 | Ode to the harp of the late accomplished and amiable Louisa Hanway |  |
3
ODE TO THE HARP OF LOUISA.
If aught could sooth to peace the wounded breast,
And round its throbbing pulses twine:
If aught could charm Despair to rest,
Sweet Harp! the wondrous power 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.
And round its throbbing pulses twine:
If aught could charm Despair to rest,
Sweet Harp! the wondrous power 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,
That as the Western breezes sweep,
Soft murmuring o'er the troubled deep,
Could calm Affliction's tempest rude,
'Till every thought was bliss, and every pang subdu'd.
While yet the tear bedews my cheek,
Let the fond Muse thy graces speak,
Thy thrilling chords, thy silver tone,
That as the Western breezes sweep,
Soft murmuring o'er the troubled deep,
Could calm Affliction's tempest rude,
'Till every thought was bliss, and every pang subdu'd.
Now let the Muse a wreathe prepare,
A mournful wreathe, 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 flower;
No more thy charms confess'd
Shall, with their sweetness, decorate my bower;
For vain, soft Emblem, is thy glowing pride,
Since on Louisa's cheek the blush of Beauty died.
A mournful wreathe, alas! to bind
Thy strings forlorn;
4
But where shall I a blossom find
Like her I mourn?
Where seek a Rose with native colours drest?
Ah! beauteous flower;
No more thy charms confess'd
Shall, with their sweetness, decorate my bower;
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,
O, let me decorate Thy bier,
With many a spotless flower;
The Cypress bath'd with Pity's tear,
Shall consecrated incense shower!
There shall the budding Laurel bloom,
The Myrtle too, shall grace Thy tomb,
For Genius own'd thy attributes divine;
And Beauty, short-liv'd boast, sweet Maid, was Thine!
To worlds unknown,
O, let me decorate Thy bier,
With many a spotless flower;
The Cypress bath'd with Pity's tear,
Shall consecrated incense shower!
There shall the budding Laurel bloom,
The Myrtle too, shall grace Thy tomb,
For Genius own'd thy attributes divine;
And Beauty, short-liv'd boast, sweet Maid, was Thine!
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,
Too weak the conflict to endure.
Time saw Thee, lovely, sweet, and pure,
In all thy wondrous charms array'd,
Shrink from the withering storm, and meekly fade!
When o'er the world black Midnight steals,
And every 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!
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,
Too weak the conflict to endure.
Time saw Thee, lovely, sweet, and pure,
In all thy wondrous charms array'd,
Shrink from the withering storm, and meekly fade!
5
And every 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!
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 vibrations round the shrine shall die,
To emulate on earth the Minstrels of the sky!
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 vibrations 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!
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 extatic pleasure,
Thrilling strains awoke the breast;
If thy beauteous Mistress smiled,
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 heavenly pity fraught,
Would die away in magic tone,
Sweet as the Ringdove'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!
Melting woe thy chords express'd;
Oft to blithe extatic pleasure,
Thrilling strains awoke the breast;
If thy beauteous Mistress smiled,
How thy glitt'ring strings would glow!
While in transports brightly wild,
Mingling melodies would flow!
6
The Song with heavenly pity fraught,
Would die away in magic tone,
Sweet as the Ringdove'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, envied Harp! no praise was thine;
'Twas by Louisa's power alone,
Thy meek, melodious, melting tone,
Could round the captive senses twine;
'Twas her's, rebellious passions to controul,
While every touch proclaim'd the peerless Minstrel's Soul!
'Twas by Louisa's power alone,
Thy meek, melodious, melting tone,
Could round the captive senses twine;
'Twas her's, rebellious passions to controul,
While every touch proclaim'd 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.
The wonder of a transient day;
Nor could it snatch from cold decay,
The beauteous hand that gave it birth.
Sweet blooming flower!
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!
But who shall dare repine;
Who blame Omnipotence divine!
The fine Ethereal Soul,
Sprang from its prison clay impatient of controul.
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!
7
Who blame Omnipotence divine!
The fine Ethereal Soul,
Sprang from its prison clay impatient of controul.
For in this stormy world,
Perchance by many a tempest hurl'd,
The gentle spirit had endured,
Ills, that only Death had cured!
Or liv'd, no ray of bliss to see,
A Mine of treasure, in a troubled Sea!
Perchance by many a tempest hurl'd,
The gentle spirit had endured,
Ills, that only Death had cured!
Or liv'd, no ray of bliss to see,
A Mine of treasure, in a troubled Sea!
Yet memory, watchful of her fame,
Shall guard it with a sacred zeal;
And oft in mournful accents 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 vivid flame,
And where she could not praise—She scorn'd to blame.
Shall guard it with a sacred zeal;
And oft in mournful accents 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 vivid 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 the 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!
Attention hung, enamour'd o'er the 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!
Lull'd by the sound,
E'en Madness could forget to weep,
And bound in galling chains serenely sleep,
On the bare ground!
From the Celestial Song would Anger fly;
While Envy, sick'ning with Despair,
Though born the keenest pangs to bear,
Would with her shaggy hair o'er-shade her scowling eye.
E'en Madness could forget to weep,
And bound in galling chains serenely sleep,
On the bare ground!
8
While Envy, sick'ning with Despair,
Though born the keenest pangs to bear,
Would with her shaggy hair o'er-shade her scowling eye.
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 Sainted Maid who made thy strains divine!
The deathless Wreath of Fame should fondly twine;
'Tis not for Thee, th'admiring Muse shall sing,
But for the Sainted Maid who made thy strains divine!
Then rest, in torpid silence, rest;
Mute be thy chords, and mute the Muse's Song,
Louisa joins an heavenly throng;
And chaunts the Pæans of the blest!
There, far remov'd from mortal woe.
Amidst the cherub Choir, her strains immortal flow!
Mute be thy chords, and mute the Muse's Song,
Louisa joins an heavenly throng;
And chaunts the Pæans of the blest!
There, far remov'd from mortal woe.
Amidst the cherub Choir, her strains immortal flow!
St. James's-Place, Jan. 1, 1793.
| Ode to the harp of the late accomplished and amiable Louisa Hanway | |