Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

O Happiness! thou wish of every mind,
Whose form, more subtle than the fleeting air,
Leaves all thy votaries wandering far behind,
Eludes their search, and mocks their anxious care

What distant region holds thy fair retreat,
Where no keen look thy footsteps may surprise?
In what lone desert hast thou fix'd thy seat,
Far from the curious search of mortal eyes?

Amid the jocund race, say, art thou found,
Who pass in mirth the dreary hours of night;
Or in the dance with pliant sinews bound,
Till fades the taper at Aurora's light?

Ah no! when Reason reassumes her sway,
And the tamed blood in calmer current flows,
These joys, like fairy visions, melt away,
And leave the bosom press'd with serious woes.

Or, dost Thou dwell with regal pomp and power,
Rever'd and honor'd by the wise and great?
Ten thousand cares on scepter'd splendor lower,
And bend the weary monarch with their weight.

Or, shall we seek Thee through the ranks of war,
Where bold Ambition leads her daring train;
While the shrill clarion, sounding from afar,
Calls the slow warrior to the purple plain?

Alas not there!—though conquest grace his sword,
Though proudly wave his banners in the air,
By legions guarded, the victorious Lord
Shall find no arms to shield his heart from care.

Dost Thou reside in the gay youth's fond breast,
Who bends obedient to the power of love;
Who, by the fair one he adores caress'd,
May all the joys of mutual transport prove?—

With passion fraught, though smiling now serene,
In soft endearments flow each tender hour;
Too soon, alas! must change the blissful scene,
When time's cold blast shall blow on beauty's flower.

And oft, amid the blooming days of youth,
Inconstancy asserts her fickle reign;
Or pale-ey'd Jealousy, with venom'd tooth,
Cankers the golden links of Hymen's chain.

All calm and safe the tide of love appears,
The youthful poet's ever darling theme;
The venturous pilot there no quicksands fears,
But launches boldly down the flattering stream,

Till on his bark the warring surges break,
And every billow seems to threaten fate:
The voice of Prudence then begins to speak,
But ah, the voice of Prudence speaks too late!

Is bliss sincere then no where to be found,
The vain creation of the Enthusiast's mind?
Or, if she deign to dwell on mortal ground,
Where may we hope her fair abode to find?

The sweets of pleasure, and the pomp of power,
In Luxury's enchanting semblance dress'd,
She slights with deepest scorn; nor will reside
But in the precincts of the virtuous breast.

The virtuous breast, in conscious honour bold,
Will want and pain and death itself despise:
Will from each trying woe, like heated gold,
With greater splendor, greater merit rise.

There she has ever fix'd her firmest throne;
There scorn'd the bolts by rage and malice hurl'd;
And, found by wisdom, and by worth alone,
Mock'd the vain labors of a vicious world.

ELEGY II.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1762.

Now the brown woods their leafy load resign
And rage the tempests with resistless force?
Mantled with snow the silver mountains shine,
And icy fetters chain the rivulet's course.

No pleasing object charms our wearied view,
No waving verdure decks the dreary glade,
Save that o'er yonder tomb the mournful yew
Projects an awful solitary shade.

Short is the Spring, and short the Summer hour,
And short the time that fruitful Autumn reigns;
But tedious roll the days when Winter's power
Asserts it's empire o'er our wasted plains.

As swiftly wears our Spring of life away,
As swiftly will our jolly Summer go;
But, ah! when Winter clouds our chearless day,
Again the vernal breezes never blow!

Mark this, and boast your fancied worth no more,
Ye great, ye proud, ye learned, and ye brave!
With hasty lapse some circling years are o'er,
And lo, ye slumber in the silent grave!

Why views the sage fair Pleasure's transient charm,
And all her votaries gay with scowling eye?
Alike he stoops to Fate's superior arm,—
Alike he suffers, and alike must die!

Say, what avails it then with brow severe
The silken bands of Luxury to despise;
To bring by thought the day of horror near,
And view the tempest ere the clouds arise?

Better with laughing nymphs in revels gay
To give the hours to Venus, wine, and song;
And, since the rapid moments never stay,
To catch some pleasures as they glide along.

Deluded man! whom empty sounds beguile,
What transports here await thy anxious soul?
Know, love abhors the venal harlot's smile,
And hell-born fury rages in the bowl.

Seek Virtue to be blest; but seek her far,
Far from those gloomy sons of letter'd pride,
Who 'gainst the passions wage eternal war,
And, foes to Nature, Nature's dictates chide.

Let mirth, not madness, crown the temperate feast;
Let love and beauty joys refin'd impart:
Though mere sensation charm the groveling breast,
'Tis mutual passion fires the generous heart.

The various blessings bounteous Heaven bestows
With gratitude and charity repay,
Relieve thy suffering friend, or share his woes,
But from his failings turn thine eyes away.

So, when the wintry storms of death are past,
In brighter skies, and ether more serene,
Thy wither'd boughs shall bud again, to last
For ever blooming, and for ever green.

ELEGY III.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1763.

The dewy morn her saffron mantle spreads
High o'er the brow of yonder eastern hill;
Each blooming shrub a roseate fragrance sheds,
And the brisk sky-lark sings his carol shrill.

Not all the sweets that scent the morning air,
Not all the dyes that paint the vernal year,
Can from my breast divert it's weighty care,
Can from my pale cheeks charm the trickling tear.

Here, where the willows to the rivulet bend,
That winds it's channel thro' the enamell'd mead,
I'll o'er the turf my waining form extend,
And rest on sedges dank my listless head.

In vain the stream o'er pebbles glide along,
And murmurs sweetly-lulling as it flows;
In vain the stock-dove chaunts her gurgling song,
Inviting slumber soft and calm repose.

How at the fragrant hour of rising morn
Would eager transport throb in ev'ry vein,
To hear the swelling shout and jocund horn
Invite the hunter to the sportive plain!

But, ah, the gay delights of youth are fled!—
In sighs and tears my fading life I wear;
So the pale lily hangs it's drooping head,
When frosts untimely blast the opening year.

Philosophy, thou guardian of the heart,
O come in all thy rigid virtue dress'd!
With manly precept ease my killing smart,
And drive this tyrant from my wounded breast.

Oft would my eyes, disdaining balmy sleep,
The awful labors of thy sons explore,
Fathom with restless toil each maxim deep,
And hang incessant o'er the sacred lore:

Alas! oppos'd to love how weak, how frail
Is all the reasoning of the unfeeling sage!
No forceful arm can o'er his power prevail,
No lenient hand the wounds he gives assuage.

Yes, tyrant, yes; thou must retain thy power,
Till my torn bosom yields to stronger Death:
Still must I love, even in that fatal hour,
And call on Delia with my latest breath.

And when all pale my lifeless limbs extend,
And fate has seal'd the irrevocable doom,
May then my memory find a faithful friend,
To write these votive numbers on my tomb:

‘Here rests a youth, who Love and Sorrow's slave,
‘Gave up his early life to pining care,
‘Till worn with woe he sought, in this calm grave,
‘A safe retreat from comfortless Despair.’

So, when the stone lays o'er my clay-cold head,
If chance fair Delia to the place draw near,
With one sad sigh she may lament me dead,
And bathe the senseless marble with a tear.

ELEGY IV.

WRITTEN SEPTEMBER 1, 1763.

When the still Night withdrew her sable shroud,
And left those climes with steps sedate and slow;
While sad Aurora, kerchief'd in a cloud,
With drizzly vapours hung the mountain's brow;

The wretched bird, from hapless Perdix sprung,
With trembling wings forsook the furrow'd plain,
And, calling round her all her listening young,
In faultering accents sung this plaintive strain:

‘Unwelcome morn! too well thy lowering mien
‘Foretels the slaughters of the approaching day;
‘The gloomy sky laments with tears the scene,
‘Where rage and terror reassume their sway.

‘Ah, luckless train! ah, fate-devoted race!
‘The dreadful tale experience tells believe;
‘Dark heavy mists obscure the morning's face,
‘But blood and death shall close the dreary eve.

‘This day fell man, whose unrelenting hate
‘No grief can soften, and no tears assuage,
‘Pours dire destruction on the feather'd state,
‘While pride and rapine urge his savage rage.

‘I, who so oft have 'scap'd the impending snare,
‘Ere night arrives, may feel the fiery wound;
‘In giddy circles quit the realms of air,
‘And stain with streaming gore the dewy ground.’

She said, when lo! the pointer winds his prey,
The rustling stubble gives the fear'd alarm,
The gunner views the covey sleet away,
And rears the unerring tube with skilful arm.

In vain the mother wings her whirring flight,
The leaden deaths arrest her as she flies;
Her scatter'd offspring swim before her sight,
And, bath'd in blood, she flutters, pants, and dies.

ELEGY V.

WRITTEN JUNE, 1764.

Thee, sad Melpomene, I once again
Invoke, nor ask the idly plaintive verse:
Quit the light reed for sorrow's sober strain,
And hang thy flowerets on my Delia's herse.

Oft by yon silver fountain's sedgy side,
Or through the twilight shade I us'd to rove,
Have sung her beauties to the listening tide,
And fill'd with notes like these the echoing grove:

‘Ye fragrant roses, bow your blooming heads;
‘For can your sweetness with her breath compare?
‘Ye envious lilies, wither in your beds,
‘For is your boasted whiteness half so fair?’

Vain was the lay; for O! heart-breaking thought!
Those heavenly features ne'er again must charm,
That form divine, with each perfection fraught,
Is struck by Fate's inexorable arm.

Thus far, O Death, thy cruel reign extends!
Before thy sickle falls each blushing flower;
But Virtue on ethereal wings ascends,
And smiles disdainful on thy boasted power.

Guided by her—(for Virtue's sacred lore
Was ever dear to Delia's gentle breast)
She to the endless realms of peace shall soar,
The sacred mansions of eternal rest.

Nor these the wreaths that love and fancy twine
Around the tomb, where rests some flatter'd maid;
But honors, due to merit's hallow'd shrine,
By faithful truth with unfeign'd sorrow paid.

The smallest gleam of hope I ne'er could boast;
And raptur'd love in that dire moment fled,
Which shew'd my dearest wish for ever lost,
Which gave my Delia to a rival's bed.

Yet shall thy memory, dear departed shade,
In this sad breast a place for ever find;
For in thy form each beauty was display'd,
‘To charm the senses, and to fix the mind.’

O! were I skill'd the immortal note to raise,
And down the stream of time to wast thy name!
Then would I sing thy worth in matchless lays,
Bright as thine eyes, and spotless as thy fame.

But, though the Muse such arduous flights denies,
Nor bids with fire divine my fancy glow,
These plaintive numbers nobler truth supplies,
The artless voice of unaffected woe.

ELEGY VI.

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING, 1766.

Now has bright Sol fulfill'd his circling course,
Again to Taurus roll'd his burning car,
Since, cruel Prudence, thy resistless force
Tore me from happiness and Cynthia far.

How did I then, or pensively complain,
Or in the maniac's frantic accents rave!
How often vow to prove resistance vain,
And, spite of prudence, live my Cynthia's slave!

Her much-lov'd form did every thought employ;
My daily wish she was, and nightly dream;
My aking bosom hop'd no dearer joy;
My raptur'd fancy own'd no nobler theme.

No more I wish'd, where Isis' clear waves flow,
To pluck fresh laurels from the muse's shade:
I long'd to climb the Cambrian mountain's brow,
Since Cambria's mountains hid my favorite maid.

In vain from cruel love's tyrannic reign
To friendship and to wisdom I appeal;
For such my sufferings, that the amorous pain
Nor wisdom could assuage, nor friendship heal.

Now three revolving moons had roll'd away,
Still faded sorrow bent my drooping head;
In slothful rest my nobler passions lay,
Each fire extinguish'd, and each virtue dead:

When forced to seek a more laborious field,
And mingle chearful with a social train,
To toil and mirth those woes began to yield,
Which thought and care had combated in vain.

In other scenes I now delight could find,
And, far from Cynthia, found my heart at rest;
Till love at length the dubious strife declin'd,
And reason fix'd her empire in my breast.

Then, as by sacred truth's unflattering light,
I saw the follies of my former flame,
I turn'd indignant from the hateful sight,
Struck with remorse, and mortified with shame.

I found imagination's magic wand
Had all my Cynthia's dazzling charms supplied,
And love, misjudging love, with partial hand,
Had given those beauties nature's touch denied.

A visionary shape my Fancy drew,
In the fair form each polish'd grace display'd;
Then like the fabled artist amorous grew,
And lov'd the image which itself had made.

ELEGY VII.

ADDRESSED TO A PINE-TREE. WRITTEN MAY, 1766.

The ruffian North has spent his savage power,
Collects his winds, and quits the mountain's side;
And Auster mild, with many a genial shower,
Renews the laughing meadow's grassy pride.

The active swallow wings her rapid flight
In sportive circies through the ether bland,
And in luxuriant foliage proudly dight
The verdant fathers of the forest stand.

No more beneath thy hospitable shade
The shepherd swains their amorous descant sing,
Each wanders forth amid the blooming glade
To hail the new-blown daughters of the spring.

Yet, while yon elms, who now so gaily spread
Their leafy honors to the vernal gale,
Stood naked to the wintry winds, that shed
Their scatter'd glories o'er the wasted vale;

Thy limbs alone, of all the dreary wood,
Could brave the snowy drift, and chilling blast;
Against the mingled storm uninjur'd stood,
And mock'd the howling tempest as it past.

For this, while all the jocund swains around
The blooming season praise with youthful glee,
I'll teach the nodding coverts to resound
A verse that's due to gratitude and thee.

I'll rove, where opening flowers their sweets combine,
Where blossoms fair their varied odours breathe;
Then with assiduous hand a garland twine,
And on thy branches hang the votive wreath.

So, while in honor of the smiling year,
Echoes each hollow dale and every grove,
Thy venerable shade a lay shall hear,
Sacred to friendship firm and constant love.

ELEGY VIII.

WRITTEN AT MINSTED IN THE NEW FOREST AUGUST 24, 1767.

O rising Sun! on this auspicious day
With brighter beams gild every hill and grove;
Ye feather'd songsters, breathe a sweeter lay!
And fill the echoing woods with joy and love.

And, honor'd Minsted, in thy green retreats
Let every tree a prouder foliage wear!
Let every floweret scatter livelier sweets,
And vernal perfumes scent the autumnal year!

Now has the Sun one annual circuit past,
Since in thy happy shades these longing arms
Receiv'd the choicest blessings man could taste,
Maria's virtues, and Maria's charms!

Yet witness every lawn, and every shade!
So dear a bliss my bosom could not know,
When to my breast I clasp'd the yielding maid,
As now her wedded fondness can bestow.

Let other youths, by vice or folly mov'd,
For each new object change their former flame;
And blush to own they love what once they lov'd,
Lest virtue should approve, and idiots blame.

The scorn of fools I ever shall despise;
For ever pleas'd, when by my constant side
Maria's beauty meets the public eyes,
At home my pleasure, and abroad my pride.

Where gold, not fondness, guards the nuptial chain,
Weak is the parent's will, the lawyer's art:
Blaspheming priests those hearts would join in vain,
Whom GOD and GOD's vicegerent, Nature, part.

But, oh! may we, whose hearts affection join'd,
Preserve the blessing till the close of life!
She in the husband still the lover find;
I still enjoy the mistress in the wife.

ELEGY IX.

AVON. WRITTEN DURING THE STRATFORD JUBILEE.

From the clear stream that o'er her grotto flows
The silver-slipper'd Avon slowly rose,
And pensive on her crystal urn reclin'd,
Pour'd forth in notes like these her anxious mind.

‘What frantic train is this whose noise invades
‘The accustom'd stilness of my tranquil shades,
‘Whose swelling clamors float my banks along,
‘And drown the sweetness of each rural song,

‘Fill all the woods around with festal roar,
‘And fright the peaceful halcyons from my shore?—

‘And see!—from Italy's degenerate clime
‘The mottled hero fam'd in Pantomime,
‘Leads his exulting crew with impious tread
‘To soil the dust that pillows Shakespear's head:
‘With midnight sounds they break his sacred sleep,
‘And near his tomb opprobrious vigils keep.
‘Resounding axes give the solar beam
‘To scorch the borders of my lucid stream,
‘And, while around the weeping Dryads bleed,
‘The sons of riot praise the fatal deed:—
‘Them it becomes to praise: but 'midst the throng
‘What honor'd voice is that which joins the song?
‘Canst thou whose powers could give this wondering age
‘To see the soul of Shakespear grace the stage,

‘Canst thou misjudging, praise each cruel blow
‘That lays the shade by Avon's current low,
‘Canst thou approve those trees untimely doom
‘That wave their foliage o'er thy Shakespear's tomb,
‘Or view the motley sons of Masquerade
‘Insult thy patron's venerable shade?
‘But hark! loud riot swells on every side,
‘And orgies dire pollute my virgin tide;
‘Ah! let my ear the unhallow'd revels fly,
‘Nor drink the sounds of midnight ribaldry.’
She said, and plunging in the silver wave,
Sought the calm refuge of her silent cave.