The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

O, let me seize thy pen sublime
That paints, in melting dulcet rhyme,
The glowing pow'r, the magic art,
Th' ecstatic raptures of the Heart;
Soft Beauty's timid smile serene,
The dimples of Love's sportive mien;
The sweet descriptive tale to trace;
To picture Nature's winning grace;
To steal the tear from Pity's eye;
To catch the sympathetic sigh;
O teach me, with swift lightning's force
To watch wild passion's varying course;
To mark th' enthusiast's vivid fire,
Or calmly touch thy golden lyre,
While gentle Reason mildly sings
Responsive to the trembling strings.

Sweet Nymph, enchanting Poetry!
I dedicate my mind to Thee.
Oh! from thy bright Parnassian bow'rs
Descend, to bless my sombre hours;
Bend to the earth thy eagle-wing,
And on its glowing plumage bring
Blithe Fancy, from whose burning eye
The young ideas sparkling fly:
O come, and let us fondly stray
Where rosy Health shall lead the way,
And soft Favonius lightly spread
A perfum'd carpet as we tread;
Ah! let us from the world remove,
The calm forgetfulness to prove,
Which at the still of evening's close
Lulls the tir'd peasant to repose;
Repose, whose balmy joys o'er-pay
The sultry labours of the day.

And when the blue-ey'd dawn appears,
Just peeping thro' her veil of tears;
Or blushing opes her silver gate,
And on its threshold stands elate,
And flings her rosy mantle far
O'er every loit'ring dewy star;
And calls the wanton breezes forth,
And sprinkles diamonds o'er the earth;

While in the green wood's shade profound
The insect race, with buzzing sound,
Flit o'er the rill—a glitt'ring train,
Or swarm along the sultry plain;
Then in sweet converse let us rove
Where, in the thyme-embroider'd grove,
The musky air its fragrance pours
Upon the silv'ry scatter'd show'rs;
To hail soft Zephyr, as she goes
To fan the dew-drop from the rose;
To shelter from the scorching beam,
And muse beside the rippling stream.

Or when, at twilight's placid hour,
We stroll to some sequester'd bow'r,
And watch the haughty Sun retire
Beneath his canopy of fire;
While slow the dusky clouds enfold
Day's crimson curtains fring'd with gold,
And o'er the meadows faintly fly
Pale shadows of the purpling sky;
While softly o'er the pearl-deck'd plain
Cold Dian leads the sylvan train;
In mazy dance and sportive glee,
Sweet Muse, I'll fondly turn to thee;
And thou shalt deck my couch with flow'rs,
And wing with joy my silent hours.

When Sleep, with downy hand, shall spread
A wreath of poppies round my head,
Then Fancy on her wing sublime,
Shall waft me to the sacred clime
Where my enlighten'd sense shall view,
Thro' ether, realms of azure hue,
That flame where Shakespeare us'd to fill.
With matchless fire, his “golden quill.”
While from its point bright Genius caught
The wit supreme, the glowing thought,
The magic tone, that sweetly hung
About the numbers which he sung.
Then will I skim the floating air,
On a light couch of gossamer,
While with my wonder-aching eye
I contemplate the spangled sky,
And hear the vaulted roof repeat
The song of Inspiration sweet;
While round the winged cherub train
Shall iterate the aëry strain;
Swift thro' my quiv'ring nerves shall float
The tremours of each thrilling note;
And every eager sense confess
Ecstatic transport's wild excess;
Till, waking from the glorious dream,
I hail the morn's refulgent beam.

Dear Maid! of ever-varying mien,
Exulting, pensive, gay, serene,

Now, in transcendent pathos drest,
Now, gentle as the turtle's breast;
Where'er thy feath'ry steps shall lead,
To side-long hill, or flow'ry mead;
To sorrow's coldest, darkest cell,
Or where, by Cynthia's glimm'ring ray,
The dapper fairies frisk and play
About some cowslip's golden bell;
And, in their wanton frolic mirth,
Pluck the young daisies from the earth,
To canopy their tiny heads,
And decorate their verdant beds;
While, to the grasshopper's shrill tune,
They quaff libations to the moon,
From acorn goblets, amply fill'd
With dew, from op'ning flow'rs distill'd—
Or when the lurid tempest pours,
From its dark urn, impetuous show'rs;
Or from its brow's terrific frown
Hurls the pale murd'rous lightnings down;
To thy enchanting breast I'll spring,
And shield me with thy golden wing.

Or when, amidst ethereal fire,
Thou strik'st thy Della Cruscan lyre,
While round, to catch the heavenly song,
Myriads of wond'ring seraphs throng;

Whether thy harp's empassioned strain
Pours forth an Ovid's tender pain,
Or in Pindaric flights sublime
Re-echoes through the starry clime;
Thee I'll adore, transcendent guest,
And woo thee to my burning breast.

But if thy magic pow'rs impart
One soft sensation to the heart,
If thy warm precepts can dispense
One thrilling transport o'er my sense;
Oh! keep thy gifts, and let me fly,
In Apathy's cold arm to die.

ODE TO DELLA CRUSCA.

Enlighten'd Patron of the sacred Lyre!
Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song
Revibrates on the heart
With magic thrilling touch,
Till ev'ry nerve, with quiv'ring throb divine,
In madd'ning tumults, owns thy wondrous pow'r;
For well thy dulcet notes
Can wind the mazy song,
In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;
Or with empassion'd pathos woo the soul
With sounds more sweetly mild
Than Sappho's plaint forlorn,
When bending o'er the waves she sung her woes,
And pitying Echo hover'd o'er the deep,
Till in their coral caves
The tuneful Nereids wept.

Ah! whither art thou flown? where pours thy song?
The model and the pride of British bards!
Sweet Star of Fancy's orb,
“O tell me, tell me, where?”
Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air
That bears it to the confines of high Heav'n?
Or does it court the meed
Of proud pre-eminence?
Or steals it o'er the glitt'ring Sapphire wave,
Calming the tempest with its silver sounds?
Or does it charm to love
The fond believing maid?
Or does it hover o'er the Alpine steep,
Or, softly breathing under myrtle shades,
With Sympathy divine,
Solace the child of woe?
Where'er thou art, Oh! let thy gentle strain
Again with magic pow'r delight mine ear,
Untutor'd in the spells
And mysteries of song.
Then, on the margin of the deep I'll muse,
And bless the rocking bark ordain'd to bear
My sad heart o'er the wave,
From this ungrateful isle;
When the wan queen of night, with languid eye,
Peeps o'er the mountain's head, or thro' the vale
Illumes the glassy brook,
Or dew-besprinkled heath,

Or with her crystal lamp directs the feet
Of the benighted Trav'ller, cold and sad,
Thro' the long forest drear,
And pathless labyrinth,
To the poor Peasant's hospitable cot,
For ever open to the wretch forlorn;
O then I'll think on Thee,
And iterate thy strain,
And chant thy matchless numbers o'er and o'er;
And I will court the sullen ear of night,
To bear the rapt'rous sound,
On her dark shadowy wing,
To where, encircled by the sacred Nine,
The Lyre awakes the never-dying song!
Now, Bard admir'd, farewell!
The white sail flutters loud,
The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,
Far from my native shore I bend my way;
Yet, as my aching eye
Shall view the less'ning cliff,
Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear
Above the surface of the swelling deep,
I'll snatch a ray of hope,
For Hope's the lamp divine
That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,
With ecstacies beyond the pow'rs of song!
That ere I reach those banks
Where the loud Tiber flows,

Or milder Arno slowly steals along,
To the soft music of the summer breeze,
The wafting wing of Time
May bear this last Adieu,
This wild, untutor'd picture of the heart,
To him whose magic verse inspir'd the Strain.

ODE TO GENIUS.

Now by th' Aonian Nymphs inspir'd,
By glowing emulation fir'd!
Of thee I'll sing.—Illustrious Maid!
In peerless majesty array'd!
Who, all creative, all sublime,
First sprang from the ethereal clime,
To bid enraptur'd fancy trace
The bright infinity of space,
Where Fame of pure celestial birth
A starry wreath prepares to crown immortal worth!
Blest Genius! pow'r divine!
Now shall the votive song be thine!

Nor thou the pensive muse disdain,
Who oft, by fancy led, shall rove
To soft Arcadia's myrtle grove,
And tune the past'ral reed or chant the sylvan strain.

Or could her trembling hand aspire
To wake the loud resounding Lyre,
Where Pindus rears its haughty crest,
By thy immortal Laurels drest!
Or on Parnassian heights sublime
Snatch from the passing wing of Time
A Plume, that smiling Hope might lave
Deep in the Heliconian wave!
For thee her burning hand should fling
Ecstatic measures o'er the bounding string!
Nor thou, star-crested Nymph! refuse
The off'rings of an untaught Muse,
Who twines, amidst uncultivated bow'rs,
A small, but fragrant wreath, of Nature's simplest Flow'rs.

Proud Parent of supreme delight!
Thou Sun! from whose rich source
The lustrous stream of mental sight
Points to mortality a glorious course!
'Tis thine with magic sweet control
To guide the timid sensate soul;

To mark, on Truth's enlighten'd page,
In ev'ry clime, in ev'ry age,
How empty earthly pow'r appears,
A glitt'ring Phantom! fraught with Fears!
How dark the rugged paths of Life!
How planted with the thorns of strife!
How paltry Wealth! how false the glare
That dazzles round the Regal Chair!
How fragile Beauty's blush! how poor
The Miser, 'midst his countless store!
When o'er the lab'ring Sons of Clay
Thou scorn'st to spread sublime thy broad effulgent Ray!

O Genius! at thy view,
Low in the dust, the grovelling crew
Fall, stricken like the summer Fly,
'Midst torrid radiance doom'd to die;
Whilst thou! whose tow'ring mind
No base or sordid spells can bind,
Far, far from human woe canst rise,
To purer joys! to brighter skies!
As the triumphant eagle bends his flight,
To lave his Lordly Wing in Floods of burning Light!

Oft have I seen thee, sportive! wild!
Frolic Nature's playful child!

With infant sweetness, weaving boughs,
To hang on fickle Fancy's brows!
Then wouldst thou snatch the rose-deck'd Lyre,
And with thy airy fingers play,
In measures madly gay,
A song that might e'en Apathy inspire!
Then, sated with the 'witching sound,
Dash thy rapt Lyre upon the ground!
And o'er thy gaudy wreath
Such strains of tender Pity breathe,
So soft! so touching! so alluring!
All the wounds of Passion curing!
That madd'ning Rage itself, subdu'd,
List'ning stood, in melting mood!
And Folly, wond'ring at thy pow'rs,
Dropp'd from her giddy hand her Wreath of pois'nous Flow'rs!

I've seen thee, spurning solemn Fools,
Mock the vaunted lore of schools;
And laugh to scorn the Pedant's art,
That hides, in Learning's Garb, the dull deceitful Heart!

I've seen thee, dress'd in awful pride,
With calm-brow'd Wisdom by thy side,

Unfolding precepts richly fraught
With Sense acute! and Depth of Thought!
Decking the hoary front of Time
With many a sober wreath, sublime!
While Eloquence, her store unbound,
Scatter'd her fairest blossoms round!
And Hist'ry, with recording finger, trac'd
Scenes by expiring Ignorance half-effac'd;
Whilst Thou from cold Oblivion's cave
Led the pale shadows of the sainted Brave!
Ah! then I've seen thee stamp each name
On the unperishable rolls of Fame!
And, smiling o'er the consecrated page,
Anticipate the Boast of many a future Age!

I've seen thee through the soul diffuse
Th' electric fire that warms the Muse!
When o'er the Poet's breast
Thou fling'st thy sunny vest;
And stoop'st his throbbing brow to bind
With wings, to waft the soaring mind
Beyond the mists of mortal day!
While from thy piercing eye,
Resplendent as its Parent Sky,
A stream of light shot forth, to mark his glorious Way!

Ah! lost to bliss are those,
Low-thoughted! dull of Soul!
Who, plodding through life's weedy woes,
Ne'er felt the thrilling pow'r
That marks the intellectual hour;
Nor, where Pierian fountains roll,
Panted to taste the clear immortal wave
That heals the wounds of Fate, and flows beyond the Grave!

ODE TO REFLECTION.

O thou! whose sober precepts can control
The wild impatience of the troubled soul,
Sweet Maid serene! whose all consoling pow'r
Awakes to calm delight the ling'ring hour,
O! hear thy Votary's ardent pray'r!
Chase from my anguish'd mind corroding care,
Steal thro' the burning pulses of my brain,
Calm sorrow to repose, and lull the throb of pain!

O, tell me, what are life's best joys?
Are they not visions that decay,
Sweet honey'd poisons, gilded toys,
Vain glitt'ring baubles of a day?
O say, what shadow do they leave behind,
Save the sad vacuum of a sated mind?

Borne on the eagle-wings of Fame,
Man soars above calm reason's sway,
“Vaulting ambition” mocks each tender claim,
Plucks the dear bonds of social life away;
As o'er the vanquish'd slave she wields her spear,
Compassion turns aside—Reflection drops a tear.

Behold the wretch whose sordid heart,
Steep'd in Content's oblivious balm,
Secure in Luxury's bewitching calm,
Repels pale Mis'ry's touch, and mocks Affliction's smart;
Unmov'd he marks the bitter tear,
In vain the plaints of woe his thoughts assail,
The bashful mourner's piteous tale
Nor melts his flinty soul, nor vibrates on his ear.

O blest Reflection! let thy magic pow'r
Awake his torpid sense, his slumb'ring thought,
Tell him Adversity's unpitied hour
A brighter lesson gives than Stoics taught:
Tell him that Wealth no blessing can impart
So sweet as Pity's tear—that bathes the wounded Heart.

Go tell the vain, the insolent, and fair,
That life's best days are only days of care;

That Beauty, flutt'ring like a painted fly,
Owes to the spring of youth its transient die;
When Winter comes, its charms shall fade away,
And the poor insect wither in decay:
Go bid the giddy phantom learn from thee,
That Virtue only braves mortality.

Then come, Reflection, soft-ey'd maid!
I know thee, and I prize thy charms;
Come, in thy gentlest smiles array'd,
And I will press thee in my eager arms;
Keep from my aching heart the fiend Despair,
Snatch from my brow her thorn, and plant thy olive there.

100

ODE TO ENVY.

Deep in th' abyss where frantic horror 'bides,
In thickest mists of vapours fell,
Where wily Serpents hissing glare
And the dark Demon of Revenge resides,
At midnight's murky hour
Thy origin began:
Rapacious Malice was thy sire;
Thy Dam the sullen witch, Despair;
Thy Nurse, insatiate Ire.
The Fates conspir'd their ills to twine
About thy heart's infected shrine;
They gave thee each disastrous spell,
Each desolating pow'r,
To blast the fairest hopes of man.

101

Soon as thy fatal birth was known,
From her unhallow'd throne
With ghastly smile pale Hecate sprang;
Thy hideous form the Sorc'ress press'd
With kindred fondness to her breast;
Her haggard eye
Shot forth a ray of transient joy,
While thro' the infernal shades exulting clamours rang.

Above thy fellow-fiends thy tyrant hand
Grasp'd with resistless force supreme command:
The vast terrific crowd
Before thy iron sceptre bow'd.
Now, seated in thy ebon cave,
About thy throne relentless furies rave;
A wreath of ever-wounding thorn
Thy scowling brows encompass round,
Thy heart by gnawing Vultures torn,
Thy meagre limbs with deathless scorpions bound:
Thy black associates, torpid Ignorance,
And pining Jealousy—with eye askance,
With savage rapture execute thy will,
And strew the paths of life with every torturing ill.

Nor can the sainted dead escape thy rage;
Thy vengeance haunts the silent grave,
Thy taunts insult the ashes of the brave;
While proud Ambition weeps thy rancour to assuage.

102

The laurels round the Poet's bust,
Twin'd by the liberal hand of Taste,
By thy malignant grasp defac'd,
Fade to their native dust:
Thy ever-watchful eye no labour tires,
Beneath thy venom'd touch the angel Truth expires.

When in thy petrifying car
Thy scaly dragons waft thy form,
Then, swifter, deadlier far
Than the keen lightning's lance,
That wings its way across the yelling storm,
Thy barbed shafts fly whizzing round,
While every with'ring glance
Inflicts a cureless wound.

Thy giant-arm with pond'rous blow
Hurls genius from her glorious height,
Bends the fair front of Virtue low,
And meanly pilfers every pure delight.
Thy hollow voice the sense appals,
Thy vigilance the mind inthrals;
Rest hast thou none! By night, by day,
Thy jealous ardour seeks for prey—
Nought can restrain thy swift career;
Thy smile derides the suff'rer's wrongs;
Thy tongue the sland'rer's tale prolongs;
Thy thirst imbibes the victim's tear;

103

Thy breast recoils from friendship's flame;
Sick'ning thou hear'st the trump of Fame;
Worth gives to thee the direst pang;
The Lover's rapture wounds thy heart,
The proudest efforts of prolific art
Shrink from thy poisonous fang.

In vain the Sculptor's lab'ring hand
Calls fine proportion from the Parian stone;
In vain the Minstrel's chords command
The soft vibrations of seraphic tone;
For swift thy violating arm
Tears from perfection ev'ry charm:
Nor rosy Youth, nor Beauty's smiles,
Thy unrelenting rage beguiles;
Thy breath contaminates the fairest name,
And binds the guiltless brow with ever-blist'ring shame.

104

ODE TO HEALTH.

Come, bright-eyed maid,
Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,
Haste, my fev'rish temples bind
With olive wreaths of em'rald hue,
Steep'd in morn's ethereal dew,
Where, in mild Helvetia's shade,
Blushing summer round her flings
Warm gales and sunny show'rs that hang upon her wings.

I'll seek thee in Italia's bow'rs,
Where, supine on beds of flow'rs,
Melody's soul-touching throng
Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song:
Where blithe Fancy, queen of pleasure,
Pours each luxuriant treasure.
For thee I'll climb the breezy hill,
While the balmy dews distil

105

Odours from the budding thorn,
Dropp'd from the lustrous lids of morn;
Who, starting from her shadowy bed,
Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's head.

There I'll press from herbs and flow'rs
Juices bless'd with opiate pow'rs,
Whose magic potency can heal
The throb of agonizing pain,
And thro' the purple swelling vein
With subtle influence steal:
Heav'n opes for thee its aromatic store,
To bathe each languid gasping pore;
But where, O where, shall cherish'd sorrow find
The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind.

O mem'ry! busy barb'rous foe,
At thy fell touch I wake to woe:
Alas, the flatt'ring dream is o'er,
From thee the bright illusions fly,
Thou bidst the glitt'ring phantoms die,
And hope, and youth, and fancy, charm no more.

No more for me the tip-toe Spring
Drops flow'rets from her infant wing;
For me in vain the wild thyme's bloom
Thro' the forest flings perfume;

106

In vain I climb th' embroider'd hill
To breathe the clear autumnal air;
In vain I quaff the lucid rill
Since jocund Health delights not there
To greet my heart:------no more I view,
With sparkling eye, the silv'ry dew
Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose,
As low it droops its young and blushing head,
Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed:
No more I lave amidst the tide,
Or bound along the tufted grove,
Or o'er enamell'd meadows rove,
Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glide
Salubrious airs that waft the day's repose.

Lightly o'er the yellow heath
Steals thy soft and fragrant breath,
Breath inhal'd from musky flow'rs,
Newly bath'd in perfum'd show'rs.
See the rosy-finger'd morn
Opes her bright refulgent eye,
Hills and valleys to adorn,
While from her burning glance the scatter'd vapours fly.

Soon, ah soon! the painted scene,
The hill's blue top, the valley's green,
'Midst clouds of snow and whirlwinds drear,
Shall cold and comfortless appear:

107

The howling blast shall strip the plain,
And bid my pensive bosom learn,
Tho' Nature's face shall smile again,
And on the glowing breast of spring
Creation all her gems shall fling,
Youth's April-morn shall ne'er return.

Then come, Oh! quickly come, Hygeian Maid!
Each throbbing pulse, each quiv'ring nerve pervade.
Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye,
Tint my pale visage with thy roseate dye,
Bid my heart's current own a temp'rate glow,
And from its crimson source in tepid channels flow.

O Health, celestial Nymph! without thy aid
Creation sickens in oblivion's shade:
Along the drear and solitary gloom
We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb;
Youth, age, wealth, poverty, alike agree—
To live is anguish, when depriv'd of Thee.
To Thee indulgent Heav'n benignly gave
The touch to heal, the ecstacy to save.
The balmy incense of thy fost'ring breath
Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of Death,
Robs the grim Tyrant of his trembling prize,
Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.

108

Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest
To meet the rising sun with perfum'd breast,
Which glow'd with lustrous tints at noon-tide hour,
And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower,
With with'ring anguish mourn the parting Day,
Shrink to the Earth, and sorrowing fade away.

109

ODE TO VANITY.

Insatiate Tyrant of the Mind,
Fantastic, aëry, empty thing,
Borne on Illusion's flutt'ring wing,
Fallacious as the wanton wind;
Capricious Goddess!—Beauty's foe;
Thou—who no settled home dost know;
The busy World, the sylvan Plain,
Alike confess thy potent reign.
Queen of the motley garb—at thy command
Fashion waves her flow'ry wand;
See she kindles Fancy's flame,
Around her dome thy incense flies,
The curling fumes ascend the skies,
And fill the “Trump of Fame.”

110

When Heaven's translucent ray
Unveil'd the mighty work of God;
When the Promethean spark of day
Awoke his Image from a torpid clod;
When radiance pour'd on human sight,
And the illumin'd Soul beam'd with celestial light;
Exulting Man, sole Potentate below,
First felt thy pois'nous glow;
He gaz'd upon his wondrous frame;
The self-approving conscious flame
Thrill'd in each trembling vein with subtle art,
Then fix'd its baneful source within his godlike Heart.

Thy breath accurs'd brought deathless woe
On Man's devoted race;
Hurl'd th' aspiring Fiend to realms below,
Who, plung'd in fell disgrace,
There, deep inthrall'd in adamantine spells,
In chains of scorpions bound, for ever, ever dwells.

In ev'ry scene of social joy,
Amidst the rude unpolish'd train,
From the low offspring of the barren plain,
To him whose lofty bosom owns
Descent sublime from scepter'd thrones,
All, all thy laws obey.

111

Thy light hand plumes the warrior's brow,
Decks e'en fierce war with tinsel show,
E'en in the tented fields thy banners flow,
To thee illustrious Chieftains bow;
'Tis thy capricious influence forms
All that mad ambition warms;
The laurel wreath, tho' steep'd in blood,
Plac'd by thy fickle hand, appears
Radiant as the sunny spheres,
When Morn's proud beams roll in a golden flood.

Ah, Vanity! avert thine eye;
Check thy fell exulting joy;
With burning drops thy flush'd cheek lave,
Nor gloat upon the carnag'd brave;
For what can trophied wreaths supply,
To drown the desolating cry,
That, o'er th' empurpled fields afar,
Proclaims the dread-destructive pow'r of War?

E'en amidst the savage race,
The untam'd Indian owns thy sway;
For thee he paints his tawny face,
And decks his shaggy hair with fragments gay:
For thee he marks his sun-burnt breast,
With beads and feathers idly drest;—

112

His hardy limbs with glowing tints imbru'd,
Reeking and mangled with the pointed dart,
Vainly he vaunts—nor heeds the smart,
Tho' pitying Nature weeps with tears of blood.

Then turn, my Muse, where milder joys
The village hero's mind employs;
Where gentler sports delight the breast,
And soften'd Nature smiles confest.
Let me paint the rural scene,
The white-wash'd hut—the velvet green,
May's blithe morn—exulting glee,
The chaplet pendant on each tree,
The shining hat with gaudy ribbands bound,
The lofty may-pole and the well-swept ground,
Where valiant combats speak the thirst of Fame,
And the loud shout proclaims the victor's name.

O Vanity, thy potent reign
Spreads its influence o'er the plain—
For thee, the blushing maids prepare
Garlands wove with nicest care;
For thee, they dress their festive bow'rs
With waving wreaths of scented flow'rs,
Where the bold Youth that wins the prize
Reads his best Victory in his Sweetheart's Eyes.

113

Such is thy pow'r—thy mandate rules
Above the laws of Pedant-Schools;
Reason in vain contends with Thee,
Triumphant, Deathless Vanity!
E'en now I feel thy vivid sparks infuse
A warmth that guides my hand, and bids me court the Muse.

114

ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

Sorc'ress of the Cave profound!
Hence, with thy pale and meagre train,
Nor dare my roseate bow'r profane,
Where light-heel'd mirth despotic reigns,
Slightly bound in feath'ry chains,
And scatt'ring blisses round.

Hence, to thy native Chaos—where,
Nurs'd by thy haggard Dam, Despair,
Shackled by thy numbing spell,
Mis'ry's pallid children dwell;
Where, brooding o'er thy fatal charms,
Frenzy rolls the vacant eye;
Where hopeless Love, with folded arms,
Drops the tear, and heaves the sigh;
Till cherish'd Passion's tyrant-sway
Chills the warm pulse of Youth with premature decay.

115

O fly Thee to some Church-yard's gloom,
Where, beside the mould'ring tomb,
Restless Spectres glide away,
Fading in the glimpse of Day;
Or, where the Virgin Orb of Night
Silvers o'er the Forest wide,
Or across the silent tide,
Flings her soft and quiv'ring light:
Where, beneath some aged Tree,
Sounds of mournful Melody,
Caught from the Nightingale's enamour'd Tale,
Steal on faint Echo's ear, and float upon the gale.

Dread Pow'r! whose touch magnetic leads
O'er enchanted spangled meads,
Where, by the glow-worm's twinkling ray,
Aëry Spirits lightly play;
Where, around some Haunted Tow'r,
Boding Ravens wing their flight,
Viewless, in the gloom of Night,
Warning oft the luckless hour;
Or, beside the Murd'rer's bed,
From thy dark and morbid wing,
O'er his fev'rish, burning head,
Drops of conscious anguish fling;
While freezing Horror's direful scream
Rouses his guilty soul from kind oblivion's dream.

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Oft, beneath the witching Yew,
The trembling Maid steals forth unseen,
With true-love wreaths, of deathless green,
Her lover's grave to strew;
Her downcast Eye no joy illumes,
Nor on her Cheek the soft Rose blooms;
Her mourning Heart, the victim of thy pow'r,
Shrinks from the glare of Mirth, and hails the murky hour.

O, say what Fiend first gave thee birth,
In what fell Desert wert thou born;
Why does thy hollow voice, forlorn,
So fascinate the Sons of Earth;
That, once encircled in thy icy arms,
They court thy torpid touch, and doat upon thy Charms?

Hated Imp—I brave thy Spell,
Reason shuns thy barb'rous sway;
Life with mirth should glide away,
Despondency with guilt should dwell;
For conscious Truth's unruffled mien
Displays the dauntless Eye and patient smile serene.

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ODE TO DESPAIR.

Terrific Fiend! thou Monster fell!
Condemn'd in haunts profane to dwell,
Why quit thy solitary Home,
O'er wide Creation's paths to roam?
Pale Tyrant of the timid Heart,
Whose visionary spells can bind
The strongest passions of the mind,
Freezing Life's current with thy baneful Art.

Nature recoils when thou art near,
For round thy form all plagues are seen;
Thine is the frantic tone, the sullen mien,
The glance of petrifying fear,
The haggard Brow, the low'ring Eye,
The hollow Cheek, the smother'd Sigh;

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When thy usurping fangs assail,
The sacred Bonds of Friendship fail.
Meek-bosom'd Pity sues in vain;
Imperious Sorrow spurns relief,
Feeds on the luxury of Grief,
Drinks the hot Tear, and hugs the galling Chain.
Ah! plunge no more thy ruthless dart
In the dark centre of the guilty Heart;
The Pow'r Supreme, with pitying eye,
Looks on the erring Child of Misery;
Mercy arrests the wing of Time,
To expiate the wretch's crime:
Insulted Heav'n consign'd thy brand
To the first Murd'rer's crimson hand.
Swift o'er the earth the Monster flew,
And round th' ensanguin'd Poisons threw,
By Conscience goaded—driven by Fear,
Till the meek Cherub Hope subdued his fell career.

Thy Reign is past, when erst the brave
Imbib'd contagion o'er the midnight lamp,
Close pent in loathsome cells, where poisons damp
Hung round the confines of a Living Grave;

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Where no glimm'ring ray illum'd
The flinty walls, where pond'rous chains
Bound the wan Victim to the humid earth,
Where Valour, Genius, Taste, and Worth,
In pestilential caves entomb'd,
Sought thy cold arms, and smiling mock'd their pains.

There,—each procrastinated hour,
The woe-worn suff'rer gasping lay,
While by his side in proud array
Stalk'd the Huge Fiend, Despotic Pow'r.
There Reason clos'd her radiant eye,
And fainting Hope retir'd to die,
Truth shrunk appall'd,
In spells of icy Apathy inthrall'd;
Till Freedom spurn'd the ignominious chain,
And, roused from Superstition's night,
Exulting Nature claim'd her right,
And call'd dire Vengeance from her dark domain.

Now take thy solitary flight
Amid the turbid gales of night,
Where Spectres, starting from the tomb,
Glide along th' impervious gloom;
Or, stretch'd upon the sea-beat shore,
Let the wild winds, as they roar,

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Rock Thee on thy Bed of Stone;
Or, in gelid caverns pent,
Listen to the sullen moan
Of subterraneous winds;—or glut thy sight
Where stupendous mountains, rent,
Hurl their vast fragments from their dizzy height.

At Thy approach the rifted Pine
Shall o'er the shatter'd Rock incline,
Whose trembling brow, with wild weeds drest,
Frowns on the tawny Eagle's nest;
There enjoy the 'witching hour,
And freeze in Frenzy's dire conceit,
Or seek the Screech-owl's lone retreat,
On the bleak rampart of some nodding Tow'r.
In some forest long and drear,
Tempt the fierce Banditti's rage,
War with famish'd Tigers wage,
And bathe in blood, and mock the taunts of Fear.

When across the yawning deep
The Demons of the Tempest sweep,
Or deaf'ning Thunders bursting cast
Their red bolts on the shivering mast,
While fix'd below the sea-boy stands,
As threat'ning Death his soul dismays,
He lifts his supplicating hands,
And shrieks, and groans, and weeps, and prays,

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Till, lost amid the floating fire,
The agonizing crew expire;
Then let thy transports rend the air,
For madd'ning Anguish feeds the fiend Despair!

When o'er the couch of pale Disease
The Mother bends with tearful eye,
And trembles, lest her quiv'ring sigh
Should wake the darling of her breast—
Now, by the taper's feeble rays,
She steals a last, fond, eager gaze.
Ah, hapless parent! gaze no more,
Thy Cherub soars among the Blest,
Life's crimson Fount begins to freeze,
His transitory scene is o'er—

She starts—she raves—her burning brain
Consumes, unconscious of its fires;
Dead to the Heart's convulsive Pain,
Bewilder'd Memory retires.
See! See! she grasps her flowing hair,
From her fix'd eye the big drops roll,
Her proud Affliction mocks control,
And riots in Despair—
Such are thy haunts, malignant Pow'r!
There all thy murd'rous Poisons show'r;
But come not near my calm retreat,
Where Peace and holy Friendship meet;

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Where Science sheds a gentle ray,
And guiltless Mirth beguiles the day,
Where Bliss congenial to the Muse
Shall round my Heart her sweets diffuse,
Where, from each restless Passion free,
I give my noiseless hours, bless'd poesy, to thee.

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ODE TO THE SNOW-DROP.

The Snow-drop, Winter's timid child,
Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears,
And flings around its fragrance mild;
And where no rival flow'rets bloom,
Amidst the bare and chilling gloom,
A beauteous gem appears!

All weak and wan, with head inclin'd,
Its parent-breast the drifted snow,
It trembles, while the ruthless wind
Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers,
Its em'rald eye drops crystal show'rs
On its cold bed below.

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Poor flow'r! on thee the sunny beam
No touch of genial warmth bestows!
Except to thaw the icy stream
Whose little current purls along,
And whelms thee as it flows.

The night-breeze tears thy silky dress,
Which deck'd with silv'ry lustre shone;
The morn returns, not thee to bless.—
The gaudy Crocus flaunts its pride,
And triumphs where its rival—died
Unshelter'd and unknown!

No sunny beam shall gild thy grave,
No bird of pity thee deplore:
There shall no verdant branches wave,
For spring shall all her gems unfold,
And revel 'midst her beds of gold,
When thou art seen no more!

Where'er I find thee, gentle flow'r,
Thou still art sweet, and dear to me!
For I have known the cheerless hour,
Have seen the sun-beams cold and pale,
Have felt the chilling, wint'ry gale,
And wept, and shrunk like thee!

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ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet Bird of Sorrow!—why complain
In such soft melody of Song?
That Echo, am'rous of thy Strain,
The ling'ring cadence doth prolong.
Ah! tell me, tell me, why
Thy dulcet Notes ascend the sky,
Or on the filmy vapours glide
Along the misty mountain's side?
And wherefore dost Thou love to dwell
In the dark wood and moss-grown cell?
Beside the willow-margin'd stream—
Why dost Thou court wan Cynthia's beam?
Sweet Songstress—if thy wayward fate
Hath robb'd Thee of thy bosom's mate,

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Oh! think not thy heart-piercing moan
Evap'rates on the breezy air,
Or that the plaintive Song of Care
Steals from thy Widow'd Breast alone.
Oft have I heard thy mournful Tale,
On the high Cliff, that o'er the Vale
Hangs its dark brow, whose awful shade
Spreads a deep gloom along the glade:
Led by its sound, I've wander'd far,
Till crimson evening's flaming Star
On Heav'n's vast dome refulgent hung,
And round ethereal vapours flung;
And oft I've sought th' Hygeian Maid,
In rosy dimpling smiles array'd,
Till, forc'd with every Hope to part,
Resistless Pain subdued my Heart.

Oh then, far o'er the restless deep
Forlorn my poignant pangs I bore,
Alone in foreign realms to weep,
Where Envy's voice could taunt no more.
I hop'd, by mingling with the gay,
To snatch the veil of Grief away;
I hop'd, amid the joyous train,
To break Affliction's pond'rous chain;
Vain was the Hope—in vain I sought
The placid hour of careless thought;

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Where Fashion wing'd her light career,
And sportive Pleasure danc'd along,
Oft have I shunn'd the blithsome throng,
To hide th' involuntary tear;
For e'en where rapt'rous transports glow,
From the full Heart the conscious tear will flow.
When to my downy couch remov'd,
Fancy recalled my wearied mind
To scenes of Friendship left behind,
Scenes still regretted, still belov'd!
Ah! then I felt the pangs of Grief
Grasp my warm Heart, and mock relief;
My burning lids Sleep's balm defied,
And on my fev'rish lip imperfect murmurs died.

Restless and sad—I sought once more
A calm retreat on Britain's shore;
Deceitful Hope! e'en there I found
That soothing Friendship's specious name
Was but a short-liv'd empty sound,
And Love a false delusive flame.

Then come, Sweet Bird, and with thy strain
Steal from my breast the thorn of pain;
Blest solace of my lonely hours,
In craggy caves and silent bow'rs:
When happy Mortals seek repose,
By Night's pale lamp we'll chant our woes,

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And, as her chilling tears diffuse
O'er the white thorn their silv'ry dews,
I'll with the lucid boughs entwine
A weeping Wreath, which round my Head
Shall by the waning Crescent shine,
And light us to our leafy bed.—
Yet, ah! nor leafy beds nor bow'rs
Fring'd with soft May's enamell'd flow'rs,
Nor pearly leaves, nor Cynthia's beams,
Nor smiling Pleasure's shadowy dreams—
Sweet Bird, not e'en thy melting Strains—
Can calm the heart where Tyrant Sorrow reigns.

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SECOND ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Blest be thy song, sweet Nightingale,
Lorn minstrel of the lonely vale!
Where oft I've heard thy dulcet strain
In mournful melody complain;
When in the Poplar's trembling shade
At Evening's purple hour I've stray'd,
While many a silken folded flow'r
Wept on its couch of Gossamer,
And many a time in pensive mood
Upon the upland mead I've stood,
To mark grey twilight's shadows glide
Along the green hill's velvet side;
To watch the perfum'd hand of morn
Hang pearls upon the silver thorn,
Till rosy day with lustrous eye
In saffron mantle deck'd the sky,

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And bound the mountain's brow with fire,
And ting'd with gold the village spire,
While o'er the frosted vale below
The amber tints began to glow:
And oft I seek the daisied plain
To greet the rustic nymph and swain,
When cowslips gay their bells unfold,
And flaunt their leaves of glitt'ring gold,
While from the blushes of the rose
A tide of musky essence flows,
And o'er the odour-breathing flow'rs
The woodlands shed their diamond show'rs;
When from the scented hawthorn bud
The Blackbird sips the lucid flood,
While oft the twitt'ring Thrush essays
To emulate the Linnet's lays;
While the poiz'd Lark her carol sings
And Butterflies expand their wings,
And Bees begin their sultry toils
And load their limbs with luscious spoils,
I stroll along the pathless vale,
And smile, and bless thy soothing tale.

But ah! when hoary winter chills
The plumy race—and wraps the hills
In snowy vest, I tell my pains
Beside the brook, in icy chains,
Bound its weedy banks between,
While sad I watch night's pensive queen,

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Just emblem of my weary woes;
For ah! where'er the virgin goes,
Each flow'ret greets her with a tear
To sympathetic sorrow dear;
And when in black obtrusive clouds
The vestal meek her pale cheek shrouds,
I mark the twinkling starry train
Exulting glitter in her wane,
And proudly gleam their borrow'd light
To gem the sombre dome of night.
Then o'er the meadows cold and bleak
The glow-worm's glimm'ring lamp I seek,
Or climb the craggy cliff, to gaze
On some bright planet's azure blaze,
And o'er the dizzy height inclin'd
I listen to the passing wind,
That loves my mournful song to seize,
And bears it to the mountain breeze.
Or where, the sparry caves among,
Dull Echo sits with aëry tongue,
Or gliding on the Zephyr's wings
From hill to hill her cadence flings,
O then my melancholy tale
Dies on the bosom of the gale,
While awful stillness, reigning round,
Blanches my cheek with chilling fear;
Till, from the bushy dell profound,
The woodman's song salutes mine ear.

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When dark November's boist'rous breath
Sweeps the blue hill and desert heath,
When naked trees their white tops wave
O'er many a famish'd Redbreast's grave,
When many a clay-built cot lays low
Beneath the growing hills of snow;
Soon as the Shepherd's silv'ry head
Peeps from his tottering straw-roof'd shed,
To hail the glimm'ring glimpse of day—
With feeble steps he ventures forth,
Chill'd by the bleak breath of the North,
And to the forest bends his way,
To gather from the frozen ground
Each branch the night-blast scatter'd round—
If in some bush o'erspread with snow
He hears thy moaning wail of woe,
A flush of warmth his cheek o'erspreads,
With anxious timid care he treads,
And when his cautious hands infold
Thy little breast benumb'd with cold,
“Come, plaintive fugitive,” he cries,
While Pity dims his aged eyes,
“Come up to my glowing heart, and share
“My narrow cell, my humble fare;
“Tune thy sweet carol—plume thy wing,
“And quaff with me the limpid spring,
“And peck the crumbs my meals supply,
“And round my rushy pillow fly.”

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O, Minstrel sweet, whose jocund lay
Can make e'en Poverty look gay,
Who can the humblest swain inspire
And, while he fans his scanty fire,
When o'er the plain rough Winter pours
Nocturnal blasts and whelming show'rs,
Canst thro' his little mansion fling
The rapt'rous melodies of spring—
To thee with eager gaze I turn,
Blest solace of the aching breast!
Each gaudy glitt'ring scene I spurn,
And sigh for solitude and rest.

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ODE TO BEAUTY.

Exulting Beauty!—phantom of an hour,
Whose magic spells enchain the heart,
Ah! what avails thy fascinating pow'r,
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art?
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows;
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose
A thousand nameless Graces move;
Thy mildly-speaking azure eyes,
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love
In many a mazy ringlet lies?
Soon as thy radiant form is seen,
Thy native blush, thy timid mien,
Thy hour is past! thy charms are vain!
Ill-Nature haunts thee with her sallow train,
Mean Jealousy deceives thy list'ning ear,
And Slander stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear,

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In calm retirement form'd to dwell,
Nature, thy handmaid fair and kind,
For thee a beauteous garland twin'd;
The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell
Thy modest mien display'd,
The snow-drop, April's meekest child,
With myrtle blossoms undefil'd,
Thy spotless mind pourtray'd.
Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth,
'Twas thine o'er dewy meads to stray,
While sparkling health, and frolic mirth,
Led on thy laughing Day.

Lur'd by the babbling tongue of Fame,
Too soon insidious Flatt'ry came;
Flush'd Vanity her footsteps led,
To charm thee from repose,
While Fashion twin'd about thy head
A wreath of wounding woes;
See Dissipation smoothly glide,
Cold Apathy, and puny Pride,
Capricious Fortune, dull and blind,
O'er splendid Folly throws her veil,
While Envy's meagre tribe assail
Thy gentle form and spotless mind.

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Their spells prevail! no more those eyes
Shoot undulating fires;
On thy wan cheek the young rose dies,
Thy lip's deep tint expires;
Dark Melancholy chills thy mind,
Thy silent tear reveals thy woe;
Time strews with thorns thy mazy way;
Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray,
Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find
An unrelenting foe.

'Tis thus the infant Forest flow'r,
Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew,
At breezy morn's refreshing hour,
Displays its tints of varying hue,
Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade,
Where no rude winds or beating storms invade.
Transplanted from its lonely bed,
No more it scatters perfumes round,
No more it rears its modest head,
Or gayly paints the mossy ground;
For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon,
Scorch'd by the burning eye of day,
Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon,
Droops its enamell'd brow, and, blushing, dies away.

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ODE TO ELOQUENCE.

Hail! Goddess of persuasive art!
The magic of whose tuneful tongue
Lulls to soft harmony the wand'ring heart
With fascinating song;
O let me hear thy heav'n-taught strain,
As thro' my quiv'ring pulses steal
The mingling throbs of joy and pain,
Which only sensate minds can feel.
Ah! let me taste the bliss supreme
Which thy warm touch unerring flings
O'er the rapt sense's finest strings,
When Genius, darting from the sky,
Glances across my wond'ring eye
Her animating beam.

Sweet Eloquence! thy mild control
Awakes to Reason's dawn the Idiot soul;

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When mists absorb the mental sight,
'Tis thine to dart creative light;
'Tis thine to chase the filmy clouds away,
And o'er the mind's deep gloom spread a refulgent ray.

Nor is thy wondrous art confin'd
Within the bounds of mental space,
For thou canst boast exterior grace,
Bright emblem of the fertile mind;
Yes; I have seen thee, with persuasion meek,
Bathe in the lucid tear on Beauty's cheek;
Have mark'd thee in the downcast eye,
When suff'ring Virtue claim'd the pitying sigh.

Oft, by thy thrilling voice subdued,
The meagre fiend Ingratitude
Her treach'rous fang conceals;
Pale Envy hides her forked sting;
And Calumny beneath the wing
Of dark oblivion steals.

Before thy pure and lambent fire
Shall frozen Apathy expire;
Thy influence, warm and unconfin'd,
Shall rapt'rous transports give,
And in the base and torpid mind
Shall bid the fine Affections live.

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When Jealousy's malignant dart
Strikes at the fondly-throbbing heart;
When fancied woes on every side assail,
Thy honey'd accents shall prevail;
When burning Passion withers up the brain,
And the fix'd lids the glowing drops sustain,
Touch'd by thy voice, the melting eye
Shall pour the balm of yielding Sympathy.

'Tis thine with lenient Song to move
The dumb despair of hopeless Love;
Or when the animated soul
On Fancy's wing shall soar,
And, scorning Reason's soft control,
Untrodden paths explore,
Till, by distracting conflicts tost,
The intellectual source is lost;
E'en then, the witching music of thy tongue,
Stealing thro' Mis'ry's darkest gloom,
Weaves the fine threads of Fancy's loom,
Till every slacken'd nerve, new strung,
Bids renovated Nature shine,
Amidst thy fost'ring beams, oh! Eloquence divine!

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ODE TO THE MOON.

Pale Goddess of the witching hour!
Blest Contemplation's placid friend!
Oft in my solitary bow'r
I mark thy lucid beam
From thy crystal car descend,
Whitening the spangled heath and limpid sapphire stream.

And oft amidst the shades of night
I court thy undulating light;
When Fairies dance around the verdant ring,
Or, sportive, frisk beside the bubbling spring;
When the thoughtless Shepherd's song
Echoes thro' the silent air,
While he pens his fleecy care,
Or plods with saunt'ring gait the dewy meads along.

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Chaste Orb! as thro' the vaulted sky
Feath'ry clouds transparent sail;
When thy languid, weeping eye
Sheds its soft tears upon the painted vale;
As sad I ponder o'er the rising floods,
Or tread with listless step th' embow'ring woods,
O let thy soft, though transitory beam,
Soothe my sad mind with Fancy's aëry dream.

Wrapt in Reflection, let me trace,
Around the vast ethereal space,
Stars, whose twinkling fires illume
Dark-brow'd Night's obtrusive gloom:
Where, across the concave wide,
Flaming Meteors swiftly glide;
Or, along the milky way,
Vapours shoot a silvery ray;
And as I mark thy faint reclining head,
Sinking on Ocean's glassy bed,
Let Reason tell my soul, thus all things fade:
The Seasons change, the gaudy Sun,
When Day's burning car hath run
Its fiery course, no more we view,
While o'er the mountain's golden head,
Streak'd with tints of crimson hue,
Twilight's filmy curtains spread,
Stealing o'er Nature's face, a desolating shade.

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Yon musky Flow'r, that scents the earth;
The Sod, that gave its odours birth;
The Rock, that breaks the torrent's force;
The Vale, that owns its wand'ring course;
The woodlands, where the vocal throng
Trill the wild melodious song;
Thirsty deserts, sands that glow,
Mountains, capp'd with flaky snow;
Luxuriant groves, enamell'd fields,
All that prolific nature yields,
Alike shall end; the sensate Heart,
With all its passions, all its fire,
Touch'd by Fate's unerring dart,
Shall feel its vital strength expire;
Those eyes, that beam with Friendship's ray,
And glance ineffable delight,
Shall shrink from Life's translucid day,
And close their fainting orbs in Death's impervious night.

Then what remains for mortal pow'r,
But Time's dull journey to beguile;
To deck with joy the winged hour,
To meet its sorrows with a patient smile;
And when the toilsome pilgrimage shall end,
To greet the tyrant, as a welcome friend.

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ODE TO MEDITATION.

Sweet Child of Reason! maid serene!
With folded arms and pensive mien;
Who, wand'ring near yon thorny wild,
So oft my length'ning hours beguil'd;
Thou who, within thy peaceful cell,
Canst laugh at Life's tumultuous care,
While calm repose delights to dwell
On beds of fragrant roses there;
Where meek-ey'd Patience waits to greet
The woe-worn trav'ller's weary feet,
Till by her blest and cheering ray
The clouds of sorrow fade away;
Where conscious Rectitude retires;
Instructive Wisdom; calm Desires;

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Prolific Science—lab'ring Art;
And Genius, with expanded heart.

Far from thy lone and pure domain
Steals pallid Guilt, whose scowling eye
Marks the rack'd soul's convulsive pain,
Tho' hid beneath the mask of joy;
Madd'ning Ambition's dauntless band;
Lean Avarice with iron hand;
Hypocrisy with fawning tongue;
Soft Flatt'ry with persuasive song;
Appall'd, in gloomy shadows fly,
From Meditation's piercing eye.

How oft with thee I've stroll'd unseen
O'er the lone valley's velvet green;
And brush'd away the twilight dew
That stain'd the cowslip's golden hue;
Oft, as I ponder'd o'er the scene,
Would mem'ry picture to my heart
How full of grief my days have been,
How swiftly rapt'rous hours depart!
Then wouldst thou, sweetly reas'ning, say,
“Time journeys thro' the roughest day.”

The Hermit, from the world retir'd,
By calm Religion's voice inspir'd,

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Tells how serenely time glides on,
From crimson morn, till setting sun;
How guiltless, pure, and free from strife,
He journeys thro' the vale of Life;
Within his breast nor sorrows mourn,
Nor cares perplex, nor passions burn;
No jealous fears, or boundless joys,
The tenor of his mind destroys;
And when revolving mem'ry shows
The thorny world's unnumber'd woes,
He blesses Heav'n's benign decree,
That gave his days to Peace and Thee.

The gentle Maid whose roseate bloom
Fades fast within a cloister's gloom,
Far by relentless Fate remov'd
From all her youthful fancy lov'd—
When her warm heart no longer bleeds,
And cool Reflection's hour succeeds,
Led by thy downy hand, she strays
Along the green dell's tangled maze;
Where thro' dank leaves the whisp'ring show'rs
Awake to life the fainting flow'rs;
Absorb'd by Thee, she hears no more
The distant torrent's deaf'ning roar;
The well-known Vesper's silver tone;
The bleak wind's desolating moan;

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No more she sees the nodding spires,
Where the lone bird of night retires,
While Echo chants her boding song
The cloister's mould'ring walls among;
No more she weeps at Fate's decree,
But yields her pensive soul to Thee.

The Sage whose palsied head bends low
'Midst scatter'd locks of silv'ry snow,
Still by his mind's clear lustre tells
What warmth within his bosom dwells;
How glows his heart with treasur'd lore,
How rich in Wisdom's boundless store:
In fading Life's protracted hour,
He smiles at Death's terrific pow'r;
He lifts his radiant eyes, which gleam
With Resignation's sainted beam;
And, as the weeping star of morn
Sheds lustre on the wither'd thorn,
His tear benign calm comfort throws
O'er rugged Life's corroding woes;
His pious soul's enlighten'd rays
Dart forth, to gild his wint'ry days;
He smiles serene at Heav'n's decree,
And his last hour resigns to Thee.

When Learning, with Promethean art
Unveils to light the youthful heart;

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When on the richly-budding spray
The glorious beams of Genius play;
When the expanded leaves proclaim
The promis'd fruits of rip'ning Fame;
O Meditation, maid divine!
Proud Reason owns the work is thine.

Oft have I known thy magic pow'r
Irradiate sorrow's wint'ry hour;
Oft my full heart to Thee hath flown,
And wept for mis'ries not its own;
When shrewd hypocrisy has wound
In dulcet tones my soul around,
While art, conceal'd in specious guise,
Pour'd passion's tear and pity's sighs;
When, cold Ingratitude was seen
Beneath affection's gentlest mien;
When, pinch'd with agonizing Pain,
My restless bosom dar'd complain;
Oft have I sunk upon thy breast,
And lull'd my weary mind to rest;
Till I have own'd the blest decree,
That gave my soul to Peace and Thee.

148

ODE TO VALOUR.

Transcendent Valour!—godlike Pow'r!
Lord of the dauntless breast, and stedfast mien!
Who, rob'd in majesty sublime,
Sat in thy eagle-wafted car,
And led the hardy sons of war,
With head erect, and eye serene,
Amidst the arrowy show'r;
When, unsubdued, from clime to clime,
Young Ammon taught exulting Fame
O'er earth's vast space to sound the glories of thy name.

Illustrious Valour! from whose glance
Each recreant passion shrinks dismay'd;
To whom benignant Heav'n consign'd
All that can elevate the mind;
'Tis thine, in radiant worth array'd,
To rear thy glitt'ring helmet high,
And with intrepid front defy
Stern Fate's uplifted arm and desolating lance.

149

When, from the Chaos of primæval Night,
This wondrous Orb first sprung to light,
And, poiz'd amid the sphery clime
By strong Attraction's pow'r sublime,
Its whirling course began;
With sacred spells encompass'd round,
Each element observ'd its bound,
Earth's solid base huge promontories bore;
Curb'd Ocean roar'd, clasp'd by the rocky shore;
And 'midst metallic fires translucent rivers ran.

All nature own'd th' Omnipotent's command!
Luxuriant blessings deck'd the vast domain;
He bade the budding branch expand,
And from the teeming ground call'd forth the cherish'd grain;
Salubrious springs from flinty caverns drew;
Enamell'd verdure o'er the landscape threw;
He taught the scaly host to glide,
Sportive, amidst the limpid tide;
His breath sustain'd the Eagle's wing;
With vocal sounds bade hills and valleys ring;
Then, with his Word supreme, awoke to birth
The human Form sublime! The Sov'reign Lord of Earth!

150

Valour! thy pure and sacred flame
Diffus'd its radiance o'er his mind;
From Thee he learnt the fiery Steed to tame,
And with a flow'ry band the speckled Pard to bind;
Guarded by Heav'n's eternal shield,
He taught each living thing to yield;
Wond'ring yet undismay'd he stood
To mark the Sun's fierce fires decay;
Fearless he saw the tiger play,
While at his stedfast gaze the Lion couch'd subdu'd.

When, fading in the grasp of death,
Illustrious Wolfe on earth's cold bosom lay;
His anxious soldiers, thronging round,
Bath'd with their tears each gushing wound;
As on his pallid lip the fleeting breath
In faint and broken accents stole away,
Loud shouts of triumph fill'd the skies,
To Heav'n he rais'd his grateful eyes,
“'Tis Vict'ry's voice!” the hero cried,
“I thank thee, bounteous Heav'n!” then smiling died!

When erst on Calpe's rock stern victory stood,
Hurling swift vengeance o'er the bounding flood,
Each winged bolt illum'd a flame,
Iberia's vaunting sons to tame,

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While o'er the foaming troubled deep
The blasts of desolation flew,
Fierce lightnings, hov'ring round the frowning steep,
'Midst the wild waves their fatal arrows threw;
Loud roar'd the cannon's voice with ceaseless ire,
While the vast bulwark glow'd a pyramid of fire!

Then, in each Briton's gallant breast,
Benignant Virtue shone confest!
While death spread wide his direful reign,
And shrieks of horror echo'd o'er the main,
Eager they plung'd their sinking foes to save
From the dread precincts of a whelming grave!
Then Valour, was thy proudest hour!
Then didst thou, like a radiant God,
Check the stern rigours of th' avenging rod,
And with soft mercy's hand subdue the scourge of power.

152

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MY LAMENTED FATHER,

Who died in the service of the Empress of Russia, December 5, 1786.

Oh! Sire rever'd! ador'd!
Was it the solemn tongue of Death,
That, whisp'ring to my pensive ear,
Pronounc'd the fatal word
Which bath'd my cheek with many a tear,
And stopp'd, awhile, my gasping breath?
“He toils no more!
“Far on a foreign shore
“His honour'd dust a laurel'd grave receives,
“While his immortal soul in realms celestial lives!”

153

Oh! my lov'd sire, farewell!
Though we are doom'd on earth to meet no more,
Still Mem'ry lives, and still I must deplore!
And long this throbbing heart shall mourn,
Though thou to these sad eyes wilt ne'er return!
Yet shall remembrance dwell
On all thy sorrows through life's stormy sea,
When Fate's resistless whirlwinds shed
Unnumber'd tempests round thy head,
The varying ills of human destiny!
Yet, with a soul sublimely brave,
Didst thou endure the dashing wave;
Still buffetting the billows rude,
By all the shafts of woe undaunted, unsubdued!

Through a long life of rugged care,
'Twas thine to steer a steady course!
'Twas thine Misfortune's frowns to bear,
And stem the wayward torrent's force!
And as thy persevering mind
The toilsome path of Fame pursued,
'Twas thine, amidst its Flow'rs, to find
The wily Snake—Ingratitude!
Yet vainly did th' insidious reptile strive
On thee its poisons dire to fling;
Above its reach, thy laurel still shall thrive,
Unconscious of the treach'rous sting!

154

'Twas thine to toil through length'ning years
Where low'ring night absorbs the spheres!
Thy warmly enterprising mind
Nor fear, nor sordid hopes could bind;
For bold ambition warm'd thy breast,
And lured thee from inglorious rest,
O'er icy seas to bend thy way,
Where frozen Greenland rears its head,
Where dusky vapours shroud the day,
And wastes of flaky snow the stagnate Ocean spread!
'Twas thine, amidst the smoke of war,
To view, unmov'd, grim-fronted Death;
Where Fate, enthron'd in sulphur'd Car,
Shrunk the pale legions with her scorching breath!
While, all around her, bath'd in blood,
Iberia's haughty sons plung'd lifeless 'midst the flood!

Now, on the wings of Meditation borne,
Let fond Remembrance turn, and turn to mourn:
Slowly and sad, her length'ning pinions sweep,
O'er the rough bosom of the boist'rous deep,

155

To that disastrous, fatal coast,
Where, on the foaming billows tost,
Imperial Catharine's navies rode;
And War's inviting banners wide
Wav'd hostile o'er the glitt'ring tide
That with exulting conquest glow'd!
For there, oh Sorrow! check the tear!
There, round departed Valour's bier,
The sacred drops of kindred Virtue shone!
Proud Monuments of Worth! whose base
Fame on her starry hill shall place;
There to endure, admir'd, sublime!
E'en when the mould'ring wing of Time
Shall scatter to the winds huge pyramids of stone!

Oh! Gallant Soul! Farewell!
Though doom'd this transient orb to leave,
Thy Daughter's heart, whose grief no words can tell,
Shall, in its throbbing centre, bid thee live!
While from its crimson fount shall flow
The silent tear of ling'ring grief;
The gem sublime! that scorns relief,
Nor vaunting shines with ostentatious woe!

156

Tho' thou art vanish'd from these eyes,
Still from thy sacred dust shall rise
A Wreath that mocks the polish'd thought,
The sculptur'd bust, the poet's praise,
While Fame shall weeping guard the spot
Where Valour's dauntless Son decays!
Unseen to cherish Mem'ry's source divine,
Oh! Parent of my life! shall still be mine!
And thou shalt, from thy blissful state,
Awhile avert thy raptur'd gaze,
To own, that, 'midst this wild'ring maze,
The Flame of filial Love survives the blast of Fate!

157

ODE TO NIGHT.

Dread child of Erebus! whose pow'r
Sheds horror o'er the darken'd world;
While ghosts, with winding-sheets unfurl'd,
Welcome the murky hour!
While conscience, like a coward base,
Awakes to madd'ning fear;
When not a breathing thing is near
The records of the wounded mind to trace!
Of thee I sing, in sable sadness drest,
While happier mortals dream, and pain and sorrow rest.

I hail thee now, while, o'er each glimmering star,
Triumphant in thy viewless car,

158

Thou sail'st across th' eternal dome,
Scatt'ring around thee thick wove gloom.
The whirling orb its course pursues;
But oh! how mournfully obscure!
Where are its lustres, and its hues,
Its mountains, vales, and rivers pure?
Envelop'd in the black obtrusive shade,
Oblivion grasps the Scene, and all its beauties fade.

Now, seated on thy Ebon Tow'r,
Lord of the Solitary Hour!
Thou spread'st thy raven pinions wide,
Creation's vanquish'd charms to hide!
And when the meek Moon's crystal eye
Gleams on the sable forehead of the sky,
Thou bidd'st each envious passing cloud
Her beamy Crescent faintly shroud,
That o'er the lurid space
Thy million eyes may trace
The den where haggard Guilt retires,
To hold fierce converse with the demons fell,
Link'd in thy fatal spell!
And while each twinkling star expires,
The wild winds shake the distant spheres,
And Nature hides her face, bedew'd with chilling tears!

159

Soul-penetrating Gloom!
Thou strict examiner of human thought!
When the bright Taper's brilliant ray,
Through the long painted hall, and marble dome,
Sheds artificial day;
Thou com'st with all thy horrors fraught,
To beckon forth the guilty soul,
And bend each stubborn nerve to thy Supreme Control!
Oh Night! thou Spectre bold!
Thou parent of heart-chilling fear!
Thou canst each hidden thought unfold;
For Conscience will be heard when thou art near!

And when the cheerful day
And all its raptures fade away,
The Tyrant shuns his blood-stain'd throne,
Deck'd in the tinsel pageantry of show,
And, on his regal couch, alone,
Resigns his breast to silent woe:
Ah! then, he traces back the hour,
When, by Ambition led,
Devoted legions bled,
To lengthen a small span of transitory pow'r!
Then fancy paints the poorest swain,
That, on the bleak and barren plain,

160

In his low Cottage sinks to rest,
Celestial Peace the partner of his breast;
Who, led by cheerful labour to repose,
Finds his rude pillow strew'd with many a thornless Rose.

Oh! horrid Night!
Thou prying Monitor confest!
Whose key unlocks the human breast,
And bares each avenue to mental sight!
When from the festive bow'r
The frenzied Homicide retreats,
And, in his bosom's cell,
Essays each rising throb to quell;
Thy penetrating pow'r
His sense with many a Phantom greets;
He rushes forth in wild amaze!
While down his brow the big drop strays;
Then, from thy mist opaque,
Deep groans assail his startled ears,
His limbs convuls'd with horror shake,
And the short fev'rish Hour,
Such is thy dreadful pow'r!
An Age of agonizing woe appears;
For Sleep the vengeful fiends deride,
Till the blest Sun darts forth to bid thy reign subside!

161

How glorious is the eastern sky!
The warm tints rushing o'er the blue serene,
O'er the tall mountain Morn's effulgent eye
Diffuses wide the renovated scene!
The silv'ry Dew-drops, scatter'd round,
Spangle the variegated ground;
Or dress the waving woods in glitt'ring pride,
Or down the silky leaves in bright succession glide.

Then the sultry Noon appears,
Absorbing Nature's ling'ring tears;
While o'er the Thyme-clad heath,
Faint with its scorching breath,
The Flocks and Herds to covert move;
The sun-burnt Hind suspends his toil,
And, plodding o'er the thirsty soil,
Seeks the green sod and cool embow'ring grove;
The murmuring river lulls his mind to rest,
While the soft Southern breeze steals lightly o'er his breast!

Now, pensive hour,
Calm-bosom'd Evening, thee I hail!
While o'er the perfum'd bow'r
Thy balmy breathings gently sail;

162

Meek handmaid of sublime repose,
From whose calm eye the soft tear flows!
As o'er the Landscape's glowing breast
Thou fling'st thy purple vest;
While in the Western spheres
Day's streamy radiance slowly fades,
Till, wrapp'd in dusky shades,
The pale Horizon scarce appears;
And as the melodies of Nature fail,
The sullen beetle, humming near,
Obtrudes upon thy pensive ear,
That listens to the mournful Nightingale,
The tangled dells and sparry rocks among,
Where, to the rising moon, she pours her love-lorn song!

Then dark-brow'd Night, thou com'st again,
With all thy melancholy train;
While Bats expand their leathern wings,
And Owls forsake their ivy'd home,
O'er the blank solitude to roam;
And the small Cricket sings,
Near the dim embers of the Cottage fire,
To warn the village Maid with Omens sad and dire!

163

Yet art thou not to my rapt breast
A dread, unwelcome, startling guest;
For when I quit the trifling throng,
To me, O solitary Night!
Thou bring'st the soothing calm delight,
Which charms my pensive heart and wakes the Muse's song!

164

ODE TO HOPE.

Fly, dark Despondency! away!
Parent of Frenzy and Despair!
Go, seek the lurid haunts of Care,
Nor here thy haggard form display!
I hate thy ever scowling eye;
Thy icy hand; thy rending sigh;
Thy slow congealing, sullen tear;
Thy listless pace; thy wither'd breast,
That owns no distant gleam of rest,
No promis'd tranquil hour, thy Soul's deep night to cheer!

But come, fair Hope, heart-soothing maid!
Come, with thy beaming eye the gloom pervade.
Smiling harbinger of pleasure!
Here unfold thy promis'd treasure!

165

At thy approach the weedy Bow'r
Blooms with many an op'ning Flow'r;
The Skies with brighter azure glow;
The Streams in clearer windings flow;
The Birds new melodies essay;
Luxuriant Foliage bends the Spray;
While all the glories of earth, sea, and sky,
Proclaim, celestial Hope, that thou art nigh!

Now on my couch, where o'er my Mind
Dull-ey'd Despondency reclin'd,
Fair blossoms shoot! rich fragrance teems,
To prompt young Fancy's rapt'rous dreams;
While at my feet Lethean waters glide;
Eternal Silence Priestess of the tide!
Where Feeling, meek and trembling guest,
Bathes in the magic stream her wounded breast,
Care's deadly venom to destroy,
Till, every pang forgot, she hails approaching Joy.

Now banish'd from Elysian vales and groves,
Despondency with moody Madness roves!
Or sits upon the craggy mountain steep,
Whose dizzy edge hangs shadowing o'er the deep:
The lightning's glare displays her form;
And while the deaf'ning whirlwinds blow,
She views, unmov'd, the rising storm,
That shatters the devoted Bark below!

166

The Sea-birds scream! the billows rise!
The loud-ton'd thunder rends the skies!
The warring elements conspire
To taunt her breast with furious ire!
She seems their direst rage to brave,
Till, rising from the yawning wave,
Despair appears, the Spirit of the Deep!
The whelming surge her flaming pinions sweep;
The howling winds with louder clamours roar;
The angry billows lash the rocky shore;
While livid lightnings, flashing death around,
Quench their blue arrows in the gulph profound!

Hark! how the flinty fabric shakes!
While pale Despondency awakes!
And, rising from her hanging seat,
Darts forth Despair to meet.
The with'ring victim seems to glide
Along the cliff's tremendous side;
Now, by her dark associate borne,
Awhile she seems to weep and mourn;
Then, lock'd within her cold embrace,
Sinks 'midst the horrors of unfathom'd space!

Now, the dreary tempest o'er,
Madd'ning horror reigns no more;
On the eastern summit bright,
Day unbars the gates of light;

167

And rushing forward, rob'd in crimson fire,
Bids sombre night with all her train retire!

The sev'ring clouds dissolving fly;
The soft breeze fans the glitt'ring main;
The lucid rill runs babbling o'er the plain,
Its crystal breast reflects the glowing sky!
Hope comes in heavenly colours drest;
Her golden pinions cool my breast;
Her eye with sparkling lustre shines;
Her hand a beauteous chaplet twines;
And marking Fame's fair temple in the skies,
Bids for my grateful brow a budding laurel rise!

168

ODE TO HUMANITY.

Written during the Massacres at Paris, in September, 1792.

Offspring of Heav'n! from whose bland throne
Thou bend'st with salutary wing,
Bearing the olive branch divine,
To grace Britannia's lucid zone;
Where in calm majestic pride
Her conqu'ring Navies proudly ride!
While Art and Commerce smiling join,
And to the fav'ring skies exulting Pæans ring!

169

Oh! bend thy flight from pole to pole;
With balmy pinions swiftly sweep
O'er the dark and foaming deep,
Where the warring billows roll;
Where, in shadowy vestments clad,
Ghastly Visions, pale and sad,
Rising from their prison-wave,
Seem their destiny to brave;
Destiny severe and dire,
That spurn'd each tender hope away,
Each social gleam of mortal Day,
And gave their dauntless souls to War's insatiate Ire!

Now their dismal chorus sounds
E'en to earth's remotest bounds!
“Beware!” it says; “mankind, beware!
“Sheath the sword of Death, nor wage
“War with Heav'n's impending rage;
“Nor rouse the furious Fiend Despair!
“Already see, by Fate unfurl'd,
“His poison'd banner shades the world;
“All around him sad appears,
“Stain'd with Gore or drench'd in Tears;
“Where'er the Monster bends his eye,
“Beneath the fatal glance devoted millions die.”

170

O blest Humanity! 'tis thine
To shed consoling balm divine
Wide o'er the groaning race beneath;
And when fell Slaughter lifts her wreath,
Let the Laurel bough appear,
Gemm'd with Pity's holy tear;
Let it moisten every bud,
Glowing, hot with human blood!
And when no crimson tint remains,
When no foul blush its lustre stains,
Bathe with oblivious balm the dread record,
Grav'd on the page of Fame by Gallia's vengeful sword!

Mark, oh! mark the tented plains
Where exulting Discord reigns;
Flush'd with rage, her panting breast,
Her eye with ruthless lightnings stor'd,
She lifts her never-failing sword,
With wreaths of with'ring Laurel drest.
By her side, in proud array,
Ambition stalks, with restless soul;
Madd'ning Vengeance leads the way;
Her giant crest disdains control;
Triumphantly she waves her iron hand,
While her red Pinions sweep the desolated Land!

171

See! beneath her murd'rous wing,
Howling Famine seems to cling!
Feeding on the putrid breeze,
Her wither'd Heart begins to freeze!
With sullen eye she scowls around,
O'er the barren hostile ground;
Where once the golden Harvest wav'd;
Where the clust'ring Vineyard rose,
By many a lucid streamlet lav'd;
Now the purple Torrent flows!
She marks the direful change with curses deep,
While, o'er the scene forlorn, distracted legions weep!

Where the tow'ring City stands,
Once a polish'd Nation's pride,
See stern Death, with rapid stride,
Leads on his grisly bands!
The Infant's shriek, the Sire's despair,
Rend the sulphur-stagnant air!
Nought illumes the thick'ning shade,
Save the Poignard's glitt'ring blade;
All along the flinty way,
Streams of blood are seen to stray,
Foaming, blushing, as they flow,
While ev'ry dome resounds with agonizing woe!

172

Haste, Humanity! prepare
Chains to quell the fiend Despair;
Round pale Vengeance swiftly twine;
Discord bind in spells divine!
Now where Famine droops her head,
Reason's balmy banquet spread;
And where the blood-stain'd Laurel dies,
Oh! let the Olive bloom, the Fav'rite of the Skies!

173

ODE TO THE HARP OF LOUISA.

If aught could soothe to peace the wounded breast,
Or round its throbbing pulses twine;
If aught could charm despair to rest,
Sweet Harp, the wondrous pow'r was thine!
For, oh! in many a varying strain,
Thy magic lull'd the direst pain,
While from each thought to human ills allied,
'Twas thine to steal the soul, and bid its fears subside!

O source of joy, for ever flown!
While yet the tear bedews my cheek,
Let the fond Muse thy graces speak,
Thy thrilling chords, thy silver tone,

174

That, as the western breezes sweep,
Soft murm'ring o'er the troubled deep,
Could calm Affliction's tempest rude,
Till ev'ry thought was bliss, and ev'ry pang subdu'd.

Now let the Muse a wreath prepare,
A mournful wreath, alas! to bind
Thy strings forlorn;
The primrose pale, the lily fair.
But where shall I a blossom find
Like her I mourn?
Where seek a Rose with native colours drest?
Ah! beauteous flow'r!
No more thy charms confess'd
Shall with their sweetness decorate my bow'r;
For vain, soft emblem, is thy glowing pride,
Since on Louisa's cheek the blush of Beauty died.

Sweet sainted shade! for ever flown
To worlds unknown,
Oh! let me decorate thy bier
With many a spotless flow'r!
The Cypress bath'd with Pity's tear,
Shall consecrated incense show'r!
There shall the budding Laurel bloom,
The Myrtle too shall grace thy tomb;

175

For Genius own'd thy attributes divine,
And Beauty, short-liv'd boast, sweet Maid, was thine!

But who shall of thy gentle manners speak,
The grac'd complacency that deck'd thy mind!
The fine affections, tender, warm, yet meek,
Luxuriant taste, with modesty combin'd!
Oh! she was passing good, and passing fair!
Blest with a soul so exquisitely even;
A gem so polish'd, so supremely rare,
So free from folly, and so form'd for Heav'n!
Too pure, too excellent for mortal eyes,
She like a vision shone, then vanish'd to the skies!

Dear blushing Rose!
Lost object of our tender woes!
Three ling'ring days, thy leaves to shed,
The fateful blast howl'd o'er thy drooping head;
For Time, reluctant to destroy
So rich a source of treasur'd joy,
Fann'd with his wing the tyrant's breath;
But, ah! how chilling is the frost of Death!

176

Too weak the conflict to endure,
Time saw thee, lovely, sweet, and pure,
In all thy wondrous charms array'd,
Shrink from the with'ring storm, and meekly fade!

In Nature's variegated bow'r,
How many pois'nous weeds appear,
Shedding their desolating pow'r
On ev'ry gentle blossom near;
But, oh! how rarely do we find,
Amidst the gay diversity of sweets,
Where ev'ry charm the fancy greets,
Such faultless attributes combin'd!
Sure, Nature form'd thee, matchless Maid, to show
How far her pow'r—her wondrous pow'r would go!

When o'er the world black Midnight steals,
And ev'ry eye in temporary death
Exhausted Nature kindly seals;
When on the confines of the grave no breath
Assails cold Meditation's ear,
Friendship shall clasp thy urn, and drop a silent tear!

177

There Resignation, pensive, sad,
Shall plant around the buds of spring;
And Innocence, in snowy vestment clad,
The dews of Heav'n shall scatter from her wing!
And there shall weeping virgins throng,
And there Religion's holy song
In soft vibration's round the shrine shall die,
To emulate on earth the minstrels of the sky!

Oft when the rosy beams of day
Shall on the eastern summit glow,
I'll listen to the Lark's shrill lay;
And as the mellow warblings flow,
O Harp forlorn! I'll think of thee, and own
How poor the matin song, how weak the mimic tone!

Oft, in slow and mournful measure,
Melting woe thy chords express'd;
Oft to blithe ecstatic pleasure
Thrilling strains awoke the breast;
If thy gentle mistress smil'd,
How thy glitt'ring strings would glow!
While, in transports brightly wild,
Mingling melodies would flow!
Then, swifter than the wings of thought,
The song, with heav'nly pity fraught,

178

Would die away in magic tone,
Sweet as the Ring-dove's plaintive moan;
Soft as the breeze at closing day,
That sighs to quit the parting ray;
Or, on ethereal pinions borne,
Upon the perfum'd breath of morn,
Sails o'er the mountain's golden crest,
To fan Aurora's burning breast!
Yet, envy'd Harp! no praise was thine;
'Twas by Louisa's pow'r alone
Thy meek, melodious, melting tone
Could round the captive senses twine!
'Twas hers rebellious passions to control,
While ev'ry chord bespoke the peerless Minstrel's soul!

Yet was the Fame that crown'd thy worth
The wonder of a transient day;
Nor could it snatch from cold decay
The beauteous hand that gave it birth;
For excellence like hers was lent, not giv'n,
To shew Mortality a glimpse of Heav'n!

Sweet blooming flow'r!
Scarce seen ere lost,
Nipp'd by a cruel frost!
Oh! what an Age of promis'd joy,
Relentless Death, didst thou destroy
In one short Hour!

179

But who shall dare repine?
Who blame Omnipotence divine?
The pure ethereal soul
Sprang from its prison-clay, impatient of control;
For this polluted orb too fine,
It plung'd the gulph of Fate in happier realms to shine!

For in this sad and stormy world,
Perchance, by many a tempest hurl'd,
The gentle Spirit had endur'd
Ills that only Death had cur'd!
Or liv'd no ray of bliss to see,
A Mine of treasure, in a troubled Sea!
Yet Mem'ry, watchful of her Fame,
Shall guard it with a sacred zeal;
And oft in mournful numbers claim
The Pang she knew so well to feel!
For sorrow ne'er assail'd her ear
Unanswer'd by a pitying tear;
Her bosom glow'd with Virtue's conscious flame;
And where she could not praise, she scorn'd to blame!

Oft by the cunning of her skilful hand
Attention hung enamour'd o'er thy strain;
For well she could the soul command,
And cheat long-cherish'd Mis'ry of its pain,
Till, by her soothing harmony beguil'd,
Pale Melancholy rais'd her languid eye, and smil'd!

180

Lull'd by the slow and dulcet sound,
E'en Madness could forget to weep,
And, bound in galling chains, serenely sleep
On the bare ground!
From thy celestial tone would Anger fly;
While Envy, sick'ning with despair,
Though born the keenest pangs to bear,
Would with her shaggy locks o'ershade her scowling eye!

To tame the savage bosom well she knew!
What cannot magic Melody subdue?
Yet was the Maid unconscious of her sway;
While, far from public scenes remov'd,
The calm and studious hour she lov'd,
And through the path of life pursu'd her thornless way;
Or when adorn'd with all the pride of praise,
She bloom'd a blushing Rose, amidst a wreath of Bays!

Oh Harp rever'd! if round each silent string
The deathless wreath of Fame should fondly twine,
'Tis not for thee th' admiring Muse shall sing,
But for the tuneful Maid who woke thy sounds divine!

181

Then rest, in torpid silence rest;
Mute be thy chords, and mute the Muse's song;
Louisa joins an heavenly throng,
And chants the Pæans of the blest!
There, far remov'd from human Woe,
Amidst the sainted Choir her Strains immortal flow!

182

TO THE MUSE OF POETRY.

“But, ah! beware how thou shalt fling
“Thy hot pulse o'er the quiv'ring string,
“How thou another's name shall raise,
“How gild another with thy praise!”
ARMIDA TO RINALDO. ORACLE, Jan. 5th, 1791.

Exult, my Muse! exult to see
Each envious, waspish, jealous thing
Around its harmless venom fling,
And dart its powerless fangs at Thee!
Ne'er shalt Thou bend thy radiant wing
To sweep the dark revengeful string;
Or meanly stoop to steal a ray,
E'en from Rinaldo's glorious lay,
Tho' his transcendent Verse should twine
About thy heart each bliss divine.

183

O Muse ador'd! I woo thee now
From yon bright Heaven to hear my vow;
From thy blest wing a plume I'll steal,
And with its burning point record
Each firm indissoluble word,
And with my lips the proud oath seal!
I swear!—O ye whose soul like mine
Beams with poetic rays divine,
Attend my voice;—whate'er my Fate
In this precarious wild'ring state,
Whether the Fiends, with rancorous ire,
Strike at my heart's unsullied fire,
While busy Envy's recreant guile
Calls from my cheek the pitying smile
Or jealous Slander, mean and vain,
Essays my mind's best boast to stain;
Should all combine to check my lays,
And tear me from thy fost'ring gaze,
Ne'er will I quit thy burning eye,
'Till my last, eager, gasping sigh
Shall, from its earthly mansion flown,
Embrace thee on thy starry Throne

Sweet soother of the pensive breast!
Come, in thy softest splendours dress'd;
Bring with thee Reason, chastely mild,
And classic Taste—her loveliest child;

184

And radiant Fancy's offspring bright;
Then bid them all their charms unite,
My mind's wild rapture to inspire
With thy own sacred, genuine Fire.

I ask no fierce terrific strain,
That rends the breast with tort'ring pain;
No frantic flight, no labour'd art,
To wring the fibres of the heart!
No frenzy'd Guide, that madd'ning flies
O'er cloud-wrapp'd hills—thro' burning skies;
That sails upon the midnight blast,
Or, on the howling wild wave cast,
Plucks from their dark and rocky bed
The yelling Demons of the deep,
Who, soaring o'er the Comet's head,
The bosom of the welkin sweep!
Ne'er shall my hand, at Night's full noon,
Snatch from the tresses of the moon
A sparkling crown of silv'ry hue,
Besprent with studs of frozen dew,
To deck my brow with borrow'd rays,
That feebly imitate the Sun's rich blaze.

Ah lead me not, dear gentle Maid,
To poison'd bow'r or haunted glade;

185

Where beck'ning spectres shrieking glare
Along the black infected air;
While bold “fantastic thunders” leap,
Indignant, 'midst the clam'rous deep,
As envious of its louder tone,
While lightnings shoot, and mountains groan
With close pent fires, that from their base
Hurl them amidst the whelming space;
Where Ocean's yawning throat resounds,
And, gorg'd with draughts of foamy ire,
Madly o'erleaps its crystal bounds,
And soars to quench the Sun's proud fire.
While Nature's self shall start aghast,
Amid the desolating blast,
That grasps the sturdy Oak's firm breast,
And, tearing off its shatter'd vest,
Presents its gnarled bosom, bare,
To the hot lightning's with'ring glare!

Transcendent Muse! assert thy right;
Chase from thy pure Parnassian height
Each bold usurper of thy Lyre,
Each phantom of phosphoric fire,
That dares, with wild fantastic flight
The timid child of Genius fright;
That dares with pilfer'd glories shine
Along the dazzling frenzy'd line,

186

Where tinsel splendours cheat the mind,
While Reason, trembling far behind,
Drops from her blushing front thy Bays,
And scorns to share the wreath of praise.

But when divine Rinaldo flings
Soft rapture o'er the bounding strings;
When the bright flame that fills his soul
Bursts thro' the flame of calm control,
And on enthusiastic wings
To Heaven's Eternal Mansion springs,
Or, darting thro' the yielding skies,
O'er earth's disastrous valley flies;
Forbear his glorious flight to bind;
Yet o'er his true poetic Mind
Expand thy chaste celestial ray,
Nor let fantastic fires diffuse
Deluding lustre round his muse,
To lead her glorious steps astray!
Ah! let his matchless harp prolong
The thrilling Tone, the classic song;
Still bind his Brow with deathless Bays,
Still grant his Verse—a Nation's Praise.

But if, by false persuasion led,
His varying Fancy e'er should tread

187

The paths of vitiated Taste,
Where folly spreads a “weedy waste;”
Oh! may he feel no more the genuine fire
That warms his tuneful Soul and prompts thy sacred Lyre.

188

TO THE BLUE BELL.

Blue Bell! how gayly art thou drest,
How neat and trim art thou, sweet flow'r;
How silky is thy azure vest,
How fresh, to flaunt at morning's hour!
Couldst thou but think, I well might say
Thou art as proud in rich array
As lady blithesome, young and vain,
Prank'd up with folly and disdain,
Vaunting her pow'r,
Sweet flow'r!

Blue Bell! O! couldst thou but behold
Beside thee where a rival reigns,
All deck'd in robe of glossy gold,
With speckled crown of ruby stains!

189

Couldst thou but see this cowslip gay,
Thou wouldst with envy faint, and say,
Hence from my sight, plebeian vain,
Nor hope, on this my green domain,
For equal pow'r,
Bold flow'r!

Poor rivals! could ye but look round,
On yonder hillock you would see
The Nettle, with its stings to wound,
The Hemlock, fraught with destiny.
On them the sun its morning beam
Pours in as rich, as proud a stream
As on the fairest rose that rears
Its blushing brow 'midst nature's tears,
Chilling its pow'r,
Faint flow'r.

Then why dispute this wide domain,
Since nature knows no partial care,
The nipping blast, the pelting rain,
Both will with equal ruin share.
Then what is vain distinction, say,
But the short blaze of Summer's day?
And what is pomp or beauty's boast?
An empty shadow, seen and lost!
Such is thy pow'r—
Vain flow'r!

190

NEGLECT.

Ah! cold neglect! more chilling far
Than Zembla's blast or Scythia's snow;
Sure born beneath a luckless star
Is he who, after ev'ry pain
Has wrung his bosom's tend'rest vein,
To fill his bitter cup of woe,
Is destin'd thee to know.

The smiles of fame, the pride of truth,
All that can lift the glowing mind,
The noblest energies of youth,
Wit, Valour, Genius, Science, taste!
A form by all that's lovely grac'd,
A soul where virtue dwells enshrin'd,
A prey to thee we find!

191

The spring of life looks fresh and gay,
The flow'rs of fancy bud around,
We think that ev'ry morn is May;
While Hope and rapture fill the breast,
We hold reflection's loss a jest,
Nor own that sorrow's shaft can wound,
Till cold neglect is found.

Ah! then, how sad the world appears,
How false, how idle are the gay!
Morn only breaks to witness tears,
And ev'ning closes but to shew
That darkness mimics human woe,
And life's best dream a summer day
That shines and fades away.

Some dread disease and others' woe!
Some visionary torments see;
Some shrink unpitied love to know,
Some writhe beneath oppression's fangs,
And some with jealous, hopeless pangs;
But whatsoe'er my fate may be,
O! keep neglect from me!

192

E'en after death let Mem'ry's hand,
Directed by the moonlight ray,
Weave o'er my grave a cypress band,
And bind the sod with curious care,
And scatter flow'rets fresh and fair,
And oft the sacred tribute pay,
To keep Neglect away!

193

ODE TO MY BELOVED DAUGHTER,

On her Birth-Day, October 18, 1794.

'Tis not an April-day,
Nor rosy Summer's burning hour,
Nor Ev'ning's sinking ray,
That gilds rich Autumn's yellow bow'r,
Alone, that fades away!
Life is a variegated, tedious span,
A sad and toilsome road, the weary trav'ller, Man!

'Tis not the base alone
That wander through a desert drear,
Where Sorrow's plaintive tone
Calls Echo from her cell to hear
The soul-subduing moan;

194

In haunts where Virtue lives retir'd we see
The agonizing wounds of hopeless Misery!

'Tis not in titles vain,
Or yet in costly trappings rare,
Or Courts where Monarchs reign,
Or Sceptre, Crown, or regal Chair,
To quell the throb of pain;
The balmy hour of rest alone, we find,
Springs from that sacred source, Integrity of Mind!

Pow'r cannot give us health,
Or lengthen out our breathing day!
Nor all the stores of wealth
The sting of conscience chase away!
Time seals each charm by stealth,
And, spite of all that Wisdom can devise,
Still to the vale of Death our dreary pathway lies!

Mark how the Seasons go!
Spring passes by in liveliest green,
Then Summer's trappings glow,
Then Autumn's tawny vest is seen,
Then Winter's locks of snow!
With true Philosophy each change explore,
Read Nature's page divine! and mock the Pedant's lore.

195

Life's race prepar'd to run,
We wake to Youth's exulting glee;
Alas! how soon 'tis done!
We fall, like blossoms from the tree,
Yet ripe, by Reason's sun;
The cherish'd fruit in Winter's gloom shall be
An earnest bright and fair—of Immortality!

Sweet comfort of my days!
While yet in Youth's ecstatic prime,
Illum'd by Virtue's rays,
Thy hand shall snatch from passing Time
A wreath that ne'er decays!
That when cold age shall shrink from worldly cares,
A Crown of conscious Peace may deck thy silver hairs!

We are but busy Ants,
We toil through Summer's vivid glow
To hoard for Winter's wants;
Our brightest prospects fraught with woe,
And thorny all our haunts!
Then let it be the Child of Wisdom's plan,
To make his little hour as cheerful as he can!

196

The Being we adore
Bids all the face of Nature smile!
The wisest can no more
Than view it, and revere the while!
Then let us not explore
Things hidden in the mysteries of Fate;
Man should rely on Heav'n, nor murmur at his state!

Thou art more dear to me
Than sight, or sense, or vital air!
For ev'ry day I see
Presents thee with a mind more fair!
Rich pearl, in life's rude Sea!
Oh! may thy mental graces still impart
The balm that soothes to rest a Mother's trembling heart!

Still may revolving years
Expand the virtues of thy mind!
And may Affliction's tears
Thy peaceful pillow never find;
Nor fruitless hopes—nor fears:
May no keen pangs thy halcyon bow'r invade,
But ev'ry thought be bliss, till thy last hour shall fade!

197

ODE TO WINTER.

Hail! Tyrant of the gloomy season, hail!
I greet thine hoary brow and visage pale:
I greet thy grey and solemn eye,
Thy bosom deathly cold,
Thy breath, that breathes to petrify,
Thy snowy crest, which thick'ning clouds enfold!

Parent of Desolation! numbing pow'r!
Nature first heard thee in the stormy hour;
And, on the bleak hill's shaggy side,
Beheld thee on the howling whirlwind ride:
While, with'ring in the wild blast keen,
Her beauteous progeny were seen,
Woods, meadows, flow'rets gay, and velvet hillocks green.

198

She heard thy voice, both loud and deep,
The loftiest mountains sweep,
Echoing their cavern'd haunts among,
With cadence fiercely strong.
She mark'd thy sable robe, wide spread
Upon the tall cliff's barren head:
Blank solitudes of dazzling snow
Display thy drear domain;
And, in the peopled hamlets of the plain,
Intolerable Despot! shiv'ring Woe
And pale-ey'd Famine mark'd thy pow'r,
Lord of the freezing hour!

Rivers, whose clamour spread around,
'Mid Summer's glow, a pleasing sound;
Moaning, or rippling slow along,
Embroider'd banks among—
Woods, that, nodding o'er the steep,
The misty summits crown,
And, while the ev'ning breezes sleep,
Wave to the setting Sun their branches brown—

The shallow brooks, that, when soft May
Shew'd her flush'd bosom, flow'd so fast,
Now mute in icy fetters stay,
And motionless endure the blast—
All, to thy fierce and desolating sway,
Yield, scowling Despot of the short-liv'd day!

199

Within the cottage, low and mean,
Pale Poverty's chill'd group is seen;
Tho' not far off, across the plain,
The senseless and luxurious train
Of Pomp and Folly revel, gay,
The festive hours away!
The plenteous board, the blazing fire,
The jest and vacant smile;
The cheering cup, the warm attire,
The freezing nights beguile.
Unheard by pleasure's train, the North wind blows,
They sink on beds of down, to sweet and long repose.

O petrifying Pow'r!
They little heed the darkest hour;
For, while with Fortune's favours blest,
With days of luxury and nights of rest,
Pride scarce remembers Mis'ry's shrinking Kind,
Who freeze beneath the cutting wind;
Who on the snowy desert stray,
Or plough the wild and wat'ry way;
Who, doom'd no dawning hour of Hope to see,
Linger thro' length'ning days, or, Tyrant, yield to thee!

200

HORATIAN ODE.

Say, when the captive bosom feels
A magic spell around it wove,
While o'er the cheek the soft blush steals;
Say, is it Love?

With pensive mien and devious pace,
To seek the dark embow'ring grove;
The pale moon's quiv'ring beams to trace;
Say, is it Love?

When, chain'd to one dear lonely spot,
The bosom feels no wish to rove,
All other scenes of bliss forgot;
Say, is it Love?

To tremble, while o'er Fancy's eye
A thousand dreadful visions move;
To hope, to fear, to weep, to sigh;
Say, is it Love?

201

To seek occasions, false and weak,
The darling object to reprove;
To look, what language fails to speak!
Say, is it Love?

To chide for ev'ry trivial crime;
To bid him from your rage remove;
To guide with Hope the wings of Time;
Say, is it Love?

To know no cheerful morn of rest;
No balmy hour of sleep to prove;
To hold Philosophy a jest!
Say, is it Love?

To cherish grief, nor dare complain;
To envy sainted souls above;
While jealous anguish rends the brain;
Say, is it Love?

Long have I, doom'd, alas! to grieve,
Against the fell enchantment strove;
Then, Fate, ah! let me “cease to live,
or cease to love!”

202

ODE FOR THE 18th OF JANUARY, 1794.

The Muse who pours the votive strain,
Weeps o'er each tributary line,
And grieves to know that conscious pain,
Perverts her glorious great design.
Alas! in vain of joys she sings,
While Pity shackles Rapture's wings,
And meek Dejection's trickling tear
Responsive flows to sighs sincere;
While Meditation, fraught with rending woes,
To ev'ry feeling mind a scene of misery shews.

Bleak blows the petrifying gale
Upon the Peasant's rushy roof!
His breast a thousand pangs assail,
As though his heart were tempest-proof!

203

His shiv'ring infants round him mourn,
And cry “Ah! when will spring return?”
“Do all, like us, distress endure!
“So cold, so hungry, and so poor?”
Yet when their day is past stern fate bestows
The balmy hour of rest, which greatness seldom knows.

No more, Reflection, sorrowing maid,
O'er reason cast thy awful veil;
Where mirth, in careless garb array'd,
And smiles, and thoughtless jests prevail.
For shouldst thou trace, with pensive mien,
The fatal agonizing scene
Where legions wade through human gore!
And death shoots swift from shore to shore!
The splendid glare of revelry would fade,
And all its phantoms sink in sorrow's whelming shade.

For fancy might, perchance, descry
The woe which pleasure's tribe ne'er saw,
The bleeding breast! the phrenzied eye!
That chill the soul with fearful awe!
Fancy might paint th' embattled plain,
The shrieking wife, the breathless swain,
The blazing cot, the houseless child,
Driv'n on Misfortune's rugged wild!
And truth might whisper to the pond'ring mind,
“Such is the chequer'd lot of half the human kind!”

204

Ye threat'ning storms malignant, fly!
Cloud not this fair, this festive day;
Burst forth to splendour, low'ring sky,
And flash around a vivid ray.
Swiftly come, whispering zephyrs, chase
The tears that bathe Reflection's face!
Bid mournful Memory cease to gaze
On livelier scenes of peaceful days,
When ev'ry morning breeze, that found our isle,
Awoke her hardy sons to labour and to smile.

Now let the gaudy tribe advance,
Let only present joys be known,
And let blithe beauty's lightning-glance
Dart lustre round Britannia's throne.
Yet, if amidst the dazzling sight
A sparkling tear of liquid light,
Drawn by a sigh from pity's breast,
Should fall, to gem the regal crest!
O! may it shine with Heav'n's approving blaze,
An attribute divine, to mock inferior rays!

Come, soft-ey'd Hope! in spotless vest,
Come, and our brows with olive deck!
Bathe with thy balm the human breast,
And rear new charms on nature's wreck;
Bid drooping Commerce thrive again;
Spread rapture o'er the rustic plain;

205

Wash with the spring from mercy's eye
The blood that bids the laurel die!
And spread once more around this favour'd isle
The fost'ring rays of Peace! and bid fair freedom smile.

206

TO PEACE: FROM THE “SHRINE OF BERTHA,”

A NOVEL, BY MISS ROBINSON.

O Peace! thou nymph of modest mien!
Where, where, dost thou delight to stray?
Dost thou o'er mountains bend thy way,
When ev'ning spreads its shade serene?
Or dost thou fly from scorching light,
To seek the tufted vale?
Or, 'midst the solemn noon of night,
List to the love-lorn minstrel's tale?
Or in the Hermit's solitary cell,
In simple vestment clad, with holy Silence dwell?

207

Fair, first-born, placid child of Jove!
An humble suppliant deign to hear;
If, from thy starry-spangled sphere,
Thou stoop'st o'er mortal scenes to rove;
If ever to the lonely shed
Of agony and grief
Thy slow and timid footsteps tread,
To bring the balm of sure relief;
Oh! quickly come, and through each aching vein
Thy sainted balsam pour, to lull my fev'rish brain.

The vain, the busy world I scorn;
I seek no gaudy scenes of guile,
Where falsehood courts with murd'rous smile,
And pleasure mocks the wretch forlorn:
To unillumin'd caves I'll fly,
Or climb the mountain's crest;
And, hid from ev'ry curious eye,
Steal softly to thy halcyon breast;
Where soothing visions round my form shall move,
And one long tranquil dream my weary senses prove!

Already from my throbbing heart
The killing shaft of anguish flies;
Hope sparkles in my grateful eyes,
And reason blunts affliction's dart!

208

About my waist no myrtle weaves;
No rose adorns my brow;
Nor yet the poppy's numbing leaves;
Nor yet the laurel's pompous bough;
Then, Peace! thy healing olive let me own,
And let me steal thro' life—unenvied and unknown.

209

ODE IN IMITATION OF POPE.

How blest is he who, born to tread
The silent paths of sweet repose,
Finds peace beneath the rural shed,
Which pomp—ne'er knows.

Who roves, with independent mind,
O'er hills, and meads, and flow'ry plains,
That feast on nature's lap to find
Which pride—disdains!

How blest to sing, and talk, and smile,
The busy envious world forgot,
To fear no lurking stings of guile,
In his low cot.

210

When high the matin lark is seen,
With flutt'ring wings and shrilly song,
He saunters o'er the dewy green,
Fearless of wrong.

And when the sultry sun flames high,
He seeks the silent shade or dell,
No fierce banditti lurking nigh,
With murd'rous spell

As ev'ning's crimson shadows fade,
And twilight spreads its mantle grey,
He plods along the upland glade,
Serenely gay!

Then on some pallet clean and low,
He sleeps, nor dreams of ills the while,
And when the eastern mountains glow,
He wakes—to smile.

He shuns the pride of wealth and birth—
No vassal's lord—no tyrant's slave!
His hut, the haunt of modest worth,
The turf—his grave.

211

TO APATHY.

Welcome, thou petrifying pow'r!
Come, fix on me thy vacant eye,
Which never on thy frozen breast
(Insensate throne of torpid rest)
Dropp'd the soft tear of sympathy,
In pity's graceful show'r.—
Whose heart ne'er throbb'd with pleasure or with pain,
Melted with fond regret or glow'd with proud disdain.

Dull Maid! to thee my willing vows I pay,
Thou whom nor fortune nor caprice can change;
With thee I'll waste the undelighted day,
With thee, unmindful of all nature, range:
The sun-deck'd mountain or the murm'ring main,
The bleak hill's summit, winter's frozen plain,
Appear alike, O Apathy! to thee:
Then welcome, numbing pow'r! my idol thou shalt be.

212

Thy poppy wreath shall bind my brows,
Dead'ning the sense of pain;
And while to thee I pay my vows,
A chilling tide shall steal thro' every vein,
Pervade my heart, and ev'ry care beguile,
While my wan cheek shall bear thy ever vapid smile.

Amidst the vast expanse of scene
Which mem'ry traces, still my mind
Shall rest, O Apathy! serene,
Patient, content, resign'd!
When fancy paints the past repose,
Which taught my weary eyes
On luxury's smooth couch to close,
And bad me with the cheerful morn to rise,
No tear shall steal my soft regret to shew,
No sigh shall swell my breast, for ev'ry woe
Shall find its balm—dear Apathy, in thee!
Thou best and potent cure for human misery!

Happy are those who, taught by thee,
Behold with tranquil mind
The changes of their destiny,
The sombre and the rosy hours,
And still with opiate flow'rs
Their icy bosoms bind!
To them, the wreath of friendship torn
Presents no agonizing thorn;

213

Ingratitude its fangs in vain
Upon my heart may bear,
For, dead to ev'ry touch of pain,
Thine adamantine shield is there!
Sustain'd by thee, the breast of stone
Bounds not with sympathetic grace,
Nor stoops the weedy path to trace,
Where mis'ry's children groan!
Pale sickness lifts the languid eye,
To see thee pass unpitying by,
While poverty's gaunt sons, in silent pride,
Steal to some lonely spot obscure,
And, nobly organized, deride
Those ills which patient virtue cannot cure.

When love his tyrant pow'r would prove,
Thou, vapid dreamer, still to thee
My darksome pilgrimage shall be,
Thro' forest drear and unfrequented grove;
Heedless, my footsteps still shall go
O'er flow'ry meads or wilds of snow;
The burning beams of noon shall fall
On my scorch'd breast—unheeded all;
The cold moon, gleaming mild and pale,
Shall o'er the woody mountains sail,
Or quiver on the swelling sea,
Unmark'd by me!

214

For I, by Apathy possess'd,
Shall taste one dream of solitary rest,
One dark unvaried dream—till fate
Shall from this busy wild'ring state
My spell-encircled soul set free—
Ending thy short-liv'd pow'r, congealing Apathy.

215

ODE TO THE SUN-BEAM.

Thou dazzling beam of fervid light!
Thy long and potent reign,
With sultry tyranny and arrow bright,
Now desolates the plain!
The with'ring herbage shrinks from thee;
Thou burn'st with ruthless fire the tree;
The daisied heath is yellow'd o'er—
And dewy fragrance greets the sense no more.

Emblem of worldly joy! I see
Life's grandest scenes epitomiz'd by thee!
Gaudy and pleasing; but awhile;—
And then how sick'ning they appear—
How dark! how drear!
For when the bright hours cease to smile,

216

How lone the midnight gloom steals by!
And, Oh! how chilling is the beamless sky!
So worldly sorrow comes, when splendour fades—
A blank of solitude, a barren waste of shades!

217

BEAUTY's GRAVE.

Unhappy has the traveller been
Who, where the languid flow'rets wave,
The glitt'ring tears of morn has seen
On beauty's grave!

Who, when the scorching hour of day
Its fiercest lustre bade him brave,
Has shudder'd near the icy clay
Of beauty's grave!

Who, when the tempest yell'd afar,
Has heard the sighing zephyrs wave,
As slowly rose the ev'ning star,
On beauty's grave!

Lorn is the wand'rer who beholds
Near the swift brook's unwearied wave,
The grass-green mantle that enfolds
Beauty's low grave!

218

And sad, when twilight's shadows close,
To hear the wild affections rave
Around the bed of still repose,
Pale beauty's grave!

There, while the faint moon rises high,
The Parent mourns, who could not save,
Yet sees his hope, his treasures lie
In beauty's grave!

Yet on that turf the sweetest flow'rs,
With daisies, ruby-ey'd, shall wave,
And Spring shall shed its softest show'rs,
On beauty's grave!

219

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

“Fate snatch'd him early to the pitying sky.”
—POPE.

If Worth, too early to the grave consign'd,
Can claim the pitying tear or touch the mind;
If manly sentiments, unstain'd by art,
Could waken Friendship or delight the heart;
Ill-fated youth! to thee the Muse shall pay
The last sad tribute of a mournful lay;
On thy lone grave shall May's soft dews be shed,
And fairest flow'rets blossom o'er thy head;
The drooping lily, and the snow-drop pale,
Mingling their fragrant leaves, shall there recline,
While Cherubs, hov'ring on th' ethereal gale,
Shall chant a requiem o'er the hallow'd shrine.

220

And if Reflection's piercing eye should scan
The trivial frailties of imperfect Man;
If in thy generous heart those passions dwelt
Which all should own, and all that live have felt;
Yet was thy polish'd mind so pure, so brave,
The young admir'd thee, and the old forgave.
And when stern Fate, with ruthless rancour, press'd
Thy withering graces to her flinty breast,
Bright Justice darted from her bless'd abode,
And bore thy Virtues to the throne of God;
While cold Oblivion, stealing o'er thy mind,
Each youthful folly to the grave consign'd.

O! if thy purer spirit deigns to know
Each thought that passes in this vale of woe,
Accept the incense of a tender tear,
By Pity wafted on a sigh sincere.
And if the weeping Muse a wreath could give
To grace thy tomb and bid thy Virtues live,
Then Wealth should blush the gilded mask to wear,
And Avarice shrink, the victim of Despair;
While Genius, bending o'er thy sable bier,
Should mourn her darling Son with many a tear,
While in her pensive form the world should view
The only Parent that thy sorrows knew.

221

ODE INSCRIBED TO THE INFANT SON OF S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq.

Born Sept. 14, 1800, at Keswick, in Cumberland.

Spirit of Light! whose eye unfolds
The vast expanse of Nature's plan!
And from thy eastern throne beholds
The mazy paths of the lorn traveller—Man!
To thee I sing! Spirit of Light, to thee
Attune the varying strain of wood-wild minstrelsy!

O Pow'r Creative!—but for Thee
Eternal Chaos all things would enfold;
And black as Erebus this system be,
In its ethereal space—benighted—roll'd.
But for thy influence, e'en this day
Would slowly, sadly, pass away;

222

Nor proudly mark the Mother's tear of joy,
The smile seraphic of the baby boy,
The Father's eyes, in fondest transport taught
To beam with tender hope—to speak the enraptur'd thought.

To thee I sing, Spirit of Light! to thee
Attune the strain of wood-wild minstrelsy.
Thou sail'st o'er Skiddaw's heights sublime,
Swift borne upon the wings of joyous time!
The sunny train, with widening sweep,
Rolls blazing down the misty-mantled steep;
And far and wide its rosy ray
Flushes the dewy-silver'd breast of day!
Hope-fost'ring day! which nature bade impart
Heav'n's proudest rapture to the parent's heart.
Day! first ordain'd to see the baby prest
Close to its beauteous mother's throbbing breast;
While instinct, in its laughing eyes, foretold
The mind susceptible—the spirit bold—
The lofty soul—the virtues prompt to trace
The wrongs that haunt mankind o'er life's tem pestuous space.

Romantic mountains! from whose brows sublime
Imagination might to frenzy turn!
Or to the starry worlds in fancy climb,
Scorning this low earth's solitary bourn—

223

Bold Cataracts! on whose headlong tide
The midnight whirlwinds howling ride—
Calm-bosom'd Lakes! that trembling hail
The cold breath of the morning gale;
And on your lucid mirrors wide display,
In colours rich, in dewy lustre gay,
Mountains and woodlands, as the dappled dawn
Flings its soft pearl-drops on the summer lawn;
Or paly moonlight, rising slow,
While o'er the hills the ev'ning zephyrs blow:—
Ye all shall lend your wonders—all combine
To bless the baby boy with harmonies divine.

O baby! when thy unchain'd tongue
Shall, lisping, speak thy fond surprise;
When the rich strain thy father sung,
Shall from thy imitative accents rise;
When thro' thy soul rapt Fancy shall diffuse
The mightier magic of his loftier Muse;
Thy waken'd spirit, wond'ring, shall behold
Thy native mountains, capp'd with streamy gold!
Thy native Lakes, their cloud-topp'd hills among,
O! hills! made sacred by thy parent's song!
Then shall thy soul, legitimate, expand,
And the proud lyre quick throb at thy command!
And Wisdom, ever watchful, o'er thee smile,
His white locks waving to the blast the while;

224

And pensive Reason, pointing to the sky,
Bright as the morning star her clear broad eye,
Unfold the page of Nature's book sublime,
The lore of ev'ry age—the boast of ev'ry clime!

Sweet baby boy! accept a Stranger's song;
An untaught Minstrel joys to sing of thee!
And, all alone, her forest haunts among,
Courts the wild tone of mazy harmony!
A Stranger's song! babe of the mountain wild,
Greets thee as Inspiration's darling child!
O! may the fine-wrought spirit of thy sire
Awake thy soul and breathe upon thy lyre!
And blest, amid thy mountain haunts sublime,
Be all thy days, thy rosy infant days,
And may the never-tiring steps of time
Press lightly on with thee o'er life's disastrous maze.

Ye hills, coeval with the birth of time!
Bleak summits, link'd in chains of rosy light!
O may your wonders many a year invite
Your native son the breezy path to climb;
Where, in majestic pride of solitude,
Silent and grand, the hermit thought shall trace,
Far o'er the wild infinity of space,
The sombre horrors of the waving wood;

225

The misty glen; the river's winding way;
The last deep blush of summer's ling'ring day;
The winter storm, that, roaming unconfin'd,
Sails on the broad wings of the impetuous wind.

O! whether on the breezy height
Where Skiddaw greets the dawn of light,
Ere the rude sons of labour homage pay
To Summer's flaming eye or Winter's banner grey;
Whether Lodore its silver torrent flings—
The mingling wonders of a thousand springs!
Whether smooth Basenthwaite, at Eve's still hour,
Reflects the young moon's crescent pale;
Or meditation seeks her silent bow'r,
Amid the rocks of lonely Borrowdale.
Still may thy name survive, sweet Boy! till Time
Shall bend to Keswic's vale—thy Skiddaw's brow sublime!

226

TO THE POET COLERIDGE.

Rapt in the visionary theme!
Spirit Divine! with thee I'll wander,
Where the blue, wavy, lucid stream,
'Mid forest glooms, shall slow meander!
With thee I'll trace the circling bounds
Of thy new Paradise extended;
And listen to the varying sounds
Of winds, and foamy torrents blended.

Now by the source which lab'ring heaves
The mystic fountain, bubbling, panting,
While Gossamer its net-work weaves,
Adown the blue lawn slanting!

227

I'll mark thy sunny dome, and view
Thy Caves of Ice, thy fields of dew!
Thy ever-blooming mead, whose flow'r
Waves to the cold breath of the moonlight hour!
Or when the day-star, peering bright
On the grey wing of parting night;
While more than vegetating pow'r
Throbs grateful to the burning hour,
As summer's whisper'd sighs unfold
Her million, million buds of gold;
Then will I climb the breezy bounds,
Of thy new paradise extended,
And listen to the distant sounds
Of winds, and foamy torrents blended!

Spirit divine! with thee I'll trace
Imagination's boundless space!
With thee, beneath thy sunny dome,
I'll listen to the minstrel's lay,
Hymning the gradual close of day;
In Caves of Ice enchanted roam,
Where on the glitt'ring entrance plays
The moon's-beam with its silv'ry rays;
Or, when glassy stream,
That thro' the deep dell flows,
Flashes the noon's hot beam;
The noon's hot beam, that midway shows

228

Thy flaming Temple, studded o'er
With all Peruvia's lustrous store!
There will I trace the circling bounds
Of thy new paradise extended!
And listen to the awful sounds,
Of winds, and foamy torrents blended!

And now I'll pause to catch the moan
Of distant breezes, cavern-pent;
Now, ere the twilight tints are flown,
Purpling the landscape, far and wide,
On the dark promontory's side
I'll gather wild flow'rs, dew besprent,
And weave a crown for thee,
Genius of Heav'n-taught poesy!
While, op'ning to my wond'ring eyes,
Thou bidst a new creation rise,
I'll raptur'd trace the circling bounds
Of thy rich paradise extended,
And listen to the varying sounds
Of winds, and foaming torrents blended.

And now, with lofty tones inviting,
Thy nymph, her dulcimer swift smiting,
Shall wake me in ecstatic measures!
Far, far remov'd from mortal pleasures!

229

In cadence rich, in cadence strong,
Proving the wondrous witcheries of song!
I hear her voice! thy sunny dome,
Thy caves of ice, loud repeat,
Vibrations, madd'ning sweet,
Calling the visionary wand'rer home.
She sings of thee, O favour'd child
Of Minstrelsy, sublimely wild!
Of thee, whose soul can feel the tone
Which gives to airy dreams a magic all thy own!

SAPPHO.

230

LINES TO THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.

On receiving a copy of his Odes lately published, from the author.

In this dread era! when the Muse's train
Shrink from the horrors of th' embattled plain;
When all that Grecian elegance could boast,
'Midst the loud thunders of the scene, is lost!
As one vast flame, with force electric hurl'd,
Grasps the rous'd legions of th' enlighten'd world;
The Bard, neglected, droops upon his lyre,
And all the thrills of poesy expire!—
Save where the melting melody of verse
Steals in slow murmurs round the soldier's hearse,
While o'er the rugged sod that shields his clay
Soft pity chants the consecrated lay!
For, ah! no more can Fancy's livelier art
Light the dim eye or animate the heart;

231

Can all the tones that harmony e'er knew
The sigh suppress, the gushing tear subdue!
No charm she owns the bleeding breast to bind,
The breast that palpitates for human kind.
Thus did reflection o'er each wounded sense
Pour the strong tide of reason's eloquence!
As, 'midst the scene of desolating woe,
She mark'd, aghast! the purple torrent's flow!
Man against man opposed, with furious rage,
To blur with kindred gore life's little stage;
While high above the thick'ning legions stood
Dark-brow'd Revenge! bath'd in a nation's blood.

'Twas then persuasive Friendship's soothing pow'r
Bade Fancy greet thee in thy classic bow'r!
There, from the thorny maze of ills retir'd,
I found the Muse! and all the Muse admir'd!
Fair wreaths of amaranth, a boundless store;
Truth's golden page, and wisdom's treasur'd lore;
Description's pencil, dipp'd in rainbow dyes;
And Genius, first-born offspring of the skies,
The harp inspir'd! the ever varying song;
Correct, though wild, and elegant, though strong!

232

There Albion's Muse, in Grecian beauty drest,
At once could awe and vivify the breast;
In mingling cadence tune the sacred yielding wire,
To soothe, instruct, to soften or inspire!

First, the Enthusiast's energy she prov'd,
As o'er the chords her glowing fingers mov'd!
The witching wildness through each fibre stole,
And seiz'd on all the faculties of soul!
Then fierce Ambition smote the wond'ring string,
In strains that bid the azure concave ring;
The deaf'ning crash awoke the nations round,
And millions trembled at the mighty sound!

Next, o'er the wond'ring throng impetuous War,
The lord of slaughter, roll'd his brazen car!
A flaming brand the red-eyed monster held,
And waved it high in air, and madly yell'd!
While Horror, bath'd in agonizing dew,
Before his rattling wheels distracted flew;
Down his gaunt breast fast stream'd the scalding tear,
And now he groan'd aloud, now shrunk with fear;
His humid front was crown'd with bristling hair,
His glance was frenzy, and his voice, despair!

233

Then follow'd Beauty, in whose beaming eye
Sat sainted Truth, coeval with the sky!
Her song dispens'd ecstatic pleasure round,
The soft lyre throbbing to the dulcet sound!
Then elfin tribes in mazy groups advanc'd,
Flaunted their gaudy trim, and nimbly danc'd!
Tun'd their shrill voices to the tinkling string,
Or lit with glow-worm's eyes the grassy ring;
With wanton glee their moonlight gambols kept,
And dealt the witching spell where mortals slept.

Such is the pow'r of Fancy! such the skill
That forms her varying shadows to the will!
To crown her altar, which old time has chose
Where silver Cam in silent grandeur flows;
And many a turret, many a lofty spire,
Marks where pindaric Gray attun'd his lyre!
Still shall enamour'd Genius haunt the shrine,
The Muses' triumph, and their smiles—be thine.

Yet think not, Bard inspir'd! that o'er the wreath
Thy hand has form'd no poison'd blast shall breathe;
Tho' blossoms fair in mingling colours vie,
Bright, but not transient, as the rainbow's die!

234

Envy will penetrate thy halcyon bow'r,
And crush with hurried step each rising flow'r;
Or tasteless rage, with voice infuriate, wild,
Bid malice triumph where the graces smil'd.

For oft, where high the tree of Genius springs,
The pale fiend hovers with her mildew wings;
Shades the rich foliage from the fost'ring ray,
And marks each leaf for premature decay;
Dims the warm glow that decorates the fruit,
And strikes her lightning-glances to the root;
Strips the rent fragments of each latent bloom,
Nor leaves one branch to deck the POET'S tomb!

Such is the fate of Genius! yet when art
So sweet as thine can elevate the heart;
Though Envy's eye, or hate's remorseless rage,
May strive to dim the philosophic page;
Tho' war's hot breath may blast the wreath of fame;
Immortal time shall consecrate thy name.

235

TO THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.

The Nightingale with mourning lay,
Amid the twilight's purpling glow,
May sweetly hymn the loss of day,
While echo chants her melting woe;
But what can soothe the wounded breast,
And ev'ry aching sense beguile—
Ah! what can charm the soul to rest,
Like Devon's voice or Devon's smile?

The modest orb, with trembling light,
Beams thro' the soft and fresh'ning show'r,
And, stealing o'er the realm of night,
Gives lustre to the silent hour;
But what can cheer the fainting heart,
When gloomy horror frowns severe—
Ah! what can sympathy impart,
Like Devon's sigh or Devon's tear?

236

Tho' nature's proudest will combin'd
To give her form unequall'd grace;
And though the feelings of her mind
With fine expression mark her face;
Yet as the Casket charms the view
But till the treasur'd gem is seen,
Her mind demands the tribute due,
Which else her beauty's claim had been.

If there be magic in her tear,
And if her smile can bliss impart,
Her sigh is still to feeling dear,
And well her voice can soothe the heart;
Then where shall wond'ring fancy dwell,
Nor own exclusive pow'r the while;
O! say which holds the strongest spell,
Her voice, her sigh, her tear, or smile?

237

LINES INSCRIBED TO P. DE LOUTHERBOURG, Esq. R. A.

On seeing his Views in Switzerland, &c. &c.

Where on the bosom of the foamy Rhine
In curling waves the rapid waters shine;
Where tow'ring cliffs in awful grandeur rise,
And 'midst the blue expanse embrace the skies;
The wond'ring eye beholds yon craggy height,
Ting'd with the glow of Evening's fading light,
Where the fierce cataract, swelling o'er its bound,
Bursts from its source and dares the depth profound.
On ev'ry side the headlong currents flow,
Scatt'ring their foam like silv'ry sands below:

238

From hill to hill responsive echoes sound,
Loud torrents roar, and dashing waves rebound;
Th' opposing rock the azure stream divides,
The white froth tumbling down its sparry sides;
From fall to fall the glitt'ring channels flow,
Till, lost, they mingle in the lake below.
Tremendous spot! amid thy views sublime,
The mental sight ethereal realms may climb,
With wonder rapt the mighty work explore,
Confess th' Eternal's pow'r! and pensively adore.

All-varying Nature! oft the outstretch'd eye
Marks o'er the Welkin's brow the meteor fly;
Marks where the Comet with impetuous force
O'er Heaven's wide concave skims its fiery course:
While on the Alpine steep thin vapours rise,
Float on the blast—or freeze amidst the skies;
Or, half congeal'd, in flaky fragments glide
Along the gelid mountain's breezy side;
Or, mingling with the waste of yielding snow,
From the vast height in various currents flow.

Now pale-ey'd Morning, at thy soft command,
O'er the rich landscape spreads her dewy hand;
Swift o'er the plain the lucid rivers fly,
Imperfect mirrors of the dappled sky:
On the fring'd margin of the dimpling tide,
Each od'rous bud, by Flora's pencil dy'd,

239

Expands its velvet leaves of lustrous hue,
Bath'd in the essence of celestial dew;
While from the Meteor to the simplest Flow'r,
Prolific Nature! we behold thy pow'r!
Yet has mysterious Heaven with care consign'd
Thy noblest triumphs to the human mind;
Man feels the proud pre-eminence impart
Intrepid firmness to his swelling heart:
Creation's lord! where'er he bends his way,
The torch of Reason spreads its godlike ray.

As o'er Sicilian sands the Trav'ller roves,
Feeds on its fruits and shelters in its groves,
Sudden amidst the calm retreat he hears
The pealing thunders in the distant spheres;
He sees the curling fumes from Etna rise,
Shade the green vale and blacken all the skies:
Around his head the forked lightnings glare,
The vivid streams illume the stagnant air;
The nodding hills hang low'ring o'er the deep,
The howling winds the clust'ring vineyards sweep;
The cavern'd rocks terrific tremors rend,
Low to the earth the tawny forests bend;
While He, an Atom in the direful scene,
Views the wild Chaos, wond'ring and serene;
Tho' at his feet sulphureous rivers roll,
No touch of terror shakes his conscious soul;

240

His Mind, enlighten'd by Promethean rays,
Expanding, glows with intellectual blaze!

Such scenes long since th' immortal Poet charm'd,
His Muse enraptur'd and his Fancy warm'd:
From them he learnt with magic eye t' explore
The dire Arcanum of the Stygian shore!
Where the departed spirit, trembling, hurl'd
“With restless violence round the pendent world,”
On the swift wings of whistling whirlwinds flung,
Plung'd in the wave or on the mountain hung.

While o'er yon cliff the ling'ring fires of day
In ruby shadows faintly glide away,
The glassy source that feeds the Cataract's stream
Bears the last image of the solar beam;
Wide o'er the landscape nature's tints disclose
The softest picture of sublime repose;
The sober beauties of Eve's hour serene,
The scatter'd village, now but dimly seen;
The neighb'ring rock, whose flinty brow, inclin'd,
Shields the clay cottage from the northern wind:
The variegated woodlands scarce we view,
The distant mountains ting'd with purple hue;

241

Pale twilight flings her mantle o'er the skies,
From the still lake the misty vapours rise;
Cold show'rs, descending on the western breeze,
Sprinkle with lucid drops the bending trees,
Whose spreading branches, o'er the glade reclin'd,
Wave their dank leaves and murmur to the wind.

Such scenes, O Loutherbourg, thy pencil fir'd,
Warm'd thy great mind, and every touch inspir'd:
Beneath thy hand the varying colours glow,
Vast mountains rise, and crystal rivers flow:
Thy wondrous Genius owns no pedant rule,
Nature's thy guide, and Nature's works thy school:
Pursue her steps, each rival's art defy,
For while she charms thy Name shall never die.

242

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF GARRICK.

Dear Shade of Him who grac'd the mimic scene,
And charm'd attention with resistless pow'r!
Whose wondrous art, whose fascinating mien,
Gave glowing rapture to the short-liv'd hour!

Accept the mournful verse, the ling'ring sigh,
The tear that faithful Mem'ry stays to shed;
The sacred Tear, that from Reflection's eye
Drops on the ashes of the sainted dead.

Lov'd by the grave and courted by the young,
In social comforts eminently blest;
All hearts rever'd the precepts of thy tongue,
And Envy's self thy eloquence confess'd.

243

Who could like thee the soul's wild tumults paint,
Or wake the torpid ear with lenient art?
Touch the nice sense with pity's dulcet plaint,
Or soothe the sorrows of the breaking heart?

Who can forget thy penetrating eye,
The sweet bewitching smile, th' empassion'd look?
The clear deep whisper, the persuasive sigh,
The feeling tear that Nature's language spoke?

Rich in each treasure bounteous Heaven could lend,
For private worth distinguish'd and approv'd—
The pride of Wisdom—Virtue's darling friend—
By Mansfield honour'd, and by Camden lov'd.

The courtier's cringe, the flatt'rer's abject smile,
The subtle arts of well-dissembled praise,
Thy soul abhorr'd;—above the gloss of guile,
Truth led thy steps, and Friendship crown'd thy days.

Oft in thy Hampton's dark embow'ring shade
The Poet's hand shall sweep the trembling string;
While the proud tribute to thy mem'ry paid
The voice of Genius on the gale shall fling.

244

Yes, Sheridan! thy soft melodious verse
Still vibrates on a nation's polish'd ear;
Fondly it hover'd o'er the sable hearse,
Hush'd the loud plaint, and triumph'd in a tear.

In life united by congenial minds,
Dear to the Muse, to sacred friendship true;
Around her darling's urn a wreath she binds,
A deathless wreath—immortaliz'd by you!

Dear to a nation, grateful to thy muse,
That nation's tears upon thy grave shall flow,
For who the gentle tribute can refuse
Which thy fine feeling gave to fancied woe?

Thou who, by many an anxious toilsome hour,
Reap'd the bright harvest of luxuriant Fame,
Who snatch'd from dark oblivion's barb'rous pow'r
The radiant glories of a Shakspeare's name!

Remembrance oft shall paint the mournful scene
Where the slow fun'ral spread its length'ning gloom,
Where the deep murmur and dejected mien
In artless sorrow linger'd round thy tomb.

And tho' no laurel'd bust or labour'd line
Shall bid the passing stranger stay to weep,

245

Thy Shakspeare's hand shall point the hallow'd shrine,
And Britain's genius with thy ashes sleep.

Then rest in peace, O ever sacred shade!
Your kindred souls exulting Fame shall join;
And the same wreath thy hand for Shakspeare made,
Gemm'd with her tears, about thy grave shall twine.

246

MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF CHATTERTON.

Chill penury repress'd his noble rage,
And froze the genial current of his soul.
—Gray.

If Grief can deprecate the wrath of Heaven,
Or human frailty hope to be forgiven!
Ere now thy sainted spirit bends its way
To the bland regions of celestial day;
Ere now, thy soul, immers'd in purest air,
Smiles at the triumphs of supreme Despair;
Or, bath'd in seas of endless bliss, disdains
The vengeful memory of mortal pains;
Yet shall the Muse a fond memorial give,
To shield thy name, and bid thy Genius live.

247

Too proud for pity and too poor for praise,
No voice to cherish and no hand to raise;
Torn, stung, and sated, with this “mortal coil,”
This weary, anxious scene of fruitless toil;
Not all the graces that to youth belong,
Nor all the energies of sacred song;
Nor all that Fancy, all that Genius gave,
Could snatch thy wounded spirit from the grave.

Hard was thy lot, from every comfort torn;
In Poverty's cold arms condemn'd to mourn;
To live by mental toil, e'en when the brain
Could scarce its trembling faculties sustain;
To mark the dreary minutes slowly creep,
Each day to labour and each night to weep;
Till the last murmur of thy frantic soul
In proud concealment from its mansion stole,
While Envy, springing from her lurid cave,
Snatch'd the young Laurels from thy rugged grave.
So the pale primrose, sweetest bud of May,
Scarce wakes to beauty ere it feels decay;
While baleful weeds their hidden poisons pour,
Choke the green sod and wither every flow'r.

Immur'd in shades, from busy scenes remov'd,
No sound to solace—but the verse he lov'd;
No soothing numbers harmoniz'd his ear;
No feeling bosom gave his griefs a tear;

248

Obscurely born—no gen'rous friend he found
To lead his trembling steps o'er classic ground;
No patron fill'd his heart with flatt'ring hope,
No tutor'd lesson gave his genius scope;
Yet, while poetic ardour nerv'd each thought,
And Reason sanction'd what Ambition taught,
He soar'd beyond the narrow spells that bind
The slow perceptions of the vulgar mind;
The fire once kindled by the breath of Fame,
Her restless pinions fann'd the glitt'ring flame;
Warm'd by its rays, he thought each vision just;
For conscious Virtue seldom feels distrust.

Frail are the charms delusive Fancy shows,
And short the bliss her fickle smile bestows;
Yet the bright prospect pleas'd his dazzled view,
Each Hope seem'd ripen'd, and each Phantom true;
Fill'd with delight, his unsuspecting mind
Weigh'd not the grov'lling treach'ries of mankind;
For while a niggard boon his wants supplied,
And Nature's claims subdu'd the voice of Pride,
His timid talents own'd a borrow'd name,
And gain'd by Fiction what was due to Fame.

With secret labour, and with taste refin'd,
This son of mis'ry form'd his infant mind!

249

When op'ning Reason's earliest scenes began,
The dawn of childhood mark'd the future man!
He scorn'd the puerile sports of vulgar boys,
His little heart aspir'd to nobler joys;
Creative Fancy wing'd his few short hours,
While soothing Hope adorn'd his path with flow'rs;
Yet Fame's recording hand no trophy gave,
Save the sad Tear—to decorate his grave.

Yet in this dark, mysterious scene of woe,
Conviction's flame shall shed a radiant glow;
His infant Muse shall bind with nerves of fire
The sacrilegious hand that stabs its sire.
Methinks I hear his wand'ring shade complain,
While mournful Echo lingers on the strain;
Thro' the lone aisle his restless spirit calls,
His phantom glides along the minster's walls;
Where many an hour his devious footsteps trod,
Ere Fate resign'd him to his pitying God.

Yet shall the Muse, to gentlest sorrow prone,
Adopt his cause, and make his griefs her own;
Ne'er shall her Chatterton's neglected name
Fade in inglorious dreams of doubtful fame.

250

Shall he whose pen immortal Genius gave
Sleep unlamented in an unknown grave?
No—the fond Muse shall spurn the base neglect,
The verse she cherish'd she shall still protect.

And if unpitied pangs the mind can move,
Or graceful numbers warm the heart to love;
If the fine raptures of poetic fire
Delight to vibrate on the trembling lyre;
If sorrow claims the kind embalming tear,
Or worth oppress'd excites a pang sincere—
Some kindred soul shall pour the song sublime,
And with the cypress bough the laurel twine,
Whose weeping leaves the wint'ry blast shall wave
In mournful murmurs o'er thy unbless'd grave.

And though no lofty Vase or sculptur'd Bust
Bends o'er the sod that hides thy sacred dust;
Tho' no long line of ancestry betrays
The pride of relatives, or pomp of praise;
Tho' o'er thy name a blushing nation rears
Oblivion's wing—to hide Reflection's tears!
Still shall thy verse in dazzling lustre live,
And claim a brighter wreath than Wealth can give.

251

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF WERTER.

[_]

Written in Germany, in the year 1786.

With female Fairies will thy tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.
Shakespeare.

When from day's closing eye the lucid tears
Fall lightly on the bending lily's head;
When o'er the blushing sky night's curtains spread,
And the tall mountain's summit scarce appears;
When languid evening, sinking to repose,
Her filmy mantle o'er the landscape throws;
Of Thee I'll sing; and as the mournful song
Glides in slow numbers the dark woods among,

252

My wand'ring steps shall seek the lonely shade
Where all thy virtues, all thy griefs are laid!

Yes, hopeless suff'rer, friendless and forlorn,
Sweet victim of love's pow'r! the silent tear
Shall oft at twilight's close and glimm'ring morn
Gem the pale primrose that adorns thy bier;
And as the balmy dew ascends to heaven,
Thy crime shall steal away, thy frailty be forgiv'n.

Oft by the moon's wan beam the love-lorn maid,
Led by soft Sympathy, shall stroll along;
Oft shall she listen in the Lime-tree's shade,
Her cold blood freezing at the night-owl's song;
Or, when she hears the death-bell's solemn sound,
Her light steps echoing o'er the hollow ground,
Oft shall the trickling tear adorn her cheek,
Thy pow'r, O Sensibility! in magic charms to speak!

For the poor Pilgrim, doom'd afar to roam
From the dear comforts of his native home,
A glitt'ring star puts forth a silv'ry ray,
Soothes his sad heart, and marks his tedious way;

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The short-liv'd radiance cheers the gloom of night,
And decks Heav'n's murky dome with transitory light.

So from the mournful Charlotte's dark-orb'd lids
The sainted tear of pitying Virtue flows;
And, the last boon the “churlish priest” forbids,
On thy lone grave the sacred drop bestows;
There shall the sparkling dews of evening shine,
And Heav'n's own incense consecrate the Shrine.

University of Virginia Library

ODES.

ODE TO THE MUSE.