
[illeg.] aërial sylphs in vivid hues,
And bade their little wings the Lock o'ershade.

210

But quick their fluid shapes dissolve in air,
And other beings rise, as Fancy wills—
Lo drawn by turtles in her ivory car,
Appears the goddess of the Paphian hills!

And thus: “That ringlet to my power resign—
“For, from its kindred tresses tho' in part,
“To give it brighter beauties shall be mine,
“With all the skill of imitative art.

“What tho' the fam'd Belinda's ravisht hair
“May add new glory to the distant skies;
“Yet shall thy Laura's Lock eclipse the star
“That vainly shoots, and kindles as it flies!”

She said—and from my hand the ringlet caught,
And sudden to my wondering sight display'd
Thy gift, my Laura, to a portrait wrought,
With all the varied charms of light and shade!

211

And “Here,” she cried, (while round the fluttering Loves
“Breath'd on the roseate cheeks their softest blooms)
Behold a nymph, more gentle than my doves,
“Or zephyr, sighing 'midst my Cyprian glooms!

See the pure spirit of a native grace
“To all her mien a lovelier air impart!
And see that meek expression of a face
“Where in each genuine look we read the heart!

These speaking eyes a charm from nature steal
“Which vainly would the rhetor's powers supply;
For ah, more sweetly-eloquent we feel
“The language of the never-silent eye!

Nor let her Attic robe escape thy view
“That no vain-tinsell'd pageantry betrays—
Such as the pencil of Apelles drew,
“And Grecian virgins wore, in ancient days!

212

“'Twas then the spirit of this nymph divine
“Shone, to Electra's Bard, in golden dreams;
“As oft he woo'd the favours of the Nine
“Amidst the murmur of Ilyssus' streams.

“But ah—how long—how heavily opprest
“While Athens moulder'd into dust, she lay—
“With Gothic darkness brooding o'er her breast,
“That gloom'd the sweetness of her soul away!

“If e'er the Bards of Arno's oliv'd vale
“A wild note warbled to the pensive maid,
“Full soon, unheeding the degenerate tale,
“She fled, with many a sigh, from Pisa's shade.

“Next, in her favourite isle, the harp she strung—
“The British minstrels triumph'd, as she came—
“Hail'd her—divine Simplicity; and sung
“With all Aonia's harmony, her name.

213

“Mark then her lovely form as pictur'd here
“She gives to zephyr her Æolian shell;
“And see that root-inwoven shrine, that near
“Yon sycamore's broad shadow, crowns the dell.

“Glares round its pedestal no quaint design;
“Nor aught that meretricious art can boast:
“To Nature rear'd, the unaspiring shrine
“Appears, ‘while unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.’

“Lo there she bids, arrang'd with happiest taste,
“The primrose and the violet sweet diffuse
“Their mingled breath, and blend in union chaste
“Their colours sprinkled by the twilight dews:

“While my soft star, that loves, each evening hour,
“To hover o'er the stillness of the dale,
“Thro' the green sycamore, itself a bower,
“On the rude altar, sheds a lustre pale.

214

“No spicy clouds thence mingle with the skies;
“Her humbler offering are yon' vernal wreaths:
“And all the incense of her sacrifice,
“Is but the incense that a field-flower breathes!”

She spoke, and gave the picture to my care;
And in the rich possession call'd me blest!
And place it next thy heart (she cried) for there—
“That heaving sigh already tells the rest!

215

“Go then—where imitation's utmost art
“Has faintly copied (tho' employ'd by me)
“The bright original that fires thy heart,
“Go—and the living form in Laura see!”

216

OSSIAN DEPARTING TO HIS FATHERS.

IMITATED FROM MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN, 1780.

Where the dark torrent rolls o'er Lutha's vale,
And from the rock the thistle's beard is driv'n,
The floret trembles to the northern gale,
Weary and cover'd with the drops of heaven.

And “why, O gale, awake me?” (as it heaves
Its sleepy head) it says, or seems to say;
“The blast shall scatter all my fading leaves,
“Ere Lutha's woody skirts are ting'd with day.

“To-morrow shall the pensive traveller come,
“Who in my bright attire remembers me;
“O'er all the field his wishful eyes may roam,
“But never more those eyes my place shall see.”

217

So for the harp of Ossian shall, in vain,
The hunter, at the dawn of morning, seek:
“Where is the son of high Fingal? the strain
“Sweet to my soul!” a tear shall wet his cheek.

Here, as I cast my vagrant eyes around,
On melancholy Lutha left alone,
My voice is like the wind's last dying sound,
When it forsakes the woods with feeble moan.

The venerable oak its branches bends
Over the gloomy stream; and, as it sighs
Thro' all its hoary moss, the murmur blends
With the rude whistling fern where Ossian lies.

Yet not at distance I behold the day
When I exclaim'd, “The joy of youth returns:
“Son of the Rock, come listen to my lay,
“With thoughts of other times my bosom burns.

218

“So when the howling spirit of the north
“Hath ceas'd the dark-red mountain to deform,
“Amid the western sky the sun looks forth
“In brightness from behind the broken storm.

“Its dewy head each upland forest rears;
“Fresh in the vale rejoices the blue stream;
“The aged warriour on his staff appears,
“And lo, his grey locks glitter in the beam.”

Thus, with the glow of former years, I said;
And, as the many-colour'd days of old
Were mark'd with deeds of heroes, I survey'd
The traces of the tales I once had told.

I saw Cuthullin's car, the flame of death,
As Swaran darken'd, like a roaring flood:
I saw his high-maned coursers spurn the heath,
Snort o'er the slain, and bathe their hoofs in blood.

219

I saw, as midnight the wild wood o'ercast,
Sudden the ghost of Crugal:—Hah! he stands
Dim and in tears! “My spirit in the blast,
(He faintly cries) “my corse on Erin's sands.”

As reedy Lego's gale, his voice was shrill;
Dark was his wound: his eyes, decaying flame:
He stood, as the dun mist that robes the hill,
And the stars twinkled thro' his shadowy frame.

And Agandecca shone upon my sight,
Fair as the moon slow-rising o'er the grove;
Around her—beauty beaming as the light,
Her steps were music, and her sigh was love.

Alas! ev'n now I mourn the crimson tide,
Her blue eyes fill'd with tears, her hair's soft flow;
I see the red-brow'd Starno pierce her side;
I see her falling like a wreath of snow.

220

And I beheld the raven-tressed maid
Who scorn'd, for Ossian's love, full many a chief;
And, as I gaz'd upon her beauteous shade,
Cherish'd, yet once again, the joy of grief.

I saw the blooming youth of Fillan fall
Amidst the strife of Erin's carnag'd field;
While, in the stillness of his distant hall,
The cold blood wander'd o'er his rifted shield.

Then too I saw the warriour's helmet-plume
Scatter'd and torn:—I heard him, as he spoke,
“Ossian! with pity mark thy Fillan's doom,
“I faint—O lay me in that hollow rock!”

I saw Sulmalla trembling as the roe,
When for her native lands she heav'd a sigh;
And Cathmar musing on the virgin's woe,
Her vagrant footsteps and her fearful eye.

221

Where infant Carthon leapt with thoughtless joy,
As the bright flame involv'd his father's halls,
I saw in desolated silence lie
The dreary ruin of Balclutha's walls.

Once sweetly-soothing to my pensive soul,
Such airy visions could my sighs awake:
The soft-reflected forms on memory stole,
Like moon-beams fading from a distant lake.

And they were pleasant as the morning dew,
That hangs, bright-clustering, on the hill of roes;
Where the sun faintly spreads its orient hue,
And the grey waters in the vale repose.

Ev'n now the ghosts of passing Bards I hear,
And catch their harpings as they glide along
But cold, alas! is Ossian's closing ear;
No more I listen to the sons of Song.

222

Then, O Fingal, who dauntless in the fight
Didst whirl thy falchion, like the lightning's sheet;
And, as the tempest, raging in thy might,
Bid the rocks burst in fragments at thy feet;

Thou, who, at Loda, couldst proclaim aloud,
(Eager the dismal spirit to withstand)
His sword a meteor, and his shield a cloud,
Tho' blasts were in the hollow of his hand;

Tho' thunder was his voice, and flame his breath,
His dreadful form bent forward from on high;
His nostrils pouring pestilential death,
As the pale nations vanish'd from his eye;

Thou, who couldst bid thy Luno's massy blade
Thro' the dark ghost its gleaming path disclose;
While, as he shriek'd, the deep's still'd wave was stay'd,
And, roll'd into himself, upon the winds he rose:

223

Hear, glorious Chief, and ope thy vaulted hall;
I come—yet harping shall I mix with air:
Bear, O ye winds, my accents to Fingal,
The voice of him, who prais'd the mighty, bear.

The northern blasts, O king, thy gates unfold:
Dimly in all thy arms I see thee gleam;
Yet not as erst, the terror of the bold,
Tho' by thy power the stormy meteors stream.

There is a murmur on the heath—I hear
The voice of high Fingal—that seems to say,
(Long, long hath it been absent from mine ear)
“Come to my halls, come Ossian, come away!”

Tho' silent are the plains where battle rung,
Yet in the four grey stones we rest our fame:
In woody Selma hath our harp been strung,
Tho' its tones vanish'd as the vapoury flame.

224

“Come, Ossian, from thy Cona's desart vales!
“Sail with thy sires, in clouds embosom'd deep,
“O'er heaven!” I come; the life of Ossian fails:
By Mora's dim stone I shall sink to sleep.

The winds shall whistle to my earthy bed;
And they may lift my wither'd tresses hoar:
But Ossian cannot wake—his clay-cold head
Is doom'd to feel the rustling blast no more.

Yet shall my fame survive this feeble form,
And, like the towering oak of Morven grow,
Which proudly lifts its head to meet the storm,
And waves in triumph o'er the wreck below!

225

TO MRS. POLWHELE

WRITTEN AT MANACCAN, 1794.

The music of light-wafted sighs,
The charm of accents ever kind,
And, beaming from thy placid eyes,
The radiance of a heaven-fraught mind;

To glad this cot, from tumult far,
Such are the harmonies of love—
How sweet beneath yon gentle star
Whose evening-lustre gilds the grove!

Then, once again, I hail repose—
Once more my happy home caress;
If love, that unaffected flows,
Can promise aught of happiness.

226

Here, Mary! as the waving shade
Shall whisper peace, each rural day;
We own no joy by guilt allay'd,
Nor care what others think or say.

Yet, if we heed applause or blame,
'Tis but to make us doubly blest;
While, as the praise thy merits claim,
To envy we resign the rest.

227

ON AN APPLE-TREE FULL OF BLOSSOM, SEPT. 11, 1798.

TO OLIVIA MELIORA.

Where, shivering thro' the leafy shade,
September breathes a gloom;
Lo yonder apple-tree array'd
In all its vernal bloom.

'Twas gay Pomona bade it blow
At Meliora's suit:
Yet blooms that in September glow,
Are like forbidden fruit.

Then, Meliora! with thine hair
These blossoms if thou weave;
Alas, unweeting girl! beware
The fate of mother Eve.

228

TO OLIVIA MELIORA

GATHERING HOP BLOSSOMS FOR HER HAIR, SEPT. 11, 1798.

Lo, at the ball, with martial mien
The sparks of every shop—
To gaze upon the paly green
That trembles in thy Hop!

Yet, Meliora! in one pause
Of calm reflection, stop;
And, if thou can'st, my girl, shew cause
Why life is not a Hop!

The gay, at length, grow sick of soul,
Or jilt, or flirt, or fop:
So, oft, around the aspiring pole,
We see the exhausted Hop.

229

Amid the feast of life, we rue
Full many a bitter sop:
So those who love and those who brew
Draw bitter from a Hop.

And, whilst we flutter to and fro,
'Till fainting down we drop;
Alas! we live and die, to shew
That life is but a Hop!

230

THE POOR SPARROW OF THE INFIRMARY, 1800.

His fluttering prey, amid this dome
Impetuous to pursue,
Thro' the long airy-window'd room
The bird of rapine flew.

While scarce descried, on pinions fleet
The tyrant glanc'd away;
Affrighted, crouching at my feet,
A feeble sparrow lay.

Far off, the aërial murderer sail'd
To scatter deadly fear
But lo, the little trembler hail'd
A sure asylum here.

231

Thus, the dread minister of fate
Intent his rage to wreak
On human kind, to each retreat
Pursues the faint and weak.

Yet, if amidst these walls, perchance,
He catch the patient's eyes;
Scarce is he seen, with sudden glance,
When off disarm'd he flies.

What tho' he stretch the bloody fang?
Here, here his threats are vain;
The sick forgetting every pang—
The wounded, every pain!

232

THE SCARLET FEVER.

SEPT. 1801.

Whilst fever from the sultry east
Effus'd her venom pale;
Her raven “snuff'd the promis'd feast,”
And croak'd in every gale.

In yon low dell, where nigh the thatch
The hops in clusters spread,
I saw the unconscious victim stretch
His little hands for aid;

Or, vainly pant for zephyrs cool
Within that steamy creek;
Or there, beside the rush-green pool,
Betray the burning cheek.

233

I saw the maid, who sweetly bloom'd,
Draw quick her poison'd breath;
And those fine eyes, that love illum'd,
For ever clos'd in death.

Yet, “Here (I cried) this sloping hill
“Hygeia! be thy care!
“As freshness from the shade and rill
“Shall fan the tainted air.

“Here, as their tales my children lisp,
“Or frolic down the green,
“Shall fruits in acid ripeness crisp,
“Inspirit every vein.

“Here, Mary! never shall a sigh
“Thy placid bosom move;
“Nor e'er a languish dim thine eye,
“Unless it be from—love!”

234

Such was my strain. In soften'd shade
The evening sunk away;
As health with roses seem'd to braid
The glimmering car of day.

Alas! in fairy hopes like these,
How impious to repose!
Soon, dropping from his wing disease,
The lurid morning rose.

Blushing no longer as they blush'd
A few short hours ago,
I view my offspring fever-flusht,
And shivering as they glow.

Say, Mary! can I tell the rest?
Alas! thy sickening charms!
And clinging to thy scarlet breast
Thy poor babe's feeble arms.

235

Parent of all! Thou good Supreme!
O mark my bended knee;
The liveliest hope is all a dream,
If uninspir'd by Thee.

Father of Light! 'tis thine alone
To pour the healing balm!
Oh, as we fall before thy throne
Our throbbing pulses calm.

These innocents, great Sire of Life!
Their mother—Oh, sustain!
Yes! to my sighs restore my wife,
Or all my prayers are vain!

236

JANUARY 1, 1805.

The years that are past, and can never return,
In idea I fain would call back;
But how faithless is Memory! In anger I spurn
At her false, her dim-shadowy track.

At length less obscure, my life's morning again
Seems to open, with rays of relief—
Yet oppos'd to the present, it gives me new pain;
And my anger is chang'd into grief!

237

ON LAWRENCE POLWHELE,

WHO DIED AN INFANT, AUG. 10, 1805.

Thro' the long night, my cradled child
Drew quick his feeble breath;
And vainly stretch'd his quivering arms
Amidst the shade of death.

The daystar rose: the redbreast pour'd
A note to dawning day;
His spirit, ere the note expir'd,
Had pass'd, serene, away.

And oh! it left in pale repose
A smile upon his cheek:
Thus, thro' the still cold gloom, I view'd
The placid morning break.

238

Dear Babe! that warbled strain I hear,
Thy pensive requiem sweet;
As, lifting up the coffin-lid,
Those features mild I meet,

And, plac'd in either lifeless palm,
And, on thy breast, the flowers
That fade so fast, and seem to say
How short thine infant hours.

But thou art spar'd full many a pang,
Escap'd from sin and care:
And ever shall a Saviour's love
Such sainted children share.

“Hail, with affection hail,” (he cries)
“These spotless babes of Grace:
“For lo! their angels e'er behold
“In Heaven, my Father's face.”

239

Thither I see the seraphs wings
Earth's little strangers bear—
Thee, Lawrence! child of innocence!
Thine angel greets thee, there.

240

EPISTLES.

THE DISTAFF:

AN EPISTLE. FROM THEOCRITUS.

Friend to the woof, each thrifty matron's care,
O thou, the azure-ey'd Minerva's meed,
Thy poet's charge, to Nileus' towers repair,
Where Cytherea's fane is bower'd in reed!
Thither we ask fair winds to waft us o'er,
That Nicias, by the sweet-ton'd Graces blest,
(Their hallow'd offspring) may with letter'd lore
And friendly converse charm his welcome guest.

241

Thee, Distaff, thee, of polisht ivory fram'd
I bear, meet present to his lovely wife:
So shall her frugal industry be fam'd,
The genuine model of domestic life;
Whilst her fine vests shall manly limbs adorn,
The flowing garment, or the robe succinct;
While o'er her water'd webs by females worn
Floats the rich lustre of the shadowy tinct.
The fleece's treasure, each revolving year,
Twice the shorn mother of the lamb supplies;
For her who holds each toil—each science dear,
That gains the stamp of merit from the wise.
Nor would I bear thee, Distaff, to the dome,
Where dissipation reigns, and idle mirth;
Thee, who, amidst Sicilia's pasture-bloom,
Tracest to Archias' city-walls thy birth.

242

A happier mansion be thy lot to gain,
Where lives my friend, whose health-restoring aid
Lulls with salubrious balms the throbs of pain,
And guards Miletus' sons from Pluto's shade.
Thus shall thy fair possessor rise in fame,
By thee recall to mind her tuneful guest;
And many a-one, that marks thee, shall exclaim,
‘Tho' but a trivial favour be possest,
‘'Tis for the giver's sake the gift we boast,
‘And what a friend bestows we value most!’

243

EPISTLE TO DR. DOWNMAN OF EXETER.

WRITTEN DURING A VIOLENT ILLNESS, AUGUST 17, 1791.

Hail to my generous guide, my honour'd friend!
May every blessing on his steps attend—
How feebly the warm wish these lines impart!
Yet, O accept them from a grateful heart!

Here, Downman, as in still suspense I lie,
And from my pillow lift the languid eye;
'Tis in thy friendship only, to effuse
Some little spirit o'er my faultering Muse!

Long have I own'd with pride, amidst the shade
Of sacred poesy, thy critic aid;
And, whilst thy lessons to perfection fir'd,
The beauteous model in thy verse admir'd,

244

Where melody unites with diction chaste,
And all that fancy charms, or polisht taste.

But merits, far superior, mark thy lays—
Praise, such as this, were “mockery of praise.”
The manly virtues in thy numbers shine,
And sentiment, that nerves each vigorous line;
And learning, not in pompous garb display'd,
But in simplicity's pure vest array'd;
And strong unbiast reason, and the light
Of philanthropic feelings beaming bright:
Nor less the humbler charities, that pour
Their lustre on the dear domestic hour!

Yet, tho' thy writings to the world hold forth
A spotless mirror of thy active worth,
Yet is thy life (just Heaven's peculiar care)
But with a feeble ray reflected there.
Strenuous to chase from man each brooding ill,
Thy social kindness, or thy healing skill,
Thro' all the tenour of that life appears,
And brightens up a gloomy vale of tears;

245

Whether, from opulence retir'd, thy feet
Trace out the chill and comfortless retreat
Of the poor orphan, or thou love to close
The mental wounds that speak no common woes.

Where, starting from a short and troubled sleep,
The weary languish, or the wretched weep;
'Tis thine refreshing slumbers to restore,
Bid strength revive, or sorrow weep no more.

And, whilst the sounds of gratulation bless
Thy healing art, thy merited success;
Whilst, from the bed of sickness, round thee rise
The rich, the poor, to meet thy glistening eyes,
Fresh-blooming—with the nerve of health new-strung,
And Downman echoes from each grateful tongue;
Me, too, thy cordial balms already cheer,
Thy friendly voice, thy sympathy sincere!

Yes! where the last dim star of eve survey'd
This fainting frame in pale disorder laid,

246

When well nigh ceas'd the vital stream to flow,
And every pulse beat tremulously low;
And, as my breath seem'd ready to depart,
Exhausted nature flutter'd at my heart;
Thy medicine's renovating power could save
My sunken spirit from the yawning grave!

And O! if an indulgent Being give
His servant, yet a few short years to live;
To please that God who bless'd thy art in me,
O Downman, may I live to copy thee!

247

EPISTLE TO DR. DOWNMAN OF EXETER.

WRITTEN AT MANACCAN, 1794.

When the chaise, on a sudden, roll'd off from your door,
And I thought in my heart I should see you no more,
Since expression, dear doctor, was smother'd in silence;
These lines I address to you, many a mile hence!
A sabbath-day's journey, at least, had we rumbled,
Ere a word to my wife or my children I grumbled:
Nor could I my spirits a long while recover,
Too fond beside Athelstan's palace to hover!
The carriage indeed, as we reach'd Crockernwell,
Had begun with its jostling my spleen to dispel,
When we enter'd the inn by a porch of rude granite,
Strong-pillar'd, whoe'er had the honour to plan it;
Where a damsel, sunburnt as a haycock adust is,
Said, ‘Business that morning was done by the justice:’

248

And the justice, I found, was our classic friend Hayter,
At once a proficient in law and in metre;
Tho' rarely, perhaps, the heroics of Greece
Disturb the still brains of a justice-of-peace.
Again fasten'd up, one and all, in the chaise,
To remembrance I call'd our friend's elegant lays,
And in fancy convers'd with my muse-loving comrade,
While my features for joy, as I sat on my bum, ray'd:
Nor had we far travell'd the rocky-rough road,
Ere his verses suggested the thought of an ode;
In which, as I painted druidical stones,
And urns but half-bak'd, full of ashes and bones,
I rais'd up my Britons, to fill with affright
Pale Rome, amid all the scyth'd fury of fight.
Thus wildly I bade the poetical war rage,
High-cleaving the clouds, tho' coop'd up in a carriage!
Yet oft from my real companions a squawl
Brought me down in mid flight, as if shot by a ball!
But before we arriv'd at the town on the Ock,
I felt, my good Sir, a more terrible shock

249

Than from squawling or squeaking, my Muse to unhinge,
I felt from Podagra's hot pincers, a twinge;
And begg'd my fond wife, with a visage of woe,
To bind up in flannel my goutified toe!
In the morning, however, I flung off the flannel,
Limp'd forth, and awhile observ'd Ock's foamy channel;
And then was cramm'd into a carriage afresh,
Complaining of stiffness and heat in the flesh.
From Ockinton, fam'd for its sweet little mutton,
At length, with a pair of lame horses, we put on;
Till, greatly exhausted, we view'd thy hoar ruin,
Dunheved! as round thee a tempest was brewing;
And, afterwards, saw the folks lounging at Bodmin,
So sluggish, we christen'd them all, hodmandod-men;
And, eastward of Truro, drove in, to survey
The home where I frolick'd, when childhood was gay.
But why, as no striking adventure befel,
Of my route should I every particular tell?
In short, then, my friend, like a timber-tree shaken,
On the third day at eve I saluted Manaccan.

250

And “Here, (I exclaim'd, as I enter'd my parlour)
“Far off from the flatterer, far off from the snarler,
“Secure from the blame or applause of the world,
“Am I deep in the shade of obscurity hurl'd.
“And this do I owe (so the bishop determines)
“To my two most delectable volumes of sermons!
“'Tis for these (but their merits are, sure, over-rated)
“To my snug little vicarage I am collated:
“And for a collation so pretty, from his shop,
“I certainly am much oblig'd to the bishop!”
Of my church I next day got the freehold, you see,
By tolling the bell and by turning the key;
And on Sunday I read myself in, to fatigue
The largest assembly then met in Menege.

Here, then, I'm set down in a building grotesque:
But the scenery around is not unpicturesque.
Of Helford you often have heard—in my parish—
I assure you the niceness of Helford is rarish.
All along on the harbour, the cottages rise
To pleasure the poet's contemplative eyes!

251

The fronts cherry-clad, and the roofs are so trim,
That, when the full tide hath flow'd up to the brim
Of the circular bason, we see quite a picture,
Which holds at defiance all critical stricture.
And, within, every board is so white, and each shelf
So glitters with pewter, or glimmers with delf,
The floors so well-sanded, the chimneys so neat,
That I envy the villager such a retreat!
On the steep-curving hill that hangs over the houses,
An orchard here waves, and a heifer there browzes!
Here a plough, as across the crag-furrows it bends,
Perpendicular over a chimney impends!
When, scaling the height, in the road to the church,
We at once leave the low-buried cots in the lurch;
Glance o'er an oak-wood, where the shrill-piercing cry
Of the hawk often blends with the scream of the pie;
And the labour of climbing the mountain-path, close,
Out of breath, with the neat-looking farm of Halvoze,
Whose owners are quickly expected (folks tell us)
To spend here a part of the summer, from Hellas.
Hence appear little fields of hay, fallow, or corn,
That pollards of beech and bald oaklings adorn;

252

And yellow furze gilding the extensive horizon,
Fine food for an ass as you ever cast eyes on!
If the country round you (as a writer avows)
So full of rich meads, be fit only for cows;
Since we beat you in furze, as you beat us in grasses,
Our country, I'm sure, is fit only for asses!
And yet, looking back, we observe from this height,
The harbour, like silver, invested with light;
And, darting our eyes from the boat-shadow'd tide
To the coppice that crouds, on the opposite side,
O'er the edge of the water, are pleas'd with each creek
That varies the shore with a beautiful break.

Nor should we the walk to the Dinas despise,
Whence clustering hop-gardens solicit our eyes;
And the smoke that ascends from the hamlet beneath,
To curl thro' the clift in a light-azure wreath;
And the hills far away, spotted over with sheep,
And now, in full prospect, the surge of the deep!
Meantime, from the glebe (which produces some pence—
Full thirty good acres within a ring-fence)
From the glebe, I would say, if we gaze all around,
We, doubtless, may view much diversified ground:

253

But chief are we charm'd, if the valley we mark
That stretches away from beneath Coney-park;
Here waving, so rich, a broad sycamore shade;
There, opening at once in a golden-cup'd glade;
Here catching attention, beside a dun hill,
By a flash from the stream of an upper-shot mill;
There leading the sight to a covert so privy,
Thro' a long lane of elms hung with tremulous ivy;
Here deepening, at distance, a thicket of holly
Into gloom, to attract thy lone steps, Melancholy!
And there, far retir'd, to a slanting sunbeam
Disclosing, by sits, the dim source of its stream.

And yet, my dear doctor, enclos'd by a wall,
From the vicarage-house we see nothing at all:
A part of the valley, indeed, so bewitching,
We barely discern from the vicarage-kitchen.

Here, here was I dropt—tho' but ill at my ease
When I felt 'twas amid a cotillion of fleas!
Such a hop tho' I never had witness'd before,
Yet I voted the dance “an incredible bore.”
But how a flea-ball could be held in my parlour,
I could not divine, till I question'd a carle, here,

254

Who said 'twas by pigeon-appointment, he heard—
For the pigeons so mightily lov'd Mr. Peard,
That, in bed or at board, to amuse the good man, sirs,
They brought him a flock of these sweet little dancers.

So, after ten years on a curacy past,
It is this, my dear friend, to be vicar at last.
Yet, tho' buried here in the fogs of the south,
My heart, as I write, be quite up in my mouth,
I trace, with fond pleasure, the years I have spent on
The curacy, (lovely retirement!) of Kenton;
Where I tun'd to my Laura sweet sonnets of love,
And a wreath for the pupil of eloquence wove;
Bade the lawns and the woodlands re-echo my strains
Transferr'd to Devonia from Sicily's plains;
And, uniting the poets of Cornwall and Devon,
Prais'd them all with applauses untainted by leaven;
And where, to involve the fair landscape in gloom,
I consign'd my poor Laura's remains to the tomb.

Still, doctor, I've reason to pluck up my spirits,
When I think on my Mary's affection and merits:

255

And, whilst I may look to the prospect of greeting,
Now and then, the good friends from whose smiles I'm retreating,
I should deem myself blest in so lovely a wife,
E'en here at Manaccan—tho' hardly for life!

256

SONNETS.

FRIENDSHIP.

FROM BION. IDYLL, IX.

O blest are they who love, and are belov'd!
Thus Theseus his Perithous' friendship knew;
And, tho' amidst the infernal regions, drew
Pure bliss from converse that exhaustless prov'd!

Thus too Orestes, happy tho' he rov'd
O'er Scythian desarts drear, had power to strew
All on the barren waste where'er he mov'd
Flowers of delight!—for Pylades was true,

257

Ever the sweet companion of his way!
And thus divine Æacides was blest,
While his associate in the realms of day
Remain'd; and tranquil to Elysian rest
Patroclus flew—for his pale breathless clay
Not unaveng'd the plain of carnage prest!

258

TO THE EVENING STAR.

FROM MOSCHUS. IDYLL. VII.

Sweet Hesper, thou whose golden light
(The sacred glory of the night)
Illumes the deep-cerulean skies;
Whose beams so dear to Venus rise;
To whom the starry fires are pale
As thou to silver Cynthia—hail!
O guide me to my fair-one's feast:
For lo, the lunar orb, decreas'd,
Will quickly set: vouchsafe thy ray,
To gild my solitary way.
I go not, shelter'd by the shade,
The nightly traveller to invade:
'Tis love impels! O Hesper, prove
Sweet star, propitious to my love!

259

THE REDBREASTS.

Lorn Birds! whose simple minstrelsy, the last
That nature pouring on the pensive ear,
Bids echo back her vernal music past,
And breathe a requiem o'er the closing year;
Who, while the softest pity loves to steal
From every cadence of your melting strain;
Ah, who suspects such little breasts can feel
Ungentle strife, or work each other pain?
And yet, tho' seeming harmony of heart
Flow in the sweetness of each charming note;
Oft from the bitter fray ye bleeding part,
Torn the stain'd plume, and pierc'd the vocal throat!
Beneath the fairest aspect of disguise,
Alas, too oft the cruel bosom lies!

260

THE WOODCOCK.

While not a wing of insect-being floats,
And not a murmur moves the frozen air;
Yon' ice-clad sedge, with tremulous wave, denotes,
Amid the leafless copse, that life is there.
And lo, half-seen, the bird of russet breast
And duskier pinion, that had cleft the skies
Of wild inhospitable climes, in quest
Of the warm spring, his plamy labour plies.
Feed on, poor bird, beneath the sheltering copse;
And near thee may no wanton spaniel stray!
Or rising, when dim eve her curtain drops,
Ah! may no net arrest thy darkling way!
But long unpent by frost, o'erflow the rill;
And many an insect meet thy delving bill!

261

TO A YOUNG LADY OF FOURTEEN.

ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH A LOCK OF HER HAIR. 1790.

Take, as I treasure, with a sigh, thy hair
The tenderest wishes of affection take;
Nor shall I blush to guard with partial care
This auburn ringlet, for thy charming sake.
Too soon its kindred tresses, where it grew,
Tortur'd by all the tricks of varying dress,
Must lose the brightness of their beauteous hue;
Too soon must art their easy flow repress.
Yet never may capricious fashion stain,
My lovely girl! thy pure angelic mind;
Never the young simplicity restrain,
That sports, with sweet attraction, unconfin'd!
So shall my Mary's gift, unchang'd by art,
Be the dear emblem of her genuine heart!

262

TO EMILIA.

Forbear, my charming girl, forbear to grieve,
Nor give the softness of thy soul to tears!
No—rather triumph that his wrongs relieve
Thy breast from wavering doubts and anxious fears.
Tho' he whose vows deceiv'd thy gentle heart
Bade thee from perjur'd lips the last adieu;
Ere long, a kindred bosom shall impart
Its soothing sighs to sweet Emilia true!
For, trust the Muse, tho' the cold world may frown
On those who cherish love's delicious sires;
Yet are there some, who still unblushing own
The nameless joys that sentiment inspires.
And, where pure native sense and feeling join,
That heart must beat in unison with thine.

263

ADDREST TO TWO INGENIOUS YOUNG LADIES.

Soften'd by shading verdure to display
The rose's tints, in every tender fold;
The mellow richness of the peach pourtray,
Or paint the little warbler's plume of gold;
To touch the bosom with each melting tone
That music, in divine expression, pours;
Such energies pure taste and feeling own,
And such, my lovely Harmonists, are yours.
'Tis, then, in you, to grace the calm retreat,
And bid perennial pleasures round you spring;
Nor sigh the giddy multitude to meet,
Where dissipation flits on airy wing:
And they to whom domestic joys are dear,
They only shine in woman's proper sphere.

264

TO MISS S.

WRITTEN IN MARCH 1792.

While o'er thee Elegance, enamour'd, spreads
Her airy vest with heaven's own tincture bright,
Soft on thy cheeks the vernal blushes sheds,
And radiates from thine eyes in lovely light;
While in the sweetness of thy voice she owns
Accents that from the trancing spheres she stole,
And from thy harp elicits melting tones
That speak the music of the pensive soul;
While by thy glowing pencil she portrays
Angelic shapes, that beam the types of thee—
Regard the Muse who sighs in soften'd lays,
Attracted by thy moral harmony,
To each fine tone the trembling spirit gives,
Breathes but to catch thy glance, and in thy essence lives!

265

TO HIS INFANT MARIA.

1792.

Ah! my dear Babe! thou smilest on the tear
That hangs upon thy mother's fading cheek;
Eager, as thou wert wont, her voice to hear—
But her heart swells with grief, too full to speak.
'Tis for thy brothers, in the same cold bed,
She weeps. O'er one the wintry storm hath past:
And there, another rests his little head
Fresh-pillow'd. But they feel not the keen blast!
O'er their pale turf the whistling winds may sweep—
Unconscious of the tempest, they repose:
There, undisturb'd, sweet innocents! they sleep
From human passions free, from human woes.
Yes, dear Maria! they, my babe, are free
From ills that wait, perhaps, in store for thee!

266

TO A YOUNG LADY.

When Death, with cruel stroke, dissolves the tye
Which holds in friendship a congenial heart;
We bid the long adieu with streaming eye,
And pour the impassion'd sorrows ere we part.
Yet, tho' we grieve, the inevitable ill,
Ere long, with soften'd anguish we endure:
For time the throbbing pulse hath power to still,
And close the wound which reason could not cure.
But if the averted look too plainly tell
Constrain'd civilities from those we love;
If all our warmth the frigid air repel,
'Tis ours (the wish sincere tho' heaven approve)
A slow-consuming heart-ake to sustain,
Whilst each cold look renews the sense of pain!

268

ON A VISIT TO POLWHELE NEAR TRURO, WITH HIS CHILDREN, A SHORT TIME AFTER HIS FIRST WIFE'S DEATH.

1793.

Ah! when so late I press'd this mossy sward
In strains of hope I breath'd the melting lay!—
For still the flatterer Hope vouchsaf'd a ray.—
“If but a few short years kind Heaven award,
“Here, here, my offspring may I duteous guard,
“And guide them in the dark and doubtful way;
“As Laura's heartfelt smile shall bid me brave
“Each threat'ning ill, and every woe repay.
“Then, as these arching shades around me wave,
“May I sink down, in quiet, to the grave!”—
Such was my strain.—But ah! my children, say,
Where, where is fled—where vanisht Laura's smile?
Alas! devoid of sorrow, as of guile,
Ye little heed my tears, along the greensod, gay.”

269

TO THE VICAR OF MANACCAN'S NUMEROUS PIGEONS, JUST AS THE AUTHOR WAS PREPARING TO SHOOT THEM.

Poor Pigeons! by your quondam vicar priz'd,
Tho' now condemn'd to fall, an easy mark
To piece that's cock'd at random in the dark;
Ye, to whose bursting crops is sacrific'd
The glebe's fat produce; whether coney-park
Or way-field, o'er whose waving grain the lark
Chaunts his shrill orisons, the corn supply—
Sweets birds! how ye salute the passer by,
Dropping your oily burthens on his head!
Alas! I cannot court you at my ease—
Tho' softly billing, ye are full of fleas!
Ah! ye may mourn, indeed, your patron dead—
For lo! among you a most barbarous vicar
Who cannot breathe till he has pull'd the trigger!

270

A WINTER EVENING SCENE.

MANACCAN, JANUARY 3, 1795.

While, in the cold blue sky, the whitening moon
Hangs like a fleece, and scarce across the deep,
Whence it hath far emerg'd, a pale ray flings;
Amid yon westering cloud the solar beam
Descending, streaks the hamlet-trees that clothe
The hill-top, with a line of liquid gold.

Yet, ere the poet's eye can mark the scene,
To the chaste lunar orb the waves reflect
A placid lustre; and the cottage-clump
Fades into darkness.—It is thus, in life:
Joy, for a moment, lights one little spot,
While sober melancholy, more diffus'd,
Gleams with faint influence; till, the glory past,
She comes confest, and the bright spot is gloom.

271

TO THE AUTHOR'S MOTHER, DURING HER ILLNESS, 1797.

“To rock the cradle of declining age,”
Pope, was thy fervent wish! Nor, Hayley, less
Thy glowing heart the filial prayer effus'd.
Tho' at an humble distance I admire
Your genius, may I rival, matchless pair!
Your sacred piety; while now, from years
Enfeebled, a much-valued parent claims
My duteous care; while a kind sister calls
To her assiduous “charity” that aid
Fraternal, which can only soothe her grief,
As she surveys the pallid eye that smil'd
On us once playful innocents—the hand
Tremulous, that led us up the steepy paths
Of life—the fainting breast yet fraught with love!

272

WRITTEN, DECEMBER 19, 1804; THE DAY OF HIS MOTHER'S BURIAL IN THE FAMILY VAULT AT ST. CLEMENT'S NEAR TRURO.

Pale o'er my aged mother as I hung,
Borne to her “narrow house,” a hurried look
(As all my limbs with sudden tremour shook)
Into the hollow vault of death I flung.
But, as soft raindrops, dimpling the still brook
Whose sands were troubled by a transient storm,
So fell, in kind relief, tear after tear!
For I descried the coffin that contains
The dust of him to filial love so dear!
And strait, me thought, I saw my father's form

273

Beckoning my soul to yon celestial sphere,
To hush this throbbing heart. Yet O, that near
That coffin may be laid my cold remains,
Tho' a poor earthly hope, is the hope trembling here!

274

SONGS.

CAPRICIOUS LOVE.

FROM MOSCHUS. IDYLL. VI.

Pan for his neighbour Echo sighs;
She loves the dancing-Satyr:
The Satyr, caught by Lyda's eyes,
Is dying to be at her.

As Echo fires the breast of Pan,
Behold the dancer burn
The nymph's soft heart—tho' Lyda's man:
Thus each is scorch'd in turn.

While all who slight are slighted too,
They feel alternate pain:
Then hear—‘Love those that fancy you,
‘And you'll be lov'd again.’

275

SONGS FOR THE HELSTON-FURRY FO 1796.

JANUARY.

Tho' oft we shiver'd to the gale
That howl'd along the gloomy waste;
Or mark'd, in billows wrapt, the sail
That vainly struggled with the blast;
Tho', as the dark wave flash'd on high,
We view'd the form of danger near;
While, as we caught the seaman's cry,
Cold terror check'd the starting tear;
Yet have we seen, where zephyrs breathe
Their sweets o'er mead or pasture-down,
Young laughing Spring with purple wreath
The hoary head of Winter crown.
But, ere we hail'd the budding tree
Or all its opening bloom survey'd,
Whilst in gay rounds the vernal bee
Humm'd o'er the fragrance of the glade;

276

Fled was the faery smile, and clos'd
The little triumph of an hour:
And Melancholy's eye repos'd
On the pale bud, the fainting flower.

APRIL.

No longer the goddess of florets shall seem
To rekindle the blooms of the year;
Then scatter around us the wreck of a dream,
And resign us to winter austere.
To it promise yon delicate child of the shade—
The primrose—is never untrue:
Nor the lilac unfolds, the next moment to fade,
Its clusters of beautiful blue.
Tho' weak be its verdure, ere long shall the thorn
The pride of its blossom display,
Where Flora, amid the mild splendour of morn,
Unbosoms the fragrance of May.

THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

Soft as the sigh of zephyr heaves
The verdure of its lucid leaves,

277

Yon opening lily's vestal white,
Moist from the dew-drop, drinks the light.
No more in feeble colours cold,
The tulip, for each glowing fold
So richly wav'd with vermeil dyes,
Steals the pure blush of orient skies.
The hyacinth, whose pallid hue
Shrunk from the blast that Eurus blew,
Now trusts to May's delicious calm
Its tender tint, its musky balm.
And hark! the plumed warblers pour
Their notes, to greet the genial hour,
As, whispering love, this arborous shade
Sports with the sunbeam down the glade.
Then say, ye nymphs! and truly tell,
If ever with the lily's bell,
Or with the tulip's radiant dye
Young poets give your cheeks to vie;
Or to the hyacinth compare
The clustering softness of your hair;
If e'er they bid your vocal strain
In silence hush the feather'd train;

278

Beat not your hearts with more delight
At every “rural sound and sight,”
Than at such flattery, to the ear
Tho' syren-sweet, yet insincere?

THE FADE

White-vestur'd, ye maidens of Ellas, draw near,
And honour the rites of the day:
'Tis the fairest that shines in the round of the year;
Then hail the bright Goddess of May.
O come, let us rifle the hedges, and crown
Our heads with gay garlands of sweets:
And, when we return to the shouts of the town,
Let us weave the light dance thro' the streets.
Flinging open each door, let us enter and frisk,
Tho' the master be all in a pother—
For, away from one house as we merrily whisk,
We will fadè it, quick thro' another.
The nymph who despises the furry day-dance,
Is a fine, or a finical lady—
Then let us with hearts full of pleasure, advance,
And mix, one and all, in the Fadè!

279

THE SOLITARY FAIR.

Perhaps, fair maid! thy musing mind,
Little to festive scenes inclin'd,
Scorns not the dancer's merry mood,
But only longs for solitude.
Thy heart, alive to nature's power,
Flutters within the roseate bower,
Thrills with new warmth, it knows not why,
And steals delirium from a sigh.
Alas! tho' so averse from glee,
This genial hour is felt by thee:
The tumults of thy bosom prove,
That May is but the nurse of—love!

BEWARE OF THE MONTH OF MAY.

Then, gentle maid, whoe'er thou art,
Who bid'st the shades embowering, veil
The sorrows of a lovesick heart,
And listen to thy pensive tale;
Sweet girl! insidious May beware;
And heed thy poet's warning song:
Lo! May and Venus spread the snare
For those who fly the festal throng!

280

SIGHING SUSAN.

Poor Susan cries: “About my breast
“There's something, oh! so tight—
“I sigh all day, as one distrest,
“And often sigh at night.

“A sigh (my neighbours say) to glee
“Was always thought a foe:
“But there is something sweet, good me!
“At least in sighing so!

“They ask me, for what cause so oft
“I labour with a sigh?
‘Is it, because your heart is soft?’
“I'm sure, I can't tell, why.

“Yet father says—he knows full well—
‘But go, you'll like the task;
‘Ask William—he, perhaps, may tell’—
“I think, I'll go, and ask.”

END OF THIRD VOLUME.