University of Virginia Library

Where summer smiles, clad in the golden garb
Of sunny splendours! where the tangled vine,
Bending with purple clusters, richly glows!
Where the brown olive clothes the Sabine hills
In tawny veil, repelling the hot breeze,
The lab'ring throngs advance. In ev'ry eye,
The living ray of waken'd intellect
Marks reason's lamp divine! on ev'ry cheek
A stranger smile is seen, deep'ning the tint
Which southern climes diffuse, with ruddy flush
Of conscious ecstacy! The voice, unchain'd,
Breathes the pure eloquence of nature's tongue,
Mocking the fine-wrought sophistry of schools,
The pomp of learning, and the vaunted lore
Of metaphysic art. The untaught race,
Grown to maturity, yet newly born,
Above pedantic lessons, feel the glow
Of nature's own philosophy. O! change
Transcendent and sublime! Blest as the day
That, after a long night of gloom opake,
A night of months, which blotting the broad sun,
From Scandinavia's deserts, smiling comes,
And peering o'er some frozen mountain's top,
Illumes the ebon world. On ev'ry plain
Where Italy unfolds her treasur'd store
Of summer gifts luxurious, tepid dews,
And gales impregnated with spicy breath
Of buds ambrosial, greet the daring hosts
Of conquering France. The brazen cannon's roar
Echoing to heav'n's high concave, steals away
In sullen, long vibration; while around,
O'er ev'ry hill, green copse, and woodland glade,
From troublous Tiber to th' Etrurian meads,
That skirt the vale where Arno's limpid tide
Flashes the silver wave, in dulcet sounds,
The music of the tinkling mandolin
Calls forth the rustic throng, to feast, and sing,
And mingle, wildly gay, in mazy dance.
And thou, fair city, rising from the wave,
Girt with a lucid zone, thy Parian tow'rs,
Proud sea-marks, glitt'ring while the sunny beam
Glows o'er the Adriatic; thou, emerg'd
From gloomy superstition, far more dread
Than ocean's vast and liquid battlements
Rock'd by tempestuous winds, when all around
The equinoctial blast howls fierce and strong,
Braving its tyrant orb; thou, 'mid the deep,
Standst like a lofty temple, whose firm base
The green main guards triumphant; thy proud sons
Hymn the loud song of liberty, new-born;
While the white sails of welcome treasuries
(From worshipp'd Ganges, or Peruvian hills;
From odour-breathing Persia's pearly sands,
Wash'd by the Caspian wave,) to greet thy mart,
Thronging the pale horizon each new morn,
Now swell with gales propitious. Now no more
Slaughter steals hoodwink'd thro' the gloomy haunts
Of thy wave-circl'd citadel. No lord,
From the dark gondola, beholds his slave,
Whose trade is murder, deal the deadly wound
On his unwary foe; while, by the ray
Of holy lamp, the keen stilleto glares,
And the pale victim sinking, groans and dies.
Time was, and mem'ry sickens to retrace
The tablet fraught with wrongs, when seasons roll'd
O'er the small hut of lowly industry
In dim succession of eternal gloom;
Tho' rosy morn upon the eastern cliff
Burst wide her silver gates, and scatter'd round
A bright ethereal show'r! When nature's breast
Unveil'd its fragrance, and its bloomy tints,
Spangled by twilight's tears, to weary eyes,
Unbless'd with sweet repose! Poor, toil-worn race!
The hardy blossoms of a fervid soil;—
What was their hapless lot? To sigh, to pant,
To scorch and faint, while from the cloudless sky
The noon-tide beam shot downward. By their hands
The burning ploughshare thro' the Tuscan glebe
Pursued its sultry way: the smoking plains,
Refresh'd by tepid show'rs, receiv'd the pledge
Of future luxury. The tangling vine,
Nurs'd by their toil, grew fibrous: the brown rind,
Dried by the parching gale, wove close and firm,
Guarded the rich and nec'trous distillation.
The tendrils twin'd, to ev'ry point minute
The od'rous bev'rage stole, till the swoln fruit,
Empurpled by the sun, the labourers prest
To yield its luscious burthen. Yet, for them
Did summer gild the plain? Did autumn glow?
Did austral breezes fan the tepid show'r,
Scarce whisp'ring as it fell? Did the day's toil
Ensure the night's repose?—sweet recompence,
That well befits the peasant's guiltless soul!

Could they, when down the crimson plains of light
The lord of day retir'd, when ev'ry bird,
The plumy trav'ller of unbounded space,
Claim'd the short hour of rest, could labour's sons
Shake from their freckled brows the ev'ning dew,
And homeward, blithesomely, return to quaff
The honey'd cup of joy? Could they suspire
Health's breezy hour; on their own cultur'd plains
Reap the full harvest, pen their fleecy store;
Or, as the night-mist gather'd o'er the heath,
Call home their wand'ring herds?—O! suff'ring Carle!
When the rich vintage heap'd the lordly board,
Moisten'd the feasted lip, or flashing foam'd
Within its crystal prison, amber-dyed;
When nectar, thrice distill'd by burning gales,
Sated the palate of the pamper'd fool;
What were thy poor rewards?—A scanty boon!
Dealt out with freezing scorn, or brutal pride;
A rushy pillow, and a mountain hut,
Whose sides of clay, and tempest-shatter'd roof,
Scarce screen'd thy bosom from the wint'ry blast;
(The very dogs of princes warmer hous'd!)
While the long hour, 'till morning's dawn, stole on
In sullen sadness, or in fruitless pray'r!

Turn to the marble palaces of pride,
The velvet hangings, and the golden shows,
That made their tables groan! Behold their feasts
Of luscious fruits, and blood-inflaming spice;
Their oily syrups of ambrosial flow'rs,
Conserves, thrice essenc'd in Phœnician dews,
Fit for the sick'ning palate of the wretch
By luxury unnerv'd! Beneath his feet,
The polish'd pavement must be sprinkled o'er
With perfumes of Arabia! From above,
The lattic'd roof, with summer flow'rs o'erhung,
'Midst aromatic sweets, shed cooling airs
On his feast-fever'd cheek! On ev'ry side,
In sumptuous colonnades of Parian stone,
Or glitt'ring granite, or the fibrous earth
Of rich Sienna's hills; slow-breathing flutes,
In dulcet strains, take captive the dull sense
Thro' the long hour of feasting; cheating time
With enervating bliss! O! contrast infinite!
Yet who, amidst the mortal myriads,
Most labour'd to embellish nature's plan
Of boundless wonders? Who, with ceaseless toil,
Dug from the beamless mazes of the earth
The boast of varying climes, from Lybia's groves
To caves Armenian, guarded by the rocks
Of wild Euphrates? Who, but the sons of toil,
Enrich'd the sculptur'd dome, reviv'd the arts,
Sinking, o'ewhelm'd, amidst the wrecks of time?

Look round the lofty palaces of pride,
Behold the breathing canvas, wond'rous proof
Of imitative pow'r! where human forms,
Colours, and space, miraculously rang'd,
Drew order out of chaos! where the vast
Of bold perception varied hues disclos'd,
From the rich foliage of embow'ring woods,
To mountains, azure capp'd, scarce visible
Amid the dusk of distance. Trace the lines
That form the graceful statue, Grecian born
From rough-hewn quarries! See the rounding limb,
The modest look serene! which marks the nymph
Of Medicean fame: pround monument
Of heav'n-instructed genius! thou shalt charm
When pomp and pride shall mingle in the mass
Of undistinguish'd clay, inanimate!
That, having borne its hour of busy toil,
Shrinks into shapeless nothing! Dreadful thought!
To mingle with the cold and senseless earth;
In spells of dull inanity to rest;
The noblest passions, and the living pow'rs
Of intellectual light, the soul's pure lamp,
All, all extinguish'd! Tell me, nature's God!
Then what is the warm magic that supplies
The strong life-loving flame, which fills the breast,
Enliv'ning time's slow journey? Liberty!
If thou art not the impulse exquisite,
Where does it dwell? What else can teach the wretch
(Lab'ring with mortal ills, disease and pain,
Deep-wounding poverty, presumptuous scorn,
High-crested arrogance, affections spurn'd,)
To bear the weight of thought, and linger out
This weary task of being? Blest with thee,
The peasant were as happy as his lord—
For nature knows no difference! Summer smiles
For the poor cottager, and smiling shews
The vegetating scene, diffusing fair
And equal portions for the sons of earth!
But man, proud man, a bold usurper, takes
The law of nature from its destin'd course,
And fashions it at pleasure! Hence we trace
The gloomy annals of receding time
Spotted with gore, and blurr'd by pity's tears,
Where genius, virtue, nature's progeny!
Mark'd by th' Eternal's hand with ev'ry charm,
Have shrunk beneath oppression!—bow'd the neck
Before the blood-stain'd shrines of impious fraud,
Flouted by fools, the gilded dregs of earth,
And forc'd to hide the gushing tear of scorn,
Till driv'n to mountain caves, and desert glooms,
The godlike wonders fled. The first, sublime,
The darling of his race; majestic! grand!
With eyes, whose living lustre beam'd afar
The blaze of intellect, Promethean-touch'd,
And infinitely radiant!—

By his side,
Beauteous and mild as morn's returning star,
The maiden, virtue, mov'd! and who can tell
But in some hovel low, whose rushy roof
The barren cliff defends from wint'ry storms,
The godlike pair, scorning the din of fools,
(Ambition's clamour, which the despot death
Awhile observes, then, with his iron hand,
Locks in eternal silence!) who can tell,
But the proud pair, by reason's pow'r sustain'd,
Cherish a glorious race? Statesmen and chiefs,
Poets, and sage philosophers, whose lore
Might rival ancient Greece, and nobly prove
The solitude of virtue—wisdom's sons!
Thy day begins to dawn! Reason sublime!
Thy penetrating eye, no more obscur'd
By superstition, politic and shrewd,
Beholds, beneath the cowl of whining fraud,
Blood-thirsty tyrants! subtle hoodwink'd knaves,
Who, 'mid the gloomy labyrinths of time,
Have murder'd millions. Heap'd the bigot pile,
And bit the brand accurs'd, where martyr'd saints
Fed the consuming flame. Who, bound in oaths,
Hostile to man, insulting to their God,
Wove the thick veil which closely shrouded round
Th' infernal Inquisition! Hydra fiend!
Whose wide-extended hand and ruthless pow'r,
Grasp'd the Peruvian desert, rooting thence
The tree of reason, and enforcing zeal
Which instinct shunn'd, while ages sanctified
A grandly fervid worship! In that cause
How many perish'd, while the ensanguin'd hords
Of sanctified despoilers, dyed the steel
In blood and innocence. Oh! sacred truth!
How are thy laws profan'd, when cavils shrewd
Warp the instinctive mind, and bend the will
To tenets politic: when interest rules
The mind's strong energies, and bigot fangs
Blur the fair aspect of religion pure
To feed ambition's maw; destructive gulf,
Yawning, but never, never sated!—Now, no more
Shall reason, palsied by licentious pow'r,
Pay flexile homage to the lofty fool,
The carping minion, or the high-rais'd shrew,
While with'ring victims cram the ebon jaws
Gf Gallia's fell Bastile. O! dreadful hour!
Disastrous to the groaning tribes of earth,
And doubly horrible, in sight of heav'n!
Trace but the source of ev'ry mortal crime,
Of rapine, murder, or the hopeless pang
Of that misguided and blaspheming wretch
Who disavows his God. Whence do they rise?
From what deep hell, than Acheron more dark,
More terrible to think of? Ask thy heart,
O thou, who blest with giddy fortune's smiles,
Canst riot in voluptuous wanton joys,
Feed on the banquet prodigally rich,
Nursing the embryo mischiefs of disease,
Clothe thy gross frame, bloated with idleness,
In silk, and gems, and perfumes exquisite,
Recline on downy beds, where o'er thy breast,
Sated with feasting, hangs the gay festoon
Of costly velvet; while, till busy noon,
In Doric halls, crouded with motley slaves,
The vestibules of pride, the drooping child
Of humble virtue waits; 'till his faint form,
Struggling with poverty and conscious worth,
Is spurn'd indignant, or compell'd to hide,
In some lone corner of obscure distress,
Those mental treasures, which would make thee poor
By fair comparison. Then why is he
Forc'd by the tyranny of custom's law,
To yield thee homage? Fortune is his foe!
He wants that vile contaminating dross,
Which gives to falsehood all the grace of truth;
To fools respect; to villains empty praise;
Buys fawning smiles from sycophants and knaves;
Deadens the hand of justice; seals the tongue
Of busy admonition, hateful guest
To that dull empty dupe, whose ear imbibes
The honey'd poison of deceitful tongues,
While int'rest holds a mirror to his breast,
Which flatters, while it damns him. At his gate
The famish'd beggar lies; the lame, the blind,
The poor artificer, or vet'ran bold,
Whose guiltless age and mutilated limbs
Are his proud passports! Dost thou feel for him,
Thy brother man, but nobler than thyself,
By nature's heraldry? Behold his scars,
His silver hairs, scatter'd by ev'ry blast
That wings the wintry storm. Does gratitude
To him present a portion of that wealth—
Which he, by many an hour of fierce exploit,
Rescued from foreign foes? Does fancy paint,
Amid thy dreams of labour'd respiration,
The stormy night, when on the tatter'd shrouds,
Drench'd by the pelting show'r, while deaf'ning peals
Rung in his startled ears, the seaman stood
Braving the dreadful gulf that yawn'd below!
Such was the mendicant that haunts thy gate!
So were his youthful hours consum'd for thee;
When o'er the rocking deck the sulphur'd flash
Of desolating war its terrors threw
Midst dying groans: while thund'ring peal on peal
The brazen tongue of slaughter roar'd revenge,
Making heav'n's concave tremble! See that cheek
Wither'd by torrid suns, or frozen climes,
Bath'd with a silent tear. Beside him stands,
With half-retiring step and modest eye,
Fraught with the silent eloquence of woe,
His mis'ry's only hope, a beauteous girl,
Gentle as innocent! Her daily task
Is filial piety, attention sweet,
That marks th' angelic mind! Her outstretch'd arm
Guides the slow footsteps of her drooping sire,
Grown blind with age, and wearied out with toil:
Yet, 'midst the sombre wilderness of woe,
Her voice breeds comfort; and her thrifty hand,
When on a bed of straw her parent sleeps,
Is turn'd to industry. O! fortune blind!
Thou, from whose lap uncounted treasures fall,
Strewing the paths of folly and of pride
With rich redundancy of nature's stores—
Till the pall'd fancy sicken, and the sense
Faint with satiety: O! fortune blind!
Hadst thou no little hoard for modest worth,
No silent nook in the vast space of earth,
Where the wrong'd child of poverty might rest,
Screen'd from the worst of mortal miseries,
The cold contempt of ignorance and pride.
How glows the patriot soul, while fancy's dream
Anticipates the day when ruthless war
Shall cease to desolate! Prophetic hope
Beholds the heav'nly vision, bleeding France,
When o'er thy blooming vales and tawny hills,
Thy pine-clad summits and thy yellow plains,
Thy peaceful tribes shall rove. The laughing throng,
Link'd in the bonds of social amity,
Live for each other. Honesty and mirth,
Twin children of the mountain cottagers,
Labour and peace, come dancing o'er the heath,
Purpled with fragrant flow'rs. Before them fly,
Flutt'ring their sunny wings, unshackled loves;
And hope, with sparkling eyes, whose humid lids
Are fill'd with tears of joy! The breezy hills,
Glowing with fruits redundant, seem to snatch
The sun-beam's lustre; while exulting health
Bounds o'er the topmost summit. The soft dews
Spangle her airy vest of gossamer,
And bathe her od'rous bosom. On her cheek,
Deepen'd by exercise, the orient tint
Plays on the dimpled smile, while thro' her veins
The temper'd blood its purple channel fills
By streams revolving; not with sluggish pace
Of glutted feasting, or benumbing sloth,
But pure and limpid as the vagrant brook
Wand'ring in liquid lapse along the vale,
And bright'ning as it wanders. All around
Reason and peace, exulting, dance o'er flowers
Whose austral fragrance thro' the whisp'ring air
Scatter a world of sweets.

Then, smiling spring!
Thy beauties shall unfold redundantly
To strew the paths of peace! Then, summer, thou
Shalt wear thy golden stole, with cheek of fire
Flush'd by extatic bliss, thy broad clear eye
Flaming o'er fields luxuriant! Then shall
Fame, led on by smiling commere, drop her tear
On valour's grave, while rustic revellers
Mark the long hour of autumn's closing day
By many a simple tale, as simply told,
Of hardy valour; then the spacious hearth,
Encircled by the sons of toil, shall blaze,
Which thro' the long day fed its embers faint,
Lonely and unattended.

Then the sound
Of boisterous glee shall echo to the roof,
While the tir'd lab'rer joins, with half-clos'd eyes,
The clam'rous burthen of the uncouth song.

Who has not seen the cheerful harvest home!
Enliv'ning the scorch'd field, and greeting gay
The slow decline of autumn? All around
The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,
Glow golden-lustred; and the trembling stem
Of the slim oat, or azure corn-flow'r,
Waves on the hedge-rows shady. From the hill
The day-breeze softly steals with downward wing,
And lightly passes, whisp'ring the soft sounds
Which moan the death of summer. Glowing scene,
Nature's long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,
In her proud progeny, she smiling marks
Their graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!

Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sons
Of rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—ye
Who, in the lap of hardy labour rear'd,
Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,
Or on the sidelong hill, or in the glen,
Where the rich farm, or scatter'd hamlet, shews
The neighbourhood of peace, ye still are found,
A merry and an artless throng, whose souls
Beam thro' untutor'd glances. When the dawn
Unfolds its sunny lustre, and the dew
Silvers the outstretch'd landscape, labour's sons
Rise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,
From sweet and soothing rest;—for fev'rish dreams
Visit not lowly pallets! All the day
They toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—
But toil without repining! The blithe song,
Joining the woodland melodies afar,
Flings its rude cadence in fantastic sport
On echo's airy wing! The pond'rous load
Follows the weary team: the narrow lane
Bears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter'd corn,
Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thorn
Purloin'd from the broad waggon.

On the plain
The freckled gleaner gathers the scant sheaf,
And looks, with many a sigh, on the tythe heap
Of the proud, pamper'd pastor! To the brook
That ripples shallow down the valley's slope,
The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—
The flocks along the heath are dimly seen
By the faint torch of ev'ning, whose red eye
Closes in tearful silence. Now the air
Is rich in fragrance!—fragrance exquisite!
Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash'd,
And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,
Ruffle the lake's grey surface. All around
The thin mist rises, and the busy tones
Of airy people, borne on viewless wings,
Break the short pause of nature. From the plain
The rustic throngs come cheerly; their loud din
Augments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,
Happy!—more happy than the Lords ye serve!—
How lustily your sons endure the hour
Of wintry desolation! and how fair
Your blooming daughters greet the op'ning dawn
Of love-inspiring spring!

Hail! harvest home!
To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,
By instinct taught to warble; instinct pure,
Sacred, and grateful to that pow'r ador'd,
Which warms the sensate being, and reveals
The soul self-evident!—beyond the dreams
Of visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!
Where earth presents her golden treasuries;
Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart
Delights unspeakable! Where seas, and skies,
And hills and vallies,—colours, odours, dews,
Diversify the work of nature's God!

Now turn, my Muse,
To Albion's plain prolific; where serene,
Temper'd by reason, liberty delights
To warm th' enlighten'd mind! Where, since the days
When her bold Barons ratified their deed,
Freedom has smil'd triumphant and secure.
Oh! favoured isle, long may discordant broils
Be sever'd from thy shores; may howling war
Blow its dread blast far, Albion, far from thee,
While thy white ramparts, tow'ring o'er the waves,
Shall bid thy foes defiance! Here the hind
Enjoys the well-earn'd produce of his toil,
And sleeps secure, protected by those laws
Form'd for the peasant and the prince alike.
Still may thy infants, Albion, instinct taught,
Prattle of liberty; the sun-burnt swain,
As slow the flaming torch of day retires,
Sing the loud strain of freedom and of joy.
Still may no wrongs invade his midnight dreams,
No guilty wish contaminate his will,
To violate the laws: for 'tis the sting
Of keen oppression that gives birth to crimes,
And brutalizes man. The rav'nous wolf
Feeds not upon his kind,—his murd'rous will
Being but instinctive. Lions prowl abroad,
Famish'd and watchful of the desert path
Where the lone traveller passes; on his kind
He scorns to batten: none but thinking man
Preys on his species, sheds his brother's blood,
And while opposing, still oppos'd, derides
The pleading tongue of nature. Let the brave
Turn to the clay-built hovel of content,
Where peace and reason consecrate the toils
Which virtue's sons endure. See! at their door
No shiv'ring pilgrims wait the murd'rous glance
Of scowling superstition. No dark fiend
Dashes the frugal cup with terror's gall,
Or from the fever'd lip, with churlish hand,
Snatches the cooling draught. No bigot wrath
Starves the poor sinner into faith; or steals
From fainting toil that wholesome nourishment
Which nature meant for all, nor mark'd the day
Nor hour of recreation. Albion! still
May thy brave peasantry indignant turn
From priestcraft, ignorance, and bigot fraud,
To view in nature's wonders, nature's God!
For where can man so proudly contemplate
Th' Omniscient's pow'r, as in the tablet vast
Of infinite creation? Ev'ry breeze
Seems the soft whispering of nature's voice,
Fraught with the lore of reason. Ev'ry leaf
That flaunts its vernal hue, or eddying falls,
Its fibres wither'd by autumnal skies,
A moral lesson shews. The rippling rill
Prattles with nature's tongue. The ev'ning gale
Moans the decline of day: while twilight's tears
Fall on the dusky wings of chilling night,
Spreading to hide its triumphs. The vast dome
Gleams with unnumber'd stars, the prying eyes
Of those bright centinels, ethereal borne,
That watch the sleep of nature. O'er the main,
In ebon car aërial, lightning wing'd,
The pealing thunder whirling his vast flight,
A short-liv'd fiend, gigantic born, the son
Of equinox, rides furious. The freed winds
Howl as he passes by. The foamy waste
Bounds with convulsive horrors; while the waves
Lash the loud-sounding shore. O! nature's God!
These are the varied pages of that lore
Which reason searches; these the awful spells
That seize on all the faculties of man,
And bind them to allegiance. For that pow'r
Which speaks in mighty thunder, wakes the soul,
Breathing in balmy gales; is seen alike
In the swift lightning and the ling'ring hue
Of ev'ning's purple veil; looks thro' the stars,
And whispers 'mid the solitude sublime
Of thickening glooms nocturnal: from the east
Flames forth his burning eye: the grateful earth
Welcomes his glances with her boundless stores,
And robes herself in splendours: odours rich,
And colours varying, decorate her breast,
To greet the Lord of nature: forests wild
And oceans multitudinous unfold
Their wonders to his gaze! Then why should man
Creep like a reptile, fearful to explore
The page of human knowledge? Why mistrust
The sensate soul, the faculty supreme
Which instinct wakens? Reason, pow'r sublime!
Accept the strain spontaneous from the Muse,
Which nurs'd on Albion's cliffs, delights to sing
Of liberty, and thee, her Albion's boast.
And tho' no flight sublime shall grace her toil,
No classic lore expand her thinking mind,
Prophetic inspiration, rapt, shall pour
This mystic oracle. The pendent globe
Shall greet, with pæans loud, the sacred claim
To Britain's sons, by reason ratified;
And when the God of nature, “trumpet-tongu'd,”
Shall check the fiery steeds that hurl the car
Of shouting vict'ry, time shall trace her course
On the proud tablet of eternal fame;
And nature, tow'ring 'mid the wrecks of war,
Shall bless her British shores, which grandly lift
Their rocky bulwarks o'er the howling main,
Firm and invincible, as Britain's sons,
The sons of reason! unappall'd and free!