Poems (1806) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems (1806)

Polwhele, Richard (1760-1838)

VOL. I

II.

VOL. II.

LYRIC PIECES.

ODE TO SLEEP,

ODE ON THE ISLE OF MANN,

ODE WRITTEN AFTER A THUNDER-STORM.

ODE WRITTEN IN A PICTURE-GALLERY.

PART OF THE EPICEDIUM OF REGNER LODBROG, TRANSLATED.

ODE ON THE SUSCEPTIBILITY OF THE POETICAL MIND.

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LYRIC PIECES.

ODE TO SLEEP,

COMPOSED DURING A VIOLENT ILLNESS, 1780.

I

The raven flaps his darksome wing;
Around the shades of horror gloom:
The boding birds of midnight sing,
And seem to mark my coming doom!
O Sleep! my fever'd soul from spectres bear,
O guard me from the phantoms of despair.

II

Ah! what avails the downy bed,
While mental sorrow sharpens pain:
With thee how blest in lowly shed,
His labour past, the vacant swain!
Flush'd with the bloom of health, no care he knows:
His evening-hours in early slumber close.

III

No pause from agony I own,
Through all the watches of the night;
But on my restless pillow moan,
Each heavy hour, 'till morning light.
Once could I weep: but anguish, too severe,
Denies my stiffen'd eye-lids ev'n a tear!

IV

O thou, by whom the heart of woe
Is freed from all its swelling sighs,
Who giv'st the wretch with joy to glow,
As fancy's faery scenes arise;
I ask not gilded visions of delight,
But save me, save me from yon beckoning sprite!

V

Come then, the oblivious balm diffuse,
And bid the dread idea fly;
Ere death descend in freezing dews,
To film, alas! the darken'd eye:
Haste, haste, and listen to thy suppliant's prayer,
And, though death's image, to my bed repair.

VI

'Tis his the throbbing breast to still;
'Tis his the burning lid to close:
Yet, ere the mortal numbness chill,
O seal my eyes in soft repose!
How sweet, thus lifeless, yet with life to lie;
Thus, without dying, O how sweet to die!

ODE ON THE ISLE OF MANN,

TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP WILSON, WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE LATE Dr. WILSON, of BATH. 1781.

As musing erst I cross'd the glades
Where Mona, cloath'd with pendent shades,
O'erbrows the westering wave;
Sudden appear'd in faery maze
The pictur'd forms of other days,
And oft to memory's eye their transient colours gave.

And “ah! ye fleeting shapes,” I cried,
“Amidst these glooms in pity glide!
“For here ye joy'd to rove
“In elder times, when mystic strains
“Echoed through consecrated fanes,
“And rites of magic charm'd the reverential grove.

“O, by your wands of vervain blue,
“Of power to chase with lustrous dew
“The vapoury mists away;
“And by the dark incavern'd chest,
“Where sleeps Belinus' charmed vest;
“Again, ye Druid tribes! your awful forms display.

“Who now, while memory views in tears
“The curtain'd scene of former years,
“Shall guard these magic rocks;
“Where Genii oft on sounding wings,
“Flutter'd at evening o'er the springs
“That lav'd the wreathing roots of yon fantastic oaks?

“Who now shall join the minstrel's lay,
“While glitter to the full moon's ray
“Their high-strung harps of gold?
“Or who survey the sweeping pall
“Of bards, amid the emblazon'd hall,
“The Druid's floating pomp, and hoary seers of old?

“Who now, where stain'd with sacred blood
“The central oak o'ertops the wood,
“Shall see the victim laid
(“As midnight stills the spectred vale)
“On the red shrine aghast and pale,
“And pois'd aloft in air the lightning of the blade?

“Ah! these, from Mona vanish'd long,
“Scarce live amid the flights of song,
“The Poet's breast to warm;
“And ev'n from fancy's eagle eye
“The soul-entrancing visions fly;
“Each Druid sinks away, and fades each faery form!

“Yet, where the lurid nightshade blooms,
“To some lone ruin's deep'ning glooms
“The pensive poet steals:
“Oft as he marks the Druid graves
“And crumbling piles, his bosom heaves
“With thoughts of ancient days, and pleasing horror feels!”

Thus whilst the Muses taught to glow
The spirit of elegiac woe,
Soft-melting o'er my breast;
Instant along the shadowy way
Trembled a beam of brighter day,
And from an opening cloud a cherub shone confest.

“Suppress, fond youth, the unhallow'd strain,”
He cried, “nor rashly thus profane
“These groves with pagan sighs:
“Rejoice, that, crush'd to earth, the abodes
“Of Druids and their fabled gods,
“With superstition's frown affront no more the skies.

“What! dost thou mourn the vanish'd rite
“That gave to horror the pale night,
“And shook the blasted wood;
“While, as each victim's dying cries
“Announc'd the human sacrifice,
“Scar'd at the infernal scene, the moon went down in blood?

“No! let the Star, whose orient ray
“Those Druid orgies beam'd away,
“Thy holy reverence claim;
“And, purer than a poet's fire,
“The genuine oracles inspire
“Thine elevated soul with true religion's flame.

“Call with new ardour to thy aid,
“O call a more auspicious shade,
“And bid thy raptur'd mind,
“Full of the blest idea, soar
“To brighter regions, and adore
“The gracious power that gave a Wilson to man-kind!

“With joy look round this little isle,
“And see the genial virtues smile
“The Christian planted here:
“Twas his, where pain had fix'd the dart,
“To heal with lenient balms the smart;
“From penury's pale eye 'twas his to wipe the tear!

“With more than all a shepherd's care
“He rais'd the children of despair!
“By conscious guilt opprest:
“He bade (where weary sinners trod)
“Repentance, pointing to their God,
“Guide their reviving souls into the realms of rest.

“His flock with undissembled air
“Gather'd around, a smile to share
“Benevolently warm;
“And, as by miracle, they thought
“A portion of his worth they caught,
“If haply veil'd beneath the shadow of his form.

“Yet, where the rays of virtue shine,
“Malignant Envy! it is thine
“To bid her lustre faint:
“And lo! the Infernal, o'er the scene
“Dark-brooding, blots the bright serene;
“And bears to Rushin's walls the persecuted saint.

“There, as immur'd the good man lay,
“Awhile to tyranny a prey,
“Sat Patience with calm eye:
“And there too Faith, who gives to flow,
“O Innocence! thy robe of snow,
“Op'd, through the vale of tears, a vista to the sky.

“Yet, Wilson, like a shadow pass'd
“The storm which envy rais'd, to blast
“Thy unpolluted head:
“Soon thy fair orb resum'd its light,
“And grew more beautifully bright,
“As far dispell'd by truth, the murky darkness fled.

“At length, thy radiant journey run,
“With placid close thy evening sun
“On friendship's trembling tear
“Glanc'd its last beams, and sunk away;
“But rose to everlasting day,
“And now in glory gilds the Seraph's happier sphere!”

Castle Rushin, in the Isle of Mann, where the Bishop was imprisoned.

ODE WRITTEN AFTER A THUNDER-STORM.

1785.

Through a slow-labouring cloud, that bore
Against the winds its lurid store,
The moon rose, quench'd in blood:
The foliage lash'd the forest-steep,
Then shrunk into a gloom more deep,
And with a sullen murmur foam'd the troubled flood.

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 azure 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 terrors of the shade,
And wing'd to distant climes my quick excursive 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 Africk'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 burning 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,
“While 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, though 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,
“Whilst her green clustering hills the unblasted fruitage crowns.

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

ODE WRITTEN IN A PICTURE-GALLERY.

1786.

Upon the dusky-stoled portrait hoar
Slept the silver orb of night:
When in a fleecy cloud the broken light,
Fainting, fled—his tresses frore
Sudden to the 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 form?
“No more with life's expressive semblance warm
“Lo, he wears a clay-cold hue!
“Pale his consort's gorgeous train;
“Scarce glimmer the faint honours of her chain,
“Though but erst the ponderous gold
“Flung its resplendent light across each fluid fold.

“What though where proud Godolphin crowns the plain
“Turreted in antique gloom,
“These hoary forms beneath the fretted dome
“Rise, in sweeping robe, 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-rafter'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, though 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 enthusiast fires are fled:
“Hers'd I saw Lanhydrock'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 through 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!
Instant 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.

An original Picture of Judge Glanville and his Lady, in the Author's possession.

Judge Glanville and his Lady are also represented at Godolphin in Cornwall.

PART OF THE EPICEDIUM OF REGNER LODBROG, TRANSLATED.

‘What's surer to the warrior brave,
‘Than to meet death's grisly form—
‘Though he seem to mock the grave,
‘Firm amidst the battle's storm?

‘He alone in sorrow dies,
‘Who hath never felt a pang!
‘Lo, where pale the dastard flies,
‘Eagles stretch the bloody fang.

‘Life its lingering light in vain
‘To the coward soul affords;
‘While he dreads the carnag'd plain,
‘Trembling at the sport of swords.

‘Fairly match'd to battle go:
‘This is glorious—this is great!
‘Striplings, deal the mutual blow,
‘Nor let man from man retreat.

‘Long was this the warrior's fame—
‘Foremost in the roar of arms!
‘'Till such valour marks thy name,
‘ Claim not thou the virgin's charms!

‘Led by destiny, we fight;
‘And, if fate our being bound,
‘Seldom 'tis in mortal might
‘To o'erstep the iron mound.

‘Little did my heart forebode
‘Ella's power to take my life,
‘On the day when vengeance glow'd,
‘Snuffing wild the hostile strife;

‘Fainting when I cover'd o'er
‘Torrents of my fever'd blood;
‘And, in haste, from off the shore
‘Push'd my bark into the flood.

‘Then, on every Scottish bay,
‘All in triumph, had we spread
‘The repast for beasts of prey
‘Gorg'd with bodies of the dead.

‘Yet I glory!—yet I laugh!
‘Since I know, while now I fall,
‘With my comrades I shall quaff
‘Mantling ale in Balder's hall.

‘Yes! on many a festal bench—
‘Yes! our joys shall then be full,
‘When our thirst we shouting quench
‘From the Foeman's hollow skull.

‘Courage never drooping there
‘Groan'd at death, in Odin's dome!
‘Nor with accents of despair
‘To the destin'd hall I come.

‘Now would all Aslauga's race
‘Rush to battle, red with ire,
‘Could they see their father's face;
‘Could they see their writhing sire.

‘To my sons a nurse I've giv'n,
‘Who with valour fill'd their heart—
‘Ah! I feel my body riv'n!
‘Ah! I feel the venom'd smart!

‘Many a viper tears my limbs;
‘Lo! I hurry to my end!
‘Dim in death, each eye-ball swims—
‘Snakes my inmost bosom rend!

‘Yet, I trust, my sons will drench
‘Swift their spears in Ella's breast,
‘From his hands the sceptre wrench;
‘Nor repose in idle rest.

‘Fifty battles have I fought,
‘Rearing the tall standard high:
‘And my early youth was taught
‘Deep in blood the sword to dye.

‘Then I hop'd no earthly king
‘More renown'd than I, drew breath—
‘Ah! I feel the mortal sting!
‘But I must not mourn my death.

‘The terrific Dysæ call!
‘Let me—let me close my song—
‘Odin sent them from his hall—
‘How they beckon! how they throng!

‘On a lofty seat elate,
‘I shall quaff the foaming ale;
‘With the goddesses of fate,
‘And with Odin's self regale.

‘Now my bright career is run!
‘Quivers yet my vital fire!
‘Gasping—panting—lo! 'tis done!
‘With a smile I shall expire!’

None but the brave deserve the fair. Dryden.

His enemy, who had condemned him to death.

ODE ON THE SUSCEPTIBILITY OF THE POETICAL MIND.

I

'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.

II

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

III

His fancy-roving eye perceives
New pleasure in the lucid stream,
That to the rose's opening leaves
Reflects a crimson-tinctur'd gleam;

And wanders down the daisied vale
To the tall aspin, quivering-pale.

IV

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

V

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.

VI

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—though others wonder why—
He cherishes the pensive sigh.

VII

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.

VIII

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!

IX

The blush of languishing sixteen
Which mantles to emotions warm;
That winning negligence of mien;
Those graces of the finest form;
Those shadowy tresses wild, which rove
To kiss the heaving bloom of love.

X

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!

XI

Nor less his vivid feelings 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;

XII

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

XIII

And if a Laura'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;

XIV

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 Laura's sake.

XV

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.

XVI

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

Here the author would be understood only to express that tremulous sensibility—that fine perception of the beautiful, which is inserparable from the Poetical Mind.