The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson

including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes

Robinson, Mary (1758-1800)

VOL. I.

TRIBUTARY POEMS.

POEMS, &c.

PETRARCH TO LAURA.

AINSI VA LE MONDE. INSCRIBED TO A FRIEND.

SIGHT.

SOLITUDE.

THE PROGRESS OF MELANCHOLY,

II.

III.

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lvii

POEMS, &c.

PETRARCH TO LAURA.

[_]

Supposed to have been written during his retirement at Vaucluse, a short time before his death.

Ye Sylvan haunts, ye close embow'ring shades,
That hang your dark brows o'er the silent glades;
Ye mountains, black'ning wide the thorny vale;
Ye lucid lakes, that trembling meet the gale;
Ye gloomy avenues of dumb despair,
Ye last asylums of long-cherish'd care;
Eternal solitudes! where Love retires
To bathe his wounds, and quench his fatal fires;
Where frantic, lost, forlorn, and sad, I go,
A wand'ring pilgrim in a maze of woe;
Oh! to your deepest caverns let me fly,
Breathe a fond pray'r, and 'midst your horrors die.

Ye sparry grots, ye once ador'd retreats,
Ye tinkling rills, ye consecrated seats,
Whose velvet sod, embroider'd o'er with flow'rs,
On the charm'd sense celestial odour pours;
Ye roseate banks o'erhung with waving trees,
That moan responsive to the murm'ring breeze,
How cold, how desolate your shade appears,
A path of misery, thro' a vale of tears!
Now pale Despair hangs brooding o'er your bow'rs,
Absorbs your sweets, and withers all your flow'rs;
Strips the thick foliage from your verdant shades,
And spreads eternal darkness o'er your glades;
No more for me your sunny banks shall pour
In purple tides ripe Autumn's luscious store;
No more for me your lustrous tints shall glow,
Your forests wave, your silv'ry torrents flow;
Yet 'midst your heav'n my wounded heart shall crave
One narrow cell, my solace and my grave.

Subdu'd, o'erwhelm'd, a withering shade I stray,
Shrink from myself, and shudder at the day:
No more fond Hope sustains my sickening soul,
Resistless passion spurns her meek controul;
Corroding anguish o'er each prospect low'rs,
Bends my weak frame, my lusty youth devours;
Clings to my breast where ev'ry fibre bleeds,
And on its vital throne insatiate feeds.

Where shall I fly? what path untrod explore,
Where love can wound, and memory live no more;
Where, Laura, shall I turn, what balsam find
To soothe the throbbings of my fev'rish mind?
What blest relief can life's dull round impart,
What rapture vivify the hopeless heart?
What pitying star its beamy stream dispense,
To light my soul, and cheer my vagrant sense;
To gild the gloom of desolating woes,
And lead my wand'ring spirit to repose?

When wild with passion, madd'ning with remorse,
From Avignon's lov'd walls I bent my course;
While, roll'd in crimson clouds, the orb of day
O'er seas of æther shed his parting ray,
As to his western goal he journey'd forth,
Leaving pale twilight weeping o'er the earth,
Oft did I pause, oft turn my longing eyes
To the tall spire that pierc'd the evening skies;
All was serene! save when the vespers' sound
Struck on my pensive heart with knell profound;
While Fancy bade my frantic mind explore
Those scenes of holy joy I taste no more;
Unsullied altars, consecrated shrines,
Where curling incense round each taper twines;
Where, thro' long aisles, seraphic Pæans ring,
And meek-ey'd virgins choral anthems sing!

Where, like a being of celestial mould,
My Laura's beauteous form I dar'd behold!
While at the shrine her orisons she pour'd
Pure as the spirit of the saint ador'd!
Oft as the cross her snowy fingers press'd,
Her auburn tresses veil'd her tranquil breast!
A shade transparent deck'd her brow divine,
And bade her eyes with temper'd lustre shine!
As low she bow'd before the throne of Grace,
An Angel-softness harmoniz'd her face;
A smile benign reveal'd her tranquil soul,
While from her lips devotion's fervour stole;
Each conscious triumph to her share was giv'n,
Her form was beauty, and her mind was heav'n.

Fix'd to the earth, with trembling zeal I gaz'd.
Each passion madden'd, and each sense amaz'd!
Involuntary sighs too soon confess'd
The struggling tumults lab'ring in my breast;
No thought sublime on my rapt feelings hung,
No sacred eloquence unchain'd my tongue;
All, all was Love! while thro' my burning brain
Rush'd a fierce torrent of convulsive pain;

From my dim eyes celestial radiance stole,
While howling demons grasp'd my sinking soul,
Guilt's writhing scorpions, twining round my heart,
Enflam'd each wound and heighten'd every smart;
In vain I sought Religion's calm domain,
And at her footstool pour'd my hopeless pain;
The priestess, frowning on my impious pray'r,
Check'd the bold suit, and hurl'd me to despair.

Ah, Laura! canst thou seal the dread decree
That tears thy Petrarch from his God and thee!
That gives his mental hopes, his fond desires
To conscious anguish and consuming fires?
Canst thou with unrelenting vengeance urge
A trembling soul to fate's extremest verge;
And, while subdu'd it supplicates relief,
Dash the doom'd suff'rer to eternal grief?
Why, soft enchantress, spread the fatal snare
That lures thy struggling victim to despair?
Why with meek smiles my wand'ring sense reclaim?
Why feed with pitying looks my hopeless flame?

Ah! rather come in awful lustre drest,
Calm my touch'd sense, and lull the fiends to rest;
Teach me each rebel passion to disown,
Chill my hot pulse, and freeze my heart to stone:
With contrite sighs devotion's flame illume;
With holy tear-drops gem this mental gloom:
Come in transcendent virtue's sacred form,
Stem the fierce torrent, and appease the storm;
Grasp the dire bolt suspended o'er my head,
And on my quiv'ring heart-strings patience shed;
Check with thy counsels ev'ry madd'ning flight,
Direct me trembling to the paths of light;
Bow my parch'd lip to kiss the chast'ning rod,
And lead me, blushing, to the throne of God!

Where'er I fly, where'er my frenzy roves,
To pine-clad summits or low bending groves,
Still on my shatter'd brain thy form appears,
Steals to my heart, and glistens thro' my tears:
Thy voice I hear in ev'ry whispering gale,
Thy fragrant breath from Citron buds inhale;
I mark the Rose in native sweetness drest,
I snatch the blushing emblem to my breast;

Thy burnish'd ringlets float across my sight,
In the last glowing stream of orient light;
And as the star of morn unfolds its fire,
Stolen from the glances of its burning sire,
Thy beaming eyes emit translucent rays,
The lustrous heralds of thy soul's rich blaze!
A matron's purity thy smiles impart,
And Truth's mild splendours brighten in thy heart;
Ah! wherefore, Petrarch, wherefore rashly dare
The dang'rous magic of a form so fair?
Why was to thee the fatal moment given
Which bade an Angel draw thy soul from Heav'n?

Yet ere thy pow'r supreme my soul confess'd,
Ere fainting Virtue fled my burning breast;
While in its veins one ling'ring spark remain'd,
One heavenly spark by trembling hope sustain'd;
Vaucluse, thy sylvan solitudes I chose
To cure my passion, or conceal my woes;
And oft beneath thy melancholy shade
Reluctant, pensive, half-resolved I stray'd;
And trembling, fault'ring, frequent sighs I pour'd
Before the shrine of him but half adored;
While as the sacred Virgin's form I view'd
A brighter Idoli every sense subdu'd!
While holy vows were lost in warm desires
Love dropp'd a tear that quench'd religion's fires;

Till thro' my eyes my heart's true fervour shone,
And my fond soul, dear Saint, was all thy own!

Now o'er some craggy peak when frowning night
Grasps the last lingering tint of ruby light;
When o'er the vast expanse I seek in vain
The tawny vineyard and the yellow plain;
Heedless I wander, while the tempest flies,
Brave the cold winds, nor heed the threat'ning skies—
Where from the wild romantic cliffs around
The headlong waters fall with hollow sound;
And stealing thro' the winding vale below,
Unseen, thro' mid-day glooms incessant flow;
While sullen echo's aëry tongue betrays
Where round her seat each brawling channel strays;
While the lone owl, her lurid haunts among,
To the pale moon repeats her nightly song;
While rocks acute my fev'rish limbs sustain,
Chill'd by the freezing blast and drizzling rain;
While the keen winds in gusts impetuous yell,
O'er the bleak cliff, that guards the shadowy dell,
When the loud thunder fills the troubled air,
And Forests wither by the lightning's glare;
Madd'ning I see thy glitt'ring phantom rise,
Spring from the steep, and hover 'midst the skies.
I rave, I shriek, from point to point I start,
While hell's worst torments riot in my heart;

I court the fiends my rending pangs to share,
And prove the wildest torments of despair.

When first to these calm shades I bent my way,
Led by the light of intellectual ray,
I mark'd repose her gentlest balm diffuse,
To soothe the hapless Hermit of Vaucluse!
Where, 'midst the foliage of my laurel bow'rs,
The Muse had sprinkled never-fading flow'rs;
Where mild philosophy unveil'd her shrine,
Each care to solace, and each wish refine;
Whole years my studious eye intent explor'd
The treasur'd gems by hoary wisdom stor'd!
Each truth sublime by ancient sages taught,
Grac'd with the glossy charm of polish'd thought:
And oft the sickly taper's feeble rays
Shrunk from the splendours of the solar blaze,
While o'er the classic page absorb'd I hung,
Where Homer breath'd, or tuneful Virgil sung!
When all was silence, all was peace, my breast
No pang endur'd, no wayward thought confess'd!
Swiftly thy beauty gleam'd across my sight,
Dimm'd the bright flame of transitory light,
Spurn'd each weak barrier trembling Reason gave,
And plung'd me vanquish'd in affliction's wave.

Yet, yet once more, my aching bosom sought
A lenient pause from agonizing thought;
I left these bow'rs o'er foreign realms to stray,
Love lit his torch to guide my thorny way!
Mournful I journey'd o'er Italia's lands,
And moisten'd with my tears Sicilian sands;
Where the proud Danube's rushing waters roll,
I pour'd the madd'ning anguish of my soul.
O'er Alpine hills in solitary woe,
I wept and wander'd 'midst eternal snow.
Oft did I mark the Rhone's impetuous stream
By the wan lustre of the moon-light beam;
And as the foamy current curl'd along,
Heard the rocks echo with my frantic song!
Where Rome's majestic ruins tott'ring stand
The hourly victims of Time's mould'ring hand,
Whole nights I've trod the tesselated stone,
While scarce a glimm'ring star in pity shone;
Then starting 'midst th' impenetrable gloom,
Grasp'd the cold fragment of some Martyr's tomb.
And tore the crawling ivy from its bed,
To weave a pillow for my burning head:
Then rais'd my eyes to God in fervent pray'r,
To end my being and my sorrows there.
For O! eternal martyrdom I prove,
Heav'n's doom'd apostate—my fell tyrant, love!

When Rome her proud applause exulting gave,
And round my car her laurels stoop'd to wave!
When borne triumphant o'er the sacred ground,
By holy hands with flow'ry chaplets crown'd!
While clanking cymbals echo'd through the sky,
And rosy infants bade the censers fly!
When nations throng'd thy poet's Fame to share,
And shouts of rapture fill'd the perfum'd air!
No flush'd delight from adulation caught,
No selfish joy with false ambition fraught
Could draw my prostrate soul from love and thee,
Still at thy shrine I bent the trembling knee!
For who but thee, transcendent Angel! taught
The flame to live, which kindled every thought?
For who, like thee, could heavenly themes inspire,
Or touch the sensate mind with hallow'd fire,
Mingling with mortal dust the spark divine,
That bade my verse with deathless glories shine.

In yon cool grot emboss'd with shells and flow'rs,
Where the hot stream of noon-day light scarce pours;
Where silence reigns, save when the shallow rill
With gurgling sound steals o'er the mossy sill;

While 'midst the shadows of the twilight gleam,
I tun'd my Lyre—thy fatal charms my theme;
O'er my chill'd form sleep's sable curtain hung,
Veil'd my sad eyes, and chain'd my fault'ring tongue.
Each sense absorb'd, yet my fond soul was free,
Its thoughts, its faculties, all dwelt with thee;
Celestial visions hover'd o'er my breast,
And rose-lip'd Angels sooth'd my pangs to rest.
Their silver harps hung pendent on the sky,
Bound with unfading wreaths of emerald die,
While the wing'd choristers inscrib'd thy name
On Heaven's blue tablet with ethereal flame.

In the bland portal of the rosy East
Aurora sat in golden mantle drest;
The silent air, in crystal fetters bound,
Slept on the folded clouds that glisten'd round;
When to my ravish'd sight thy form was shown,
The guardian spirit of the sphery throne!
A crown of orient rays thy brow compress'd,
A zone of myrtle clasp'd thy snowy breast!
The tear of pity trembled in thine eye
Like a bright Planet in the evening sky!
The blush of morning mantled o'er thy cheek,
When thus thy voice seraphic seem'd to speak:

“Freed from the goading chain of mortal care,
I rove a bless'd inhabitant of air;

Yet, in delicious ecstasy I wait,
Till my lov'd Petrarch shall partake my fate:
The soul, once purified, awaits on those
Who toil amidst a wilderness of woes:
It guards the partners of its mortal hours,
When anguish threatens, or despair devours,
Shields the frail bosom with a cherub's wing,
And robs the tyrant, Death, of ev'ry sting.

But see the ruddy dawn's advancing blaze
Tears my fond shadow from thy eager gaze;
Yet Oh! if e'er thy Laura's Virtue charm'd,
Her smile enraptur'd, or her beauty warm'd,
Let Hope sustain thy sick'ning soul to prove
“That Heav'n has joy, beyond the joys of love.”—
She smil'd and vanish'd, while my frantic mind
“Awoke to all the griefs it left behind!”

Now driv'n from each vain gleam of fond delight,
My sun of glory saddens into night;
My once proud laurels doom'd, alas! to fade
On the pale forehead of a ling'ring shade.
I count my midnight beads, and kneeling, rave,
On the damp sod, my Pallet and my Grave.
Toiling thro' tedious years unseen, unblest,
Eternal thorns corroding in my breast;
I fast, I pray, and yet no comfort find;
Heaven on my lips, but love within my mind!

For thee, Oh Laura! restless sorrow pours,
Sighs that still burn, and tears that fall in show'rs;
The morning breaks; my fev'rish heart still mourns,
Till twilight, pensive hour, again returns;
When night's thick curtain o'er the scene unfurl'd
Throws rest and silence o'er the breathing world;
I feel thee still, within my heated brain;
I weep, I sigh, I supplicate in vain!
Or, if by chance one pitying ray of rest
Warms the sad inmate of my throbbing breast,
'Tis but a gleam of intellectual light
That feebly glances o'er my mental sight,
And, for a moment, dissipates the gloom,
To point my weary footsteps to the tomb.

AINSI VA LE MONDE. INSCRIBED TO A FRIEND.

[_]

Written at the beginning of the French Revolution.

O thou, to whom superior worth's allied,
Thy Country's honour—and the Muses' pride;
Whose pen gives polish to the varying line
That blends instruction with the song divine;
Whose fancy, glancing o'er the hostile plain,
Plants a fond trophy o'er the mighty slain;
Or to the daisied lawn directs its way,
Blithe as the songstress of returning day;
Who deign'd to rove where twinkling glow-worms lead
The tiny legions o'er the glitt'ring mead;
Whose liquid notes in sweet meand'rings flow,
Mild as the murmurs of the Bird of Woe;
Who gave to Sympathy its softest pow'r,
The charm to wing Affliction's sable hour;
Who in Italia's groves, with thrilling song,
Call'd mute attention from the minstrel throng;
Gave proud distinction to the Poet's name,
And claim'd, by modest worth, the wreath of fame—

Accept the Verse thy magic harp inspires,
Nor scorn the Muse that kindles at its fires.

O, justly gifted with the Sacred Lyre,
Whose sounds can more than mortal thoughts inspire,
Whether its strings heroic measures move,
Or lyric numbers charm the soul to love;
Whether thy fancy “pours the varying verse”
In bow'rs of bliss, or o'er the plumed hearse;
Whether of patriot zeal, or past'ral sports,
The peace of hamlets, or the pride of courts:
Still Nature glows in ev'ry classic line—
Still Genius dictates—still the verse is thine.

Too long the Muse, in ancient garb array'd,
Has pin'd neglected in oblivion's shade;
Driv'n from the sun-shine of poetic fame,
Stripp'd of each charm, she scarcely boasts a name:
Her voice no more can please the vapid throng;
No more loud Pæans consecrate her song,
Cold, faint, and sullen, to the grove she flies,
A faded garland veils her radiant eyes:
A with'ring laurel on her breast she wears,
Fann'd by her sighs, and spangled with her tears:
From her each fond associate early fled,
She mourn'd a Milton lost, a Shakspere dead:
Her eye beheld a Chatterton oppress'd,
A famish'd Otway—ravish'd from her breast;

Now in their place a flutt'ring form appears,
Mocks her fall'n pow'r, and triumphs in her tears:
A flippant, senseless, aëry thing, whose eye
Glares wanton mirth, and low-soul'd ribaldry.
While motley mumm'ry holds her tinsel reign,
Shakspere might write, and Garrick act in vain:
True Wit recedes, when blushing Reason views
This spurious offspring of the banish'd Muse.

The task be thine to check the daring hand
That leads fantastic folly o'er the land;
The task be thine with witching spells to bind
The feath'ry shadows of the fickle mind;
To strew with deathless flow'rs the dreary waste;
To pluck the weeds of vitiated taste;
To cheer with smiles the Muse's glorious toil,
And plant perfection on her native soil:
The Arts, that thro' dark centuries have pin'd,
Toil'd without fame, in sordid chains confin'd,
Burst into light with renovated fire,
Bid Envy shrink, and Ignorance expire.
No more prim Kneller's simp'ring beauties vie,
Or Lely's genius droops with languid eye:
No more prepost'rous figures pain the view,
Aliens to Nature, yet to Fancy true,
The wild chimeras of capricious thought,
Deform'd in fashion, and with errors fraught:

The Gothic phantoms sick'ning fade away,
And native Genius rushes into day.

Reynolds, 'twas thine with magic skill to trace
The perfect semblance of exterior grace;
Thy hand, by Nature guided, marks the line
That stamps perfection on the form divine.
'Tis thine to tint the lip with rosy die,
To paint the softness of the melting eye;
With auburn curls luxuriantly display'd,
The ivory shoulder's polish'd fall to shade;
To deck the well-turn'd arm with matchless grace,
To mark the dimpled smile on Beauty's face:
The task is thine, with cunning hand to throw
The veil transparent on the breast of snow:
The Statesman's thought, the Infant's cherub mien,
The Poet's fire, the Matron's eye serene,
Alike with animated lustre shine
Beneath thy polish'd pencil's touch divine.
As Britain's Genius glories in thy Art,
Adores thy virtues, and reveres thy heart,
Nations unborn shall celebrate thy name,
And waft thy memory on the wings of Fame.

Oft when the mind, with sick'ning pangs oppress'd,
Flies to the Muse, and courts the balm of rest,
When Reason, sated with life's weary woes,
Turns to itself—and finds a blest repose,

A gen'rous pride that scorns each petty art,
That feels no envy rankling in the heart,
No mean deceit that wings its shaft at Fame,
Or gives to pamper'd Vice a pompous Name;
Then, calm reflection shuns the sordid crowd,
The senseless chaos of the little proud,
Then, indignation, stealing through the breast,
Spurns the pert tribe in flimsy greatness drest;
Who, to their native nothingness consign'd,
Sink in contempt—nor leave a trace behind.
Then Fancy paints, in visionary gloom,
The sainted shadows of the laurel'd tomb,
The Star of Virtue glist'ning on each breast,
Divine insignia of the spirit blest!
Then Milton smiles serene, a beauteous shade,
In worth august—in lustrous fires array'd:
Immortal Shakspere gleams across the sight,
Rob'd in ethereal vest of radiant light.
Wing'd Ages picture to the dazzled view
Each mark'd perfection—of the sacred few,
Pope, Dryden, Spenser, all that Fame shall raise,
From Chaucer's gloom—till these enlighten'd days:
Then emulation kindles fancy's fire,
The glorious throng poetic flights inspire;
Each sensate bosom feels the god-like flame,
The cherish'd harbinger of future fame.

Yet timid genius, oft in conscious ease,
Steals from the world, content the few to please:
Obscur'd in shades, the modest Muse retires,
While sparkling vapours emulate her fires.
The proud enthusiast shuns promiscuous praise,
The Idiot's smile condemns the Poet's lays.
Perfection wisely courts the lib'ral few,
The voice of kindred genius must be true.

But empty witlings sate the public eye
With puny jest and low buffoonery,
The buzzing hornets swarm about the great,
The poor appendages of pamper'd state;
The trifling, flutt'ring insects of a day
Flit near the sun, and glitter in its ray;
Whose subtle fires with charms magnetic burn,
Where every abject fool may have his turn.
Lull'd in the lap of indolence, they boast
Who best can fawn—and who can flatter most;
Who with obsequious smiles mislead the mind,
And prove most mischievous, by seeming kind;
Pour on the Ear soft adulation's sound,
And give to infamy the fame they wound;
While with a cunning arrogance they blend
Sound without sense—and wit that stabs a friend;
Slanders oblique—that check ambition's toil,
The pois'nous weeds, that mark the barren soil.

So the sweet blossoms of salubrious spring
Thro' the lone wood their spicy odours fling;
Shrink from the sun, and bow their beauteous heads
To scatter incense o'er their native beds,
While coarser flow'rs expand with gaudy ray,
Brave the rude wind, and mock the burning day.

Ah! gentle muse, from trivial follies turn,
Where Patriot souls with god-like passions burn;
So shall thy song to glorious themes aspire,
Rapt in the wonders of the Poet's lyre.

Thro' all the scenes of Nature's varying plan,
Celestial Freedom warms the breast of man;
Led by her daring hand, what power can bind
The boundless efforts of the lab'ring mind.
The god-like fervour, thrilling thro' the heart,
Gives new creation to each vital part;
Throbs rapture thro' each palpitating vein,
Wings the wild thought, and warms the fertile brain.
To her the noblest attributes of Heav'n,
Ambition, valour, eloquence, are giv'n.
She binds the soldier's brow with wreaths sublime,
From her, expanding reason learns to climb.
To her the sounds of melody belong,
She wakes the raptures of the Poet's song;
'Tis god-like Freedom bids each passion live,
That truth may boast, or patriot virtue give.

From her, the Arts enlighten'd splendours own,
She guides the peasant—She adorns the throne;
To mild Philanthropy extends her hand,
Gives Truth pre-eminence, and Worth command;
Her eye directs the path that leads to Fame,
Lights Valour's torch, and trims the glorious flame;
She scatters joy o'er Nature's endless scope,
Gives strength to Reason—ecstasy to Hope;
Tempers each pang Humanity can feel,
And binds presumptuous Power with nerves of steel;
Strangles each tyrant Phantom in its birth,
And knows no title—but superior worth.

Enlighten'd Gallia! what were all your toys,
Your dazzling splendours—your voluptuous joys?
What were your glitt'ring villas—lofty tow'rs,
Your perfum'd chambers, and your painted bow'rs?
Did not insidious Art those gifts bestow,
To cheat the prying eye—with tinsel show?
Yes; luxury diffus'd her spells to bind
The deep researches of the restless mind;
To lull the active soul with witching wiles,
To hide pale Slavery in a mask of smiles;
The tow'ring wings of reason to restrain,
And lead the victim in a flow'ry chain.
When warlike Louis, arrogant and vain,
Whom worth could never hold, or fear restrain,

The soul's last refuge in repentance sought,
The artful Maintenon absolv'd each fault;
She who had led his worldly steps astray
Now, “smooth'd his passage to the realms of day!”
O, monstrous hypocrite!—who vainly strove
By pious fraud to win a people's love;
Whose coffers groan'd with reliques from the proud,
The pompous offsprings of the venal croud,
And yet—so sacred was the matron's fame,
Nor truth, nor virtue, dar'd assail her name;
None could approach but with obsequious breath,
To speak was treason—and to murmur death.
In meek and humble garb, she veil'd command,
While helpless millions shrunk beneath her hand.
And when Ambition's idle dream was o'er,
And art could blind, and beauty charm no more;
She, whose luxurious bosom spurn'd restraint,
Who lived the slave of passion—died a saint!

What were the feelings of the hapless throng,
By threats insulted, and oppress'd with wrong?
While grasping avarice, with skill profound,
Spread her fell snares, and dealt destruction round;
Each rising sun some new infringement saw,
While pride was consequence—and pow'r was law;

A people's suff'rings hop'd redress in vain,
Subjection curb'd the tongue that dar'd complain.
Imputed guilt each virtuous victim led
Where all the fiends their direst mischiefs spread;
Where, thro' long ages past, with watchful care,
Thy tyrants, Gallia, nurs'd the witch despair.
Where in her black bastile the harpy fed
On the warm crimson drops her fangs had shed;
Where recreant malice mock'd the suff'rer's sigh,
While regal lightnings darted from her eye.—
Where deep mysterious whispers murmur'd round,
And death stalk'd sullen o'er the treach'rous ground.

O Day—transcendent on the page of Fame!
When from her Heav'n insulted Freedom came;
Glancing o'er earth's wide space, her beaming eye
Mark'd the dread scene of impious slavery;
Warm'd by her breath, the vanquish'd, trembling race,
Wake from the torpid slumber of disgrace;
Rous'd by oppression, Man his birth-right claims,
O'er the proud battlements red vengeance flames;
Exulting thunders rend the turbid skies;—
In sulph'rous clouds the gorgeous ruin lies!—
The angel Pity now each cave explores,
Braves the chill damps, and fells the pond'rous doors,
Tears from the flinty walls the clanking chains,
Where many a dreadful tale of woe remains,

Where many a sad memorial marks the hour,
That gave the rights of man to rav'nous pow'r,
Now, snatch'd from death, the wond'ring wretch shall prove
The rapturous energies of social love;
Whose limbs each faculty denied—whose sight
Had long resign'd all intercourse with light;
Whose wasted form the humid earth receiv'd,
Who, numb'd with anguish—scarcely felt he liv'd;
Who, when the midnight bell assail'd his ears,
From fev'rish slumbers woke—to shed new tears:
While slow-consuming grief each sense enthrall'd,
'Till Hope expir'd, and Valour shrunk—appall'd:
Where veil'd suspicion lurked in shrewd disguise,
While eager vengeance op'd her thousand eyes;
While the hir'd slave, the fiend of wrath, design'd
To lash, with scorpion-scourges, human-kind—
Dragg'd with ingenious pangs the tardy hour,
To feed the rancour of insatiate Pow'r.

Blest be the favour'd delegates of Heav'n,
To whose illustrious souls the task was giv'n
To wrench the bolts of tyranny—and dare
The petrifying confines of despair;
With Heav'n's own breeze to cheer the gasping breath,
And spread broad sun-shine in the caves of death.

What is the charm that bids mankind disdain
The Tyrant's mandate, and th' Oppressor's chain;
What bids exulting Liberty impart
Ecstatic raptures to the Human Heart;
Calls forth each hidden spark of glorious fire,
Bids untaught minds to valiant feats aspire;
What gives to Freedom its supreme delight?
'Tis Emulation, Instinct, Nature, right!

When this revolving Orb's first course began,
Heav'n stamp'd divine pre-eminence on man;
To him it gave the intellectual mind,
Persuasive Eloquence and Truth refin'd;
Humanity to harmonize his sway,
And calm Religion to direct his way;
Courage to tempt Ambition's lofty flight,
And conscience to illume his erring sight.
Who shall the natural Rights of Man deride,
When Freedom spreads her fost'ring banners wide?
Who shall contemn the heav'n-taught zeal that throws
The balm of comfort on a Nation's woes?
That tears the veil from superstition's eye,
Bids despots tremble, and oppression die?
Wrests hidden treasure from the sordid hand,
And flings profusion o'er a famish'd land?—
Nor yet, to Gallia are her smiles confin'd,
She opes her radiant gates to all mankind;

Sure on the peopled earth there cannot be
A foe to Liberty—that dares be free?
Who that has tasted bliss will e'er deny
The magic power of thrilling ecstasy?
Who that has breath'd Health's vivifying breeze,
Would tempt the dire contagion of Disease?
Or, prodigal of joy, his birth-right give
In shackled slavery—a wretch to live?

Yet let Ambition hold a temp'rate sway,
When Virtue rules—'tis Rapture to obey;
Man can but reign his transitory hour,
And love may bind—when fear has lost its pow'r.
Proud may he be who nobly acts his part,
Who boasts the empire of each subject's heart,
Whose worth exulting millions shall approve,
Whose richest treasure—is a Nation's Love.

SIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ. OCULIST TO HIS MAJESTY.

O thou! all wonderful, all glorious Pow'r!
That through the soul diffusest light sublime,
And bidst it see th' omnipotence of God!
O sight! to man the vivifying lamp,
That, darting through the intellectual maze,
Giv'st to each rising thought the living ray!
As the Promethean touch awoke that source
Whose glory warms the Planetary world,
So the supreme illum'd the visual orb,
To mark his works, and wonder at his pow'r!

Transcendent gift! but for thy light divine,
Oh! what a chaos were the mind of man!
Compos'd of atoms, exquisitely fine,
Each moving in a dark obstructed sphere,
Forlorn, and undelighted! for to him
Whose eye ne'er drank the widely beaming ray,
What are the wonders of the starry worlds;
Creation's fair domain, its gems, its hues,
And all its bright diversity of charms?

What are his faculties, his passions, thoughts?
He labours through a wilderness obscure,
Each other sense awaken'd, wanting still
That sense divine, which gives to each its charm;
The earth, to him, a solitary speck,
For ever mournful, and for ever drear!

Oblivion horrible! to know no change;
Nor light from darkness! nor the human form,
The image of perfection infinite!
To fashion various phantoms of the brain,
By each amus'd, and yet by each deceiv'd!
To roll the aching eye, alas! in vain,
And still to find a melancholy blank
Of years, and months, and days, and ling'ring hours,
All dark alike, eternally obscure!
To such a wretch! whose brightest sense of bliss
Is but the shadow of a waking dream,
The sleep of death, with all its startling fears,
Must teem with prospects of Elysium!
For what is sleep, but temporary death;
Sealing up all the windows of the soul,
And binding ev'ry thought in torpid chains?
Yet, only for a time the spell controuls,
And soothing visions gild the transient gloom;
For every active faculty of mind
Springs from the numbing apathy of sleep
With renovated lustre and delight!

But he who knows one unenlighten'd void,
One dreary night, unbless'd with cheerful dreams,
Lives in the midst of Death; and, when he sleeps,
Feeds a perpetual solitude of woe,
Without one ray to dissipate its gloom.

Then what to him avails the varying year,
The orient morn, or evening's purple shade,
That robes Creation in a garb of rest?
What all the beauties of the vast expanse,
The tint cerulean, or the vaulted arch
Of Heaven's eternal dome! Can Fancy paint,
With all the vivid magic of her pow'r,
The spangling legions of the sphery plains;
The gaudy-vested Summer's saffron glow,
When proudly gilded by its parent Sun,
As through the flaming Heav'ns his dazzling car,
Burnish'd with sparkling light, sheds liquid gold
O'er seas ethereal; while the breezes stay
To kiss the fainting flow'rs, whose silky heads,
Inclining, fade beneath their with'ring touch?
Can Fancy give the rainbow's lustre pure
To the cold vacuum of the sightless eye?
Insensible to colours, space, or form,
Stumbling and fearful, through a desert shade,
Man gropes forlorn, and lab'ring like the Mole;
He feels the vivifying glow divine,
But, 'midst the blaze of radiance infinite,

An isolated being, wanders still,
Sad, unillum'd, disconsolate, and lost!

Nor yet alone the misery extreme
Of the dread gloom opaque involves his mind;
The longing for that something yet unknown,
Whose pow'r he feels, diffusing its warm touch
O'er ev'ry sensate nerve! that Power which marks
The varying seasons in their varying forms,
That tells him there is yet a sense untried,
Ungratified, yet fraught with heavenly bliss,
Distracts beyond the certitude of pain,
Chills the expanding source of mental joy,
And deadens all the faculties of man!

Ah! woe too exquisite for human thought!
Of mortal miseries, the dread supreme!
How can the soul its energies sustain,
When Reason's crystal gates are clos'd in night,
And cold Oblivion hovers o'er the mind?
What are the horrors of the dungeon's gloom,
The bolts of steel, or the flint-fretted roof,
The temporary spells that shut the wretch
From the bland glories of effulgent day?
While Hope comes smiling on the wings of Time,
And the small crevice in his loathsome cell,
That promises a glimm'ring stream of light,
Bids him look forward to the coming joy!

What are the self-created, anxious fears,
That, thronging round the midnight traveller,
Give to his straining eye fantastic forms,
And fills imagination's boundless scope
With shadowy hosts, scaring his startled mind;
While Silence reigns despotic o'er the plain;
Save where the bird of solitude salutes
The melancholy hour, and pours alone
Her love-bewailing song; yet hope beguiles,
Nor quits him as he strays, 'till the wan moon,
Peering in silvery panoply of light,
Sails placidly sublime through the still air,
And scatters round her imitative day!
But the unvarying cloud of deepest night!
The blank perpetual of the sightless orb!
The mournful chaos of the darken'd brain!
No hope can animate, no thought illume;
All is eternal solitude profound;
A dreadful shade, that mocks each other sense,
And plunges Reason in its worst abyss!

And yet, in such a mind, so whelm'd in gloom,
The pure affections of the soul still live!
The melancholy void is subject still
To the sweet magic of seraphic sounds;
The soothing eloquence of sacred song;
The whisp'ring gale, that mourns declining day;
Or Philomela's soul-subduing strain,

That woos lone Echo, from her viewless seat,
To sail aërial-thron'd upon the breeze!
The lulling murmurs of the wand'ring stream;
The ever rippling rill; the cataract fierce;
The lowing herds; and the small drowsy tones
That, from the insect myriads, hum around;
The love-taught minstrelsy of plumed throats;
The dulcet strains of gentle Consolation!
But, most of all, to that lov'd voice, whose thrill,
Rushing impetuous through each throbbing vein,
Dilates the wond'ring mind, and frees its pow'rs
From the cold chains of icy apathy
To all the vast extremes of bliss and pain!
For, to that voice ador'd, his quiv'ring pulse
Responsive beats! he marks its ev'ry tone,
And finds in each a sympathetic balm!
Ill-fated wretch! he knows not the sweet sense
That feeds upon the magic of a smile!
That drinks the poison of the murd'rous eye,
Or rushes, in an ecstasy of bliss,
To snatch the living roses from the cheek!
He knows not what it is to trace each charm
That plays about the symmetry of form,
And heightens ev'ry timid blushing grace,
More lovely, from the wonder it commands!
He never mark'd the soul-expressive tear!
The undescribable and speaking glance,
That promises unutterable bliss!

Then what to him avails the ruby lip,
Or the rich lustre of the silky waves,
That half conceal the azure tinctur'd eye,
As golden clouds rush on the morning star,
And glow, exulting, o'er its milder ray!

O glorious sight! sublimest gift of God!
Expansive source of intellectual bliss!
By thee we climb to immortality,
Through all the rugged paths of tedious life!
Thy nerve shoots forth a light ineffable,
That marks the fount of science, and reveals
The many-winding paths of wisdom's maze!
Thou canst within thy narrow vortex grasp
The outstretch'd ocean, and the landscape wide,
Diversified with craggy cliffs, whose heads
Hang fearfully sublime, half veil'd in clouds,
O'er the low valley's solitary breast!
'Tis thine, upon the mountain's dizzy edge
To ponder on the wonders of the sky!
Or, bending o'er the margin, trace below
The world of mingling atoms, less'ning still
As the dread cavity grows more profound;
Till woods, and lakes, and scatter'd villages,
And stately palaces, and lofty spires,
Fade in the deep impenetrable gloom!
Thou canst avert the storm that gathers round,
And bids thee seek the hospitable roof

Where meek philanthropy unfolds her store!
'Tis thine to contemplate the gorgeous Sun
In all its majesty of living light,
Flaming, despotic, o'er unnumber'd worlds!
'Tis thine to mark the snowy-vested plains,
That, like the glitt'ring stores of Avarice,
Dazzle and chill the wretched wand'rer's soul!
Or, midst the wreck of Nature, still secure,
Gaze where the black'ning tempest, bursting round,
Tears the young branches from the parent trunk,
And strips the forest of its loftiest pride!

And yet! so wonderfully form'd to meet
The cutting blast, the winged lightning's glare,
The painful radiance of the scorching Sun;
To watch the midnight taper's glimm'ring flame
O'er the long studious page, or pore intent
Upon the fine-wrought mysteries that lurk
In art mechanical! to trace the stars
Through all their devious labyrinths of air;
To plunge amidst the foamings of the deep;
Or pour the copious torrents from that spring
By pity cherished in the human breast!
Yet—so alive is ev'ry wondrous part,
In each complete, in all pre-eminent!
So exquisitely delicate each nerve,
So subject to destruction and to pain,

That the minutest particle obscure,
Almost invisible to that it meets,
Obstructs its pow'rs, and o'er the visual ray
Rolls a huge mass of agonizing shade!
Such are the horrors, such the pangs acute,
That shroud the darken'd eye, whose mortal sense,
Consign'd to one unbless'd and mournful night,
Can by eternal day alone be cur'd!
Where the dim shade shall vanish from its beams,
And, bathing in a sea of endless light,
The renovated orb, awoke from death,
Shall snatch its rays from immortality.

SOLITUDE.

Hail, Solitude serene! thou nurse of thought!
To whom the weary mind retires, to taste
The blissful hour of exquisite repose!
Thou, who delight'st to dwell in shaggy woods,
Whose variegated foliage hangs its shade
O'er the rude margin of the mountain's brow;
Or, interwoven, down its sloping side,
Spreads the dim horrors of a mid-day night!

Hail, pensive Solitude! whose footsteps stray
Along the pebbly borders of the main,
When from the eastern clouds the Sun darts forth,
Lifting his glorious canopy of fire
Above the pale horizon, spreading round
A living world of undulating Light!
Or seek the cool and unfrequented bow'r,
The bushy dell, or the dew-spangled grot,
When the fierce Lord of Noon, with flaming eye,
Rolls furious o'er the sapphire floor of heav'n;
Or downward shoots his shaft of glitt'ring fire,
Upon the sultry heath and thirsty mead,

To drink the ling'ring tears of Morn, that shine
On the young violet's aromatic breast:
Or, when, with humid hand, her purple robe
Meek Twilight draws across the mountain's brow,
Veiling its golden crest, in dusky shade
Of cold, oblivious gloom, thou lov'st to sit,
And watch the lamp of night, ethereal borne,
Glide o'er the cavern'd cliff, whose torrents roar
Down its stupendous sides, and foam to reach
The desolated valley, lost below!

Then, Solitude, 'tis thine in ev'ry gale
To hear celestial breathings; from each hill
To quaff the balmy essence of the breeze;
To mark, in every magic change of scene,
The grand diversity of Nature's laws,
Yet find in all the ever present God!
Whose pow'r, sublime, with equal wonder moves
In the small flowret bursting from the earth,
As in the sphere-crown'd eagle's tow'ring wing!

Then wilt thou trace, with Fancy's tearful eye,
The once delicious scene; the rural cot;
The village house of pray'r; the sun-burnt hind;
The lowly children of the rushy roof;
The flocks; the herds; and all the golden pride
Of glowing Autumn whelm'd beneath the flood.

O sacred Solitude! amidst thy scenes
Of rapture infinite, thy ills are these:
The ruthless cataract; the midnight blast;
The death-wing'd tempest; and the with'ring bolt
Of Heav'n-avenging wrath! Nor art thou only
Destin'd to endure, in solitary shades,
The sad diversity of direful woe!
The sweeping hurricane, the stormy hour,
The fatal lightnings, and the whelming flood,
Are but the emblems of disastrous life!

Then let me court thee in thy gentlest form;
In lonely grottos, and in verdant glens,
Where the slow brook runs babbling from its source,
And perfum'd zephyrs fan the fervid ray!
Where Meditation, like an Hermit pure,
With bosom taught by mild philanthropy,
In silence mourns the miseries of Man!
Creation's Lord! who, plac'd amidst the gems,
The luxuries of Nature's vast domain,
Still pants for more; and, still impatient, grasps
The glittering vision of delusive joys;
The gaudy phantoms of a transient day;
The breath of popularity, that turns
Inconstant as the wind; the flatt'rer's smile;
The wreath of Fame, imbued with human gore;
And, worst of all—O agonizing thought!
The paltry boast of treasure, wrung, alas,

From the torn bosom of the hapless slave,
The wretched offspring of a fiercer Sun!
For these, he wields the desolating sword;
Quits the dear mansion of domestic peace;
The lov'd companions of his native home;
The social comforts, and the calm delights,
That thronging round the blazing hearth, beguile
The tardy winter's night: for these he dares
The pois'nous vapours of infected climes,
The torrid ray, or the pernicious blasts
Of petrifying Lapland's cheerless skies!
For these he wanders far, o'er unknown seas,
To tame the tribes barbarian, or explore
The sad variety of human woes.
Oh! blind, misguided, and mistaken Man!
To leave the garden of luxurious sweets,
And wander 'midst a desert, fraught with thorns.

Ah! let me, in some shelter'd valley, own
A cottage, lowly, but secure from harm;
From the rude rioter, or caitiff wretch,
Who, prowling by the twinkling starry light,
Assails the houseless traveller, and bares
Against his beating breast the murd'rous knife.
From such as these secure, let sweet repose
Strew on my pillow rude the buds of Spring,
The opening treasures of the infant year!

There, let oblivious slumbers lull my mind,
And harmonize the quickly throbbing pulse,
That, through the creeping hour of day, endur'd
The various thrills of ecstasy and woe.
And you, ye airy phantoms of the brain,
Ye forms fantastical, or fraught with fear,
Oh! fly the blest abode of gentle peace;
Nor with your agonizing spells assail
The weary senses, wrapp'd in balmy sleep!
And when the Lark, the harbinger of day,
Sweeps the blue ether with exulting wing,
And welcomes her approach with shrilly song,
With thee I'll quaff the ever-winding rill,
And feast upon the luxuries that rise
From the warm bosom of the teeming earth!
While Health, the blooming handmaid of Repose,
Shall smile upon my board, and give a zest
To the rich banquet of content and joy.
There the faint wanderer shall be my guest,
With modest mien, and converse undefil'd;
Unvarnish'd emblems of the spotless soul!
And there, the legendary tale shall claim
The midnight hour serene; while the pale lamp
Shall feebly gleam upon the frugal board:
Yet, not to these confin'd; the loftier theme,
The wing'd idea, and the soothing strain
Of Heav'n-descended song, shall charm the soul,
And give to ev'ry nerve a keener sense!

There, shall the hoary sage, Philosophy,
Unfold his sacred lore; while Wisdom's son
Shall, smiling, smooth the rigid brow austere,
And mingle in the scene of humbler bliss!

Then, welcome Solitude! The sphere is thine,
That gives the purest passions ample scope!
That bids the soul beam with exterior grace
Of light, reflected from the source within!
And when its essence shall evaporate,
Fann'd by the desolating wing of time;
When this dull scene of transitory life,
And all its sorrows, all its joys are o'er;
One sparkling atom, from its prison clay,
Shall soar, to mingle with its native Heav'n.

THE PROGRESS OF MELANCHOLY,

A FRAGMENT.

O! Melancholy! parent of Despair,
Whose pitying pow'r, whose poison fell
Creeps thro' the sickening brain, the pallid cheek,
The languid downcast eye, the listless frame,
The desolating toil of ceaseless thought,
Proclaim thy dark and fateful hour at hand!
Absorb'd amidst surrounding revelry,
Thy child, O! ruthless Melancholy! steals;
Unheeding the loud laugh, the wanton jest,
The sign mysterious, or the whisper low
Of shrewd, sharp-sighted, prying observation.
Nor magic charm, nor herb medicinal,
Nor all the treasur'd lore of studious skill,
Can draw thy victim from the numbing spell
That fascinates and chains her yielding soul!

Seldom she speaks: if question'd, she returns
The answer incoherent and unapt,
Mark'd by the frequent pause and vacant eye.

Sometimes she weeps; but nature's niggard hand
Denies the copious show'r, sweet balmy fount,
That cools and vivifies the burning brain!
And now she starts! and now-and-then, by fits,
She looks aghast, trembles, and deeply sighs;
Then sinks into the torpid dream again.

She loathes the blooms of spring; the glowing hour
Of feast and minstrelsy, and playful mirth!
Her mind, each active faculty possess'd,
Resigns itself to ever-musing woe:
For her no orient beam adorns the sky:
No balmy wing ethereal through the shade
Flings the refreshing breeze; no limpid brook
Sparkles with noon-tide rays, reflected back
With ten-fold lustre from its glassy breast!
The change of season, and the varying hour,
Serve to make up the dull account of time,
But bring no interval of gleaming joy!
Or, if her sense can aught discriminate,
She ponders on the miseries of life;
The barren mountain, where the tott'ring hut
Rocks as the whirlwind sweeps its rushy roof,
And hurls it fathoms down the craggy steep!
The chamber, where the paly quiv'ring lamp
Shews the worn suff'rer on the bed of death!
For her the woodland nightingale attunes
His song nocturnal, unregarded—lost!

The sad, the sympathetic, plaintive strain,
O'er the dull ear of sorrow passes faint,
If not unheeded; or, if feeling wakes,
Recall'd by memory to long past woe,
Reflection glances o'er the page of time,
And marks its progress with a silent tear!

Pale Melancholy shuns the rural haunt,
Where peace, and joy, and revelry preside!
Bliss-breathing Health, that welcomes young desire,
Led on by smiling hope and blooming love,
Starts from her with'ring form, and steals away;
While apathy, with petrifying hand,
Spreads a dim shadow o'er each faded charm.

The twilight gloom amidst embow'ring woods
She courts, and bending o'er some wizard stream
That winds among the ever-mould'ring heaps,
Strew'd by the touch of time from antique tow'rs
And arches fretted with fantastic forms,
She sits, the pensive genius of the scene!
Around her cell attentive stillness reigns;
The breezes sleep; and o'er its pebbly bed
The shallow river bends its silent way;
Death seems to triumph o'er the breathing world,
Save where the bat from the dark ruin flits,
Cleaving the night-mist with his dusky wing.

Nor there alone presides the mournful maid;
She loves to stray, and ponder as she strays,
Along the dreary monumental pile;
Where, from the Gothic roof, with ivy bound,
The whistling wind descends, and through the aisle
Sweeps the long hoarded dust for ages heap'd
On the vain records of th' unconscious dead!

Oft, when the wintry moon o'ertops the hills,
In circling vapour wrapp'd, she wanders forth
O'er the bleak heath; list'ning the rising gale,
Or distant village bell, whose sound, once told,
Proclaims the witching hour. Then Fancy comes;
But in her train no lovely forms appear,
No blithesome groups, thridding the roseate wreath,
Or tripping in fantastic measures by;
No Sylvan pipe, no rude, yet dulcet note
Of mountain minstrelsy delights her ear;
But the shrill menace of the freezing blast,
(Thron'd on whose black and desolating wing
Disease and death hurl the destructive shaft)
Howls o'er her breast. Still dauntless, she proceeds;
The drizzly dew, the sharp and nipping gale,
Pass o'er her cheek unheeded. All alone
She contemplates the solitary scene,
While horror, madd'ning, conjures up an host
Of spectres gaunt; of chiefs, whose mould'ring bones

Have slept beneath the green-sod where they fell,
Till village legends scarcely say—they died!
Now from their prison-graves again they start,
Hurling the airy jav'lin on the foe;
And now they rush, in mighty legions, on;
Now from the length'ning columns fiercely brave;
And now the broken ranks disordered fly,
Pale as the silvery beam that marks their course;
And now the breathless heaps bestrew the plain,
While on their mangled limbs the batter'd shield
Gleams horrible; as through the indented steel
The life-stream gushes from the recent wound!
The groan of death fills up the dreadful pause;
Sad, and more sad, it echoes o'er the scene,
Till, oft repeated, the deep murmur dies!
The cherish'd poison, now more potent grown,
Riots o'er all the faculties at will;
Strong in conceit, with fascination fraught,
Painfully pleasing. As the fever burns
The consciousness of misery recedes;
Till, fill'd with horror, reason's barrier fails,
And frenzy triumphs o'er the infected brain!

Now the wan maniac hurries to the bourn
Whose sandy base the frequent surges lave;
Dishevell'd! wild! and fearless of the storm!
There, o'er the dreadful summit she inclines,

While darkness wraps the liquid world below:
She listens, with attention mute, to catch
The mournful murmurs of the distant main;
The tempest wakes; the rous'd and angry waves
Rise in the mighty elemental strife,
Urg'd by the howling blast, whose forceful breath
Repels them, foaming, to their native deep.
Amidst the din terrific, the doom'd bark
Strikes on the rocky shore. The wretched crew
Fill the dread chorus with the groans of death,
Till the tir'd winds moan o'er the shattered wreck,
That sinks amidst the fathomless abyss!

Rous'd from her dream, pale Melancholy starts;
Shrieks louder than the blast! but shrieks unheard;
Then plunges headlong from the dizzy steep,
And, in the bosom of despair, expires!

Now the faint dawn gleams o'er the eastern cliff;
The smooth sea brightens with the coming ray,
And not a vestige of the storm is seen!

THE CAVERN OF WOE.

As Reason, fairest daughter of the skies,
Explor'd the vale, where mortal mis'ry lies;
Led on by fortitude, with eye serene,
She mark'd each object of the varying scene;
In every maze of busy life she found
Some hidden snare, some agonizing wound;
For each her hand display'd a precious balm,
Whose pow'r divine the tortur'd soul could calm;
Till midway, on a rock of dreadful height,
The Cave of cureless woe assail'd her wond'ring sight!

On the bleak threshold, with'ring and forlorn,
Heart-wounded Melancholy sat reclin'd!
The rude blast scatter'd her dishevell'd hair;
Round her cold brow the deadly nightshade twin'd!
Near, on a craggy point, stood wild despair,
Whose pangs supreme all lesser miseries scorn!

And as the gaunt tormentor, smiling, view'd
The pensive child of Sorrow, soul-subdu'd;
With taunting mien, she beckon'd from below
The fierce, relentless bands of desolating woe!

First, swift as lightning up the flinty steep
Impatience flew, barefooted, out of breath;
Scorning the perils of the dreadful sweep;
Heedless of wounding thorns, and threat'ning Death.
Eager to rush the foremost of the train,
She fear'd not danger, and she felt not pain:
With longing eye she view'd the tow'ring height;
From peak to peak, quick climbing with delight,
She pass'd the fatal cave; then turning short,
Fell headlong from the rock, of ev'ry fiend the sport!

Then horror darted forth, in wild amaze!
Her hair erect, with pois'nous hemlock bound;
Her straining eye-balls flashing fires around,
While nature trembled at her potent gaze!
Swift to the dizzy precipice she flew,
As, aiming with impetuous force to throw
Her giant form amidst the gulph below!
When, from an ivy'd nook obscure, pale fear
Peep'd forth, slow whisp'ring to her startled ear,
“Think not the pow'r of death thy mis'ries will subdue!”

Then Horror bent her blood-shot eyes below,
Where, by a group of demons compass'd round,
Lay suicide accurs'd! from many a wound
On his bare bosom did life's fountain flow!
Now shame, with cheeks by burning blushes fir'd,
And skulking Cowardice, in haste retir'd!
While conscience plac'd beneath his fev'rish head
A pillow dire, with thorns and nettles spread;
And guilt, with all the scorpions of her train,
Oped to his fainting eyes eternity of Pain!

Then luxury approach'd on couch of down!
Drawn by her offspring, folly and disease,
Flush'd Pleasure decking her with roseate crown,
And bow'd obedience, ever prone to please,
Waiting her nod! languid she seemed, and pale,
Restless, and sated with voluptuous fare;
Beside her pillow, hung with trappings rare,
Stood trembling palsy, ready to assail;
And writhing agony, and slow decay,
And hood-winked vice abhorr'd, that shunn'd the eye of day.

Next, with a solemn, slow, and feeble pace,
Came silent poverty, in tatter'd vest!
The frequent tears, that glisten'd on her breast,
Had fretted channels down her meagre face!

A rabble crew of idiots dinn'd her ear:
While mean reproach came smiling in the rear.
With firm, yet modest look, she pass'd along;
Nor sought relief, nor mark'd the taunting throng;
While her wrung heart, still scorning to complain,
Suppress'd the rending groan, and throbb'd with proud disdain.

Close at her heels, insidious envy crept;
The imp, deform'd and horrible in shape,
Mock'd, when the slow-consuming victim wept,
Pointing, and grinning, like a wither'd ape:
About her throat, the asp detraction clung,
Scatt'ring destructive poisons from her tongue!
She wav'd a blasted laurel o'er her head,
Stol'n from the sacred ashes of the dead;
Inly she pin'd; while in her panting breast,
Shrunk ignorance struck its fangs, to banish gentle rest.

In a lone corner, almost hid in shade,
With downcast eye, sat unrequited love!
As from their hollow cell the slow tears stray'd,
A willow garland for his brow he wove!
Low at his feet, bare Madness laid his head,
Rattling his chains, upon his flinty bed!
Rous'd from his stupor by the clanking sound,
The pensive youth gaz'd fearfully around;

And wond'ring to behold such mis'ry near,
Forgot his mournful wreath, and dropp'd a pitying tear.

Now, lab'ring up the flinty winding road,
Laden with treasure, bending to the ground,
Appear'd lean avarice! the pond'rous load
Seem'd his weak shoulders every step to wound:
One thread-bare garb hung on his aged form;
Scant covering from the bleak and wintry storm!
Before him famine went, a thing decay'd;
And dark suspicion, grasping at a shade!
While fraud, low crawling, mock'd the reptile's art,
Pilfer'd the scatter'd gold, and wrung the miser's heart!

Next came deceit, with smooth and fawning tongue,
Glozing with praises every thing debas'd;
To shield her breast, a flattering mirror hung;
A tinsel zone shone dazzling round her waist!
Her hand, conceal'd beneath her flimsy vest,
Clasp'd a keen dagger, ready to destroy;
Content she seem'd, though, in her cunning breast,
Her coward soul shrunk from the touch of joy;

Her humble voice the list'ning ear beguil'd,
While, with infernal art, she murder'd as she smil'd.

Now through the cavern rush'd with iron hand
Oppression insolent! his arm he rais'd,
Waving his spear, with absolute command,
While ev'ry subject fiend retir'd, amaz'd!
At awful distance, trembling, prostrate round,
The sons of pining slav'ry kiss'd the ground;
Till, darting forward, o'er the abject crowd,
With voice exulting, menacing, and loud,
Insatiate vengeance snatch'd the up-rais'd lance,
While bold oppression's arm fell nerveless at his glance.

Next Pride came forward, gorgeously array'd;
His brow a starry wreath of gems compress'd;
In his right hand a sceptre he display'd;
A robe of costly ermine wrapp'd his breast!
Enthron'd, sublime, above the wond'ring race,
Immortal beauties seem'd to deck his face!
His eye assum'd pre-eminence of sway;
He reign'd the gilded idol of the day;
Till death, his dread supremacy to shew,
Struck at the vaunting wretch, and laid his sceptre low.

Now, rattling o'er the teeming plains afar,
Came glitt'ring wealth, in his resplendent car!
His rapid course swift-footed Toil pursu'd
With sinewy limbs, and brown sun-freckled breast;
The lord of luxury his vassal view'd,
And, smiling, lifted high his haughty crest!
But, when neglected toil at length retir'd,
The short-liv'd glories of his brow expir'd;
Around his eager eyes he roll'd in vain;
Ingratitude appear'd, and claim'd her turn to reign!

At her approach, the fatal cavern rung:
Loud shouts of horror rent the vaulted stone!
All lesser Fiends their heads in sorrow hung;
Omnipotent in ill, she grasp'd the infernal throne!
Then reason mark'd her blest associate fly;
And shudd'ring at the scene, re-sought her native sky!

MONODY

TO THE MEMORY OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE, Written immediately after her execution.

When, the dread scene of death and horror o'er,
Reason's calm eye time's tablet shall explore;
When the dark demons of destructive ire
No more shall see devoted hosts expire;
When, o'er the desolated clime, the wise
Shall bid, too late, the sacred olive rise!—
Then justice shall the dreary spot illume
Where pity lingers on the martyr's tomb;
And, scatt'ring Sorrow's incense, sighing, say—
“Thy fame, illustrious soul! shall ne'er decay!”

Oh! then, when wand'ring on some distant shore,
Musing o'er scenes of bliss he tastes no more!
The holy exile shall, with up-rais'd eyes,
Implore, for thee, the raptures of the skies!
Though sad, forlorn, a stranger to repose,
Celestial Faith shall mitigate his woes!
And patience, smiling from her sphery throne,
Shall bid his throbbing heart some solace own!
Yet, as the pious sufferer bends his way,
Cheer'd by the prospects of eternal day,
Oft shall he pour his orisons divine,
Forget his pangs, and only weep for thine!

The pilgrim who, with tearful eye, shall view
The moon's wan lustre on the midnight dew,
As through the lonesome labyrinth he strays,
Sooth'd by her lamp, and guided by its rays,
Shall offer up to heaven an humble pray'r,
(For contrite sighs are ever welcome there!)
That, in seraphic realms, thy soul may know
That bliss, inhuman rage denied below!

Ah! who can trace, nor feel a pang severe,
The dawn of joy that usher'd thy career!
When, round thy youthful form, divinely gay,
Ecstatic rapture wing'd the hours away?
When, from the perfum'd couch of soft repose,
More lustrous than the Morn, thy beauty rose!

When all was pleasure, adoration, ease;
For pow'r was temper'd by the wish to please;
Where all around thee charm'd the dazzled view,
For ever splendid, yet for ever new;
Adorn'd with gems to Gallia's sons unknown,
Domestic Virtues, glitt'ring round the throne!

Who can reflect, nor drop the tenderest tear
On the dread progress of thy fate severe!
Hurl'd from the loftiest height of human bliss,
To the worst horrors of Despair's abyss!
To bear th' insulting cruelty of those
Who, from thy subjects, to thy tyrants rose!
Tore thy pale darlings from thy panting breast,
And made maternal woes the rabble's jest;
The bonds of wedded virtue rent in twain,
And Truth's white bosom stampt with falsehood's stain!
Denied the decent aid of female hands!
No kind domestics wait thy meek commands!
On a straw pallet, in a dungeon laid—
By all suspected, and by all betray'd!
Yet, midst the tortures of the direful plan,
Which thrills with horror through the breast of man,
Not all the rage of Hell's abhorr'd decree
Could force one supplicating tear from thee!

As the rich flow'ret on the mountain's side
Unfolds its charms, and blooms with harmless pride!

Rais'd 'midst the clouds, to combat ev'ry blast;
Too high for shelter, and too fair to last!
Awhile, contending wïth the varying spheres;
Now blushing beauties! now adorn'd with tears!
Still braves the mid-day sun, the chilling night,
Sweet to the sense! and lovely to the sight;
Nor heeds the torrent, rising o'er its bound;
Or the dark skies, in tempests gath'ring round;
Till from the flinty steep the waters flow,
Pouring destruction o'er the vale below;
And sweeping, with their desolating pow'rs,
The tow'ring cedars and o'erhanging bow'rs!
From rock to rock the frothy columns bound,
Deaf'ning calm Nature with the fateful sound;
Till, by no barrier in its course confin'd,
It whelms the plain, and leaves no trace behind!
No waving forest to adorn the scene;
No hut to tell what once the spot had been;
No sweet diversity enchants the eye;
One liquid space reflects the low'ring sky!
While on its troubled surface, spreading wide,
Float the torn fragments of the mountain's pride!
Till all, celestial bounty gave, defac'd,
One dreadful Chaos triumphs o'er the waste!—

Such is thy lot, O Gallia! such the rage
That blurs, with crimson spots, fair Nature's page!

That leaps the bounds of Reason, and destroys
The law's strong barrier, and the subject's joys!
That roots up all the sacred rights of Truth!
The claims of Age, the energies of Youth!
Bids Commerce tremble, Justice hide her scale,
Contention revel, and Revenge prevail!
Religion perish in the guilty mind,
And Devastation riot unconfin'd!
While all are rulers—all, alas! are slaves!
Each dreads his fellow, each his fellow braves!
While in one horrid mass all miseries blend;
Each shuns his brother, and each fears his friend!
The Son, with blood-stain'd faulchion, strikes the Sire!
The Parent smiles, to see the son expire!
Against his Lord, the Vassal wields his spear!
The vaunting Atheist mocks the Vestal's tear!
The lawless Idiot lifts his ruthless arm,
To tear from Science every graceful charm!
While Genius from the madd'ning tumult flies,
Weeps o'er her with'ring bays, and seeks the skies!

Far o'er the Globe, from all his kindred driv'n,
Behold the sacred Minister of Heav'n!
The pious pastor, wand'ring o'er the earth,
Of mind enlighten'd, and of noblest birth!
With whose proud race the proudest virtues came,
To prove their rank their secondary claim;

Who, 'midst the duties of religious life,
Shrunk from the clamours of domestic strife.
What is his lot?—To weep in some lone bow'r,
And count new sorrows with each passing hour;
To view the radiant morn, with aching eyes,
O'er the far distant promontory rise;
Diffusing bliss o'er Nature's children gay,
Who laugh and labour through the peaceful day!
Who fear no ruthless hand to check their joy,
No mandate dire, existence to destroy!
Who, blest with conscious innocence, can smile,
Unstain'd with blood, and unreproach'd with guile;
All the long day the task of toil endure,
Contented, simple, peaceful, and secure!
To see the infants, like fair branches, rise,
The cherish'd offspring of serenest skies;
While the rough Parent, like the Oak, shall last,
To nurse their tender beauties 'midst the blast;
Till, nourish'd to perfection, they aspire
To match the sturdy virtues of their Sire!
Turn to the beauteous Martyr! Austria's pride!
Epitome of all—to worth allied!
Mark, in her alter'd and distracted mien,
The fatal ensigns of the pangs within!
See those fair tresses on her shoulders flow
In silv'ry waves, that mock the Alpine snow!
Where are their waving braids of glossy gold,
That crowned her brow, in many a silky fold?

That brow, so withered by Affliction's blast!
So stampt with age, before her prime was past!
Where are the graces of that 'witching form?
Torn from their home, and scatter'd to the storm!
Those eyes! like sapphire gems were wont to shine;
Bright beaming samples of their native mine!
What are they now? clos'd in the sleep of death!
Their blaze extinguish'd by Rebellion's breath!
Yet, as the tempest threaten'd their abode,
A stream celestial from their radiance flow'd!
Like setting stars, they left their humid spheres,
And their last fainting lustre gleam'd through tears!

Oh! I have seen her, like a sun, sublime!
Diffusing glory on the wings of Time!
And, as revolving seasons own his flight,
Marking each brilliant minute with delight!
Yet not to pleasure only was she prone;
She made the mis'ries of the poor her own!
No ostentation lessen'd pity's meed—
Unseen she gave! and silence seal'd the deed!
She sought no plaudits from obsequious pride!
She paid herself—for nature was her guide!
For conscious rapture, to the tott'ring shed
Oft would she fly, to bless the mourner's bed;
There, bending o'er the aged widow's form,
With smiles celestial, chase the wintry storm;

Heal the stung bosom with compassion's tear!
Pour balmy counsel in the startled ear!
Fan, with her sighs, the fever of the brain;
And, by partaking, lessen ev'ry pain!

Shunn'd be the Fiend, who, in these dreadful times
Would brand her mem'ry with infernal crimes;
Shunn'd be the monster, who, with recreant art,
Beyond the grave, would hurl Detraction's dart!
With sacrilegious hands, relentless tear
The blood-steep'd laurel, newly planted there!
For, though insulted, massacred, defam'd,
The Laurel, still, her peerless virtues claim'd!
While, round the rugged sod, dread silence reigns,
The cherub, Truth, obliterates its stains.
Then let the Muse her weary sorrows trace,
And Candour blot the records of Disgrace!
Nurs'd in the cradle of Imperial State,
Her infant dreams proclaim'd a milder fate!
Enchanting visions sooth'd her op'ning mind;
Though young, enlighten'd; and though gay, refin'd!
Succeeding years roll'd on; and, as she grew,
Each fleeting hour presented raptures new!
Fresh as the breeze that fans the breast of May,
She scatter'd perfumes on the face of day!
Pride of her royal line, in youth's soft grace,
She bloom'd, the loveliest blossom of her race!

Transplanted from the bow'r of sweet repose,
With Gallia's Lilies blending Austria's Rose;
Form'd to adorn a cottage or a throne;
For all that sooth'd the senses was her own!
A stranger, from her native land, she came;
Her dowry Beauty, and her passport Fame!
Too young to play the subtle courtier's part,
She charm'd all eyes, and gladden'd ev'ry heart!
Too innocent, deceptive wiles to plan!
(Her pow'r acknowledg'd, ere her reign began,)
So exquisitely fair, so mildly gay,
She made the wisest converts to her sway!
To rule, she sought not; for obedience hung
On the soft accents of her tuneful tongue.
Her smile could guide the stubborn heart, or move
The soul of Apathy to thrills of Love!
Each playful action spoke the fire of youth;
Her blush was innocence! her voice was truth!
She trod the flow'ry paths of bliss supreme;
Delight her guide, and gratitude her theme!
Till, 'midst its sweets, the serpent, Envy, grew,
Hating her charms, and sick'ning at their view!
Pre-eminent she shone!—Each lesser light
Shrunk from her radiance, in the glooms of night:
Yet, like malignant stars, with potent pow'r,
Flam'd the fierce demons of the vengeful hour;
And scatter'd 'midst the storm their borrow'd rays,
To prove the Sun was set that bid them blaze!

First, low complaining murmurs echo'd round,
While pleas'd Contention caught the sullen sound;
Then while the mischief conjur'd up despair,
Each thought his wrongs too infinite to bear:
Too rash to follow Reason's sober plan,
They marr'd the triumph they had scarce began!
Now, mark the howling tempest far and wide!
Mark, on the winds infuriate spirits ride!
O'er the proud fabric and the painted dome,
Long-threat'ning shadows spread impervious gloom;
Death stalks, unmask'd, beside the scepter'd hand,
While round the regal chair dark demons stand;
With cries of murder, now the Palace shakes,
And all is ruin, ere reflection wakes;
Where the rich banquet met the dazzled eye,
A thousand sheathless poniards glitt'ring lie;
While the loud cannons roar destruction round,
Triumphant Mischief smiles at ev'ry sound;
And Malice pilfers all the sweets of rest,
And plants the thorn of woe in beauty's breast.

For crimes long past, when erst Oppression's hand
Drove weeping Freedom from the Gallic land;
When Truth fled, trembling, and subdu'd with fears;
And godlike Virtue only shone in tears;
For woes long past, insatiate Ire decreed,
The just should fall; the guiltless heart should bleed!

That heart which shudder'd at recorded crimes
Stampt on the tablet of disastrous times!
Which shrunk, aghast, at ev'ry dreadful view
That shew'd past centuries, black'ning as they flew!
When recreant satellites exulting shone,
Their light a meteor, and their sphere the throne!
Was it for those the last illustrious race
Wash'd, with their blood, the page of dire disgrace!
Was it for those an alien's heart was torn
With taunting Insult's agonizing thorn!
While low she bow'd, in with'ring graces drest,
Truth in her eye, and Valour in her breast!
Was it for those ill-fated Louis fell,
'Midst the vile clamours of the rabble's yell?
Forc'd from his shrieking infants! and deni'd
A parent's comfort, and a parent's pride!
Dragg'd to the fatal agonizing goal;
His only crime—the meekness of his soul!
For, ah! while mem'ry ponders o'er the page
That marks the regal line from age to age,
Distracted Gallia! thou shalt never see
So rare a Scion from so frail a tree!

Mark the last scene of his disastrous state,
When patient Virtue brav'd the lance of Fate!
When, on the scaffold, crimson'd o'er with blood,
The Monarch! Husband! Parent! Martyr! stood

Amidst his subjects, now his foes severe;
No pitying friend his parting sigh to hear!
E'en then, high tow'ring o'er all human woes,
Above himself the smiling victim rose!
And, braving human sorrow's vengeful rod,
Breath'd his last pray'r, and gave his soul to God!

Thus the proud eagle, whose strong pinions soar,
With dauntless eye day's sov'reign to explore,
Sees all around transcendent glory blaze;
The world beneath, an atom to his gaze!
Yet through the airy regions grandly flies,
And drinks the viewless nectar of the skies:
In the bland space he wields his lordly flight,
And riots in the plenitude of light!
Till thick'ning vapours choke the fost'ring stream,
Veil the faint stars, and shroud the orient beam!
Swift to the world beneath his pinions sail,
Where the tall cliff hangs low'ring o'er the vale;
Where, rock'd upon the forest's waving crest,
He left his offspring in their mother's breast.
There, too, he finds the ruthless tempest's pow'r,
The blue-wing'd lightning, and the whelming show'r!
There, the shrill blast the rifted Pine lays low,
While down the rocks the mingling cataracts flow;
His darling mate, his little unfledg'd brood,
Dash'd on the foamy bosom of the flood!

Loud thunders mock th' aërial Sov'reign's cries,
Till, 'midst the dreadful din, he soars, and dies!

Now, ere the Muse her mournful task resigns,
And the last Cypress garland fondly twines;
Ere the faint emblems of her grief sincere
Shall fade beneath Reflection's frequent tear;—
She turns, with curious eye, the woes to trace,
Heap'd on the breathing Suff'rers of thy race;
Who, daily pining in a dungeon's gloom,
Anticipate the silence of the tomb!
Who, all the live-long day, unseen, alone,
Pour the deep cadence of the tort'ring groan;
Start, if the winds along their prison creep;
Slumber, to dream of death, and wake to weep!
Who, each new dawn, behold a glimm'ring ray
Shed through their drear abode a doubtful day;
And when the evening sun, with purpling light,
Proclaims the coming shade of fearful night,
Behold, with Fancy's all-creating eyes,
The bleeding spectres of their kindred rise!
Mark, from each bosom gash'd, a crimson tide,
Life's tepid fountain from its channels glide!
The widow'd Mother casts a wistful gaze
On the sweet darlings of her splendid days;
On her pale cheek the frozen tear still dwells,
Like April dew upon the snow-drop's bells!

Her quiv'ring lips, in murmurs, seem to say,
“I come, my cherubs, from the realms of day!
“Thy father triumphs in the spheres of rest,
“And shares the endless transports of the blest!
“There, far remov'd from Fate's disastrous frown,
“He lives, possess'd of an immortal crown!”
Then, as the feeble infants wond'ring stand,
The fleeting spectre waves its snowy hand!
The moaning wind through ev'ry crevice blows;
Down the damp wall the midnight vapour flows:
On their cold flinty couch, with tearful eye,
Clasp'd in each other's arms, the mourners lie;
They tremble, whisper, sigh, yet fear to weep,
Till nature, faint with anguish, sinks in sleep!

See, in a neighb'ring cell, a with'ring form
Lists the fierce howlings of the midnight storm;
Till, through her prison lattice, she descries
The op'ning radiance of the morning skies!
Upon the iron window's triple grate
The chirping red-breast hails his freezing mate;
Spreads his weak wing to meet the sun's faint ray,
And sweetly twitters forth his matin lay:

While the fair victim of supreme despair
Beholds the free-born commoners of air;
Envies their happy lot, and feebly cries,
Ye little harmless trav'llers of the skies,
Why quit your leafy bow'rs, your verdant plains,
And wing your flight to Mis'ry's dread domains?
Why, from the breezy hill's enamell'd side,
To these sad tow'rs your whirring pinions guide?
Hence, ye poor minstrels! hence, nor listen here!
Where pining sorrow drinks her frequent tear;
Where vengeance bares her never-weary fang,
And smiles, insulting, on the suff'rer's pang;
Where each corroding torment mocks relief,
And Death, Death only, ends the reign of Grief!

Is there, in all the legends of past times,
An æra blacken'd with such wanton crimes?
Such barb'rous mischiefs! sweeping from the earth
Religion, talents, innocence, and worth!
The wise, the good, the brave—all feel its force!
Uncheck'd by reason, torpid to remorse.
All smear'd with gore, pale Liberty appears,
Her smiles contending with repentant tears;
No more her hand fair flow'rets scatters round;
Her faulchion steams from many a recent wound:
O'er shatter'd pyramids she madd'ning flies,
Pow'r in her arm, and murder in her eyes;

Scar'd by the clamours of the furious rage,
She spares not worth nor genius, sex nor age!
All records perish by her rash decree!
The wreaths of Valour, pride of Chivalry;
The Sculptor's art, the boast of many a clime,
(Snatch'd from the desolating grasp of Time);
The Painter's glowing canvass, which displays
The finish'd study of laborious days—
Heap'd in one sacrilegious ruin lie,
Feeding the flame that menaces the sky!
While Ignorance points the victims of its ire,
And loads with off'rings the insatiate fire!
Deep dying murmurs float upon the gale,
And ev'ry zephyr bears some woe-fraught tale!
Here, Widows pine, not daring to complain!
There, Orphans languish for a Parent slain!
The mountain Peasant quits his lone retreat,
His clay-built cottage and his vineyard neat!
No more, at eve's approach, his Infants run,
While the vale reddens with the sinking sun,
To greet their weary Sire, whose labours hard
Meet, in their dear embrace, their sweet reward!
No more, when Winter desolates the grove,
He listens to the voice of wedded love;
Trims the clay hearth, and, as the faggots blaze,
Chants the old ditty of his grandsire's days;
While his fond mate the homely meal prepares,
Smiles on his board and dissipates his cares!

No more, amidst the simple village throng,
He joins the sportive dance, the merry song!
Now, torn from those, he quits his native wood,
Braves the dread front of war, and pants for blood!
Now, to his reap-hook and his pastoral reed,
The crimson'd pike and glitt'ring sword succeed!
His russet garb, now chang'd for trappings vain;
His rushy pillow, for the tented plain!
No more his matin song's melodious note
Along the mountain's breezy side shall float!
No more his board, with luscious fruits supply'd,
Shall mock the banquet of luxurious pride!
No more sweet slumbers bless his midnight hours!
No more Hope strews his daily path with flow'rs!
From his lorn breast all earthly comforts fly;
He hates to live—yet more, he fears to die!
Now, when the tardy day begins to rise,
And short-liv'd slumbers quit his fev'rish eyes,
Fancy, with agonizing pow'r, displays
The peaceful comforts of his happier days!
Shows, on the pallet of his former rest,
His infants moaning on their mother's breast!
Pinch'd by pale Famine, sinking to the grave;
No food to nourish, and no friend to save!
Ah! then he cries, half madd'ning with despair,
“Is this the freedom I was call'd to share?
“Where is my clay-built hut? where, wont to reign
“The little monarch of Love's free domain,

“My smiling partner clasp'd me to her breast,
“My infants bless'd me, ere I sunk to rest!”

Turn to the Nobles! there let Pity view
The many suff'ring for the guilty few!
Perish the wretch who, sanction'd by his birth,
Presumes to persecute the child of worth!
Perish the wretch who tarnishes descent
By the vile vaunting of a life ill spent!
Who sullies proud propinquity of blood,
Yet frowns indignant on the low-born Good!
Who shields his recreant bosom with a name;
And, first in Infamy, is last in Fame!
Yet let Reflection's eye discriminate
The difference 'twixt the mighty and the great!
Virtue is still illustrious, still sublime,
In ev'ry station, and in ev'ry clime!
Truth can derive no eminence from birth,
Rich in the proud supremacy of worth;
Its blest dominion vast and unconfin'd,
Its crown eternal, and its throne the mind!
Then Heav'n forbid that prejudice should scan
With jaundic'd eye the dignities of man!
That Persecution's agonizing rod
Should boldly smite the “noblest work of God!”
That Rank should be a crime, and Genius hurl'd
A mournful wand'rer on the pitying world!

Yet Heav'n forbid that Ignorance should rise
On the dread basis where Religion dies!
That Liberty, immortal as the spheres,
Should steep her Laurel in a nation's tears!
Oh, falsely nam'd! Does Liberty require
The Child should perish for the guilty Sire?
Does Liberty inspire the Atheist's breast
To mock his God, and make his laws a jest?
Does Liberty with barbarous fetters bind
Her first-born hope, the freedom of the mind?
Hence, bold Usurper of that heav'n-taught pow'r,
Which wings with ecstacy man's transient hour!
Which bids the eye of Reason cloudless shine,
And gives Mortality a charm divine!
'Midst the wild winds, the lordly cedar tow'rs;
Progressive days invigorate its pow'rs;
The earlier branches, with'ring as they spread,
Round the firm root their coarsest foliage shed;
While the proud Tree its verdant head rears high,
Waves to the blast, and seems to pierce the sky;
Till the rich trunk, matur'd by length'ning years,
Through all their wondrous changes, braves the spheres;
Flings its rich fragrance on the gales that sweep
The humid forehead of the mountain's steep;

Mocks the fierce rage of elemental war,
The bolt's red sulphur, and the thunder's jar;
And, when around the shatter'd fragments lie,
The stricken victims of th' infuriate sky—
Amidst the wrecks of Nature seems to climb
Supremely grand, and awfully sublime!

So Heav'n-taught Reason, whisp'ring to the sense,
In Nature's pure persuasive eloquence,
Points out, amidst Creation's mazy plan,
The vast, the varying miseries of Man:
Then, as Experience comes with piercing eye,
From his stern gaze delusive visions fly;
Then radiant Knowledge rushes to his view,
Spurns the deceptive, and adopts the true;
Tears Folly's tinsel trappings from his breast,
Which shines in Truth's invulnerable vest;
Thus arm'd against the shafts of life he goes,
Smiles at their menace, and resists their woes;
While on his mind, in conscious Virtue great,
The shield of Reason blunts the lance of Fate!

Immortal Genius! let the votive line,
The Muse's laurel, and her fame, be thine!
For thou shalt live when Pride's indignant eye
Clos'd in eternal solitude shall lie!

When those who flutter'd through their little day,
Shall, like their follies and their names, decay;
When the faint mem'ry of inferior souls
Down the dark channel of Oblivion rolls—
Thou shalt survive! Then let not Envy's frown
Blast the proud trophies that compose thy crown!
Let not the poison of a reptile's sting
Contaminate the lustre of thy wing!
But from each flaming plume indulgent give
A pitying ray, to bid the insects live.
Trace, if thou canst, one straggling spark of worth,
One gleaming atom to adorn their birth;
For little virtues dazzle in the proud,
As stars shine lustrous 'midst a vast of cloud!
Then, Genius, let the toilsome task be thine,
To labour in the dark precarious mine;
And if, amidst the chaos, thou shouldst find
One great, one beauteous attribute of mind,
To twine round Merit's brow the wreath of Fame,
And give Nobility a loftier name!

Ill-fated Queen! then let the tribute just,
The Poet's numbers consecrate thy bust:
And when new ages shall the tale unfold,
On the red page of Massacre enroll'd,
Philanthropy, with shudd'ring heart, shall trace
The storms that bow'd the lilies of thy race!

Yet, 'midst the desolating gloom descry
Transcendent chaplets that shall never die!
The wonders of thy mind shall Hist'ry own;
The brightest gems that glisten'd round thy throne;
Which gave thee charms beyond the glare of pow'r,
To brave thy foes, and gild thy latest hour!
And when thy weary soul, on wings sublime,
Sought its dear partner in a purer clime,
Thy sufferings left on Truth's recording page
An awful lesson for each future age!

University of Virginia Library

POEMS, &c.

PETRARCH TO LAURA.

AINSI VA LE MONDE. INSCRIBED TO A FRIEND.

SIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ. OCULIST TO HIS MAJESTY.

SOLITUDE.

THE PROGRESS OF MELANCHOLY,

A FRAGMENT.

THE CAVERN OF WOE.

MONODY

TO THE MEMORY OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE, Written immediately after her execution.