University of Virginia Library

LANDSCAPES IN VERSE.

Ah me! with what a leaden pace the hours
Lag on, retarding with their cumbrous wings,
When first divided from the nymph we love!
Yet fleeter than the trackless lightning's flame,
Speed the quick minutes when we court their stay;
And ere th'impassion'd vow, at morning seal'd
On fair Cleone's lip, can be enshrin'd
Upon my heart, Love's faithful register,
The warning watch-bell from yon jealous tower,
Tolls out the parting knell. But now, alas!
Ah! that his pinion faster than the light
Could post to our next meeting!—Surly Time
Across his shoulder hangs the vacant scythe
Upon his idle crutch suspended leans,
And with the lingering step of stooping age
Lengthens each flagging moment to a year!
Come then, ye Muses, sorrow-soothing Maids,
Ye who can pencil high the future joy!
Come, with Imagination's pregnant store
Of young ideas, tender-tinted flowers
Of fragrance heavenly sweet, and hue divine,
Come, with soft Consolation:—O, descend,
And bring along, companion ever-lov'd
Fancy—the brightest of th'ætherial host,
She, who in visionary robes of light,
Sky-woven, and of texture exquisite,
Finer than threaded sun-beams—know'st to dress
Anew, that parted bliss, which in the urn
Of yesterday was clos'd; she who revives
What Time has torn away; who can restore
The dead,—the buried—such is transport lost:—
Blessed enchantress! who by Mem'ry's aid
Canst bid the raptures of the past arise,
Unblemish'd from the tomb, in all their charms.
Fancy, attend! for thou, magician fair,
The angel form of her my soul adores,
Canst place before my eyes. And soft: methinks,
Led on by thee, I have her in my view;
Lo! there her gracious image! we trace back,
By thee assisted, O seraphic guide!
Each hallow'd step to recollection dear:
And tho' the space of many a gloomy league
Cruel divides me from her gentle hand,
Benignant Thou hast lock'd it fast in mine,
And bids it give me back the thrilling touch
That speaks a kind return; or lays it soft
Upon the breast which scarcely holds the heart,
That in sweet tumult trembles at the pressure.
And now, again, by thy celestial power
We taste together morning's balmy gale,
And dash the early dew-drop from the thorn;
We mark the maiden verdure of the spring
Just bursting from the buds—her violets cull
Where blue they bloom in fair humility—
Emblems of virgin grace and modest worth—
The loveliest tenants of the lowliest hedge
Yet sweeter than the proudest flower, that grows,
Child of ambition, on the mountain's top.
Now slow along the blossom'd dale we go
Wooing sequester'd Silence, where she sits
Embow'r'd with shrubs (impervious to the ken
Of eyes which keep their worship for the world)
Refuge of tender hearts, who still must fear
(So delicately white th'unsullied gloss
Of innocence in love and faith engag'd)
To “spot its snowy mantle, ” should it mix
With the mad multitude, where passions fell,
And strangers to their bosom, enter wild,
Like Sin and Death in Paradise, to jar
On the soft music of according souls!
Together now we climb th'aspiring brow
Of yonder tow'ring cliff, where zephyrs bland
Come fresh from heav'n to greet us:—there arriv'd,
Ev'n at the skyey summit, far from men
And near the breath of Gods, we rest awhile;—
Ah! pause to memory precious; grac'd, perchance,
With ev'ry fond endearment honest Love
Dare ask, or innocent Affection give:—
The joy of admiration undisturb'd;—
The ardent gaze of fondness o'er the face
That blooms a thousand graces on the look,
As deep attention draws the varying blush;—
The thrilling glance, that in the trembling heart
Stirs the deep sigh, and pierces ev'ry sense
With aching rapture Love alone can feel;—
The touch which holiest Innocence allows,
A touch, tho' lighter than the gossamer,
Or the thin down that from the thistle flies
When summer zephyrs sport, can shake the frame
More than the hurricane the bending reed;—
The faultering accent;—Passion's lavish praise,
Ah! gracious Flattery!—Silence too, that pleads
Beyond what Tully spoke—an eloquence
Unborrow'd of the tongue, which every heart
In love interprets, feels conviction strong,
That language never yet (tho' breath'd from lips
Where Science dwelt, and Harmony her seat
Had fix'd, to win and to inform the ear)
Could boast—the silent Eloquence of Love.
Again he paus'd: again renew'd the song.
But soft! methinks we now delighted trace
The varied beauties of the vale below,
Where art and nature rival wonders give,
Each prodigal of objects meet to lure
The roving eye, which travels o'er the whole.
Lo! Fancy now is seated on the hill,
To etch the vernal landscape, as it spreads
In one unbounded prospect from the bower
And neighb'ring fount, sacred to Love sincere:
Ev'n there, methinks, we now together stand
At radiant morn, charm'd with these varied views:
The dwindled city half conceal'd in smoke:—
Mortals diminish'd,—to the blush of pride—
Hurrying like busy emmets thro' the street:—
The cultur'd gardens glittering in the dew:—
The scarce-distinguish'd husbandman, who bends
To dress the grateful soil:—The quiet sheep
Which on th'adjacent mountain seem to hang
Their fleeces on its sides:—The dusky car,
The intersecting roads, whose whit'ning gleam
Contrast the verdure of the smiling meads:—
The river, like a serpent, twining fair
In many a lucid labyrinth, glowing now
With Morn's reflected beam, now sombrous made
By darkling shadows as they flit along
Swifter than gliding spectres:—The small cots,
Abodes of wholesome labour—where we see
How few, how cheap, and easily supply'd
The real wants of man:—The pillar'd domes,
Abodes of wealth and grandeur—which display
Necessities that nature never form'd:—
A gorgeous waste of proud magnificence!—
And last we note the intermixing fanes,
Abodes of rapt devotion—which the sun,
As conscious of their sanctity, invests
With orient light, that like a glory plays
Upon the holy spire, and sainted tower!
Next, Fancy wanders with us down the slope,
In variegated blooms and verdure rich,
To yonder path, that in the bottom lies,
Which clad in tenderest green, scarce shews the print
Of Love's light step, beneath whose pressure smooth
Springs many a flower, which in life's beaten road
Refuse to grow, or shed their modest sweets
Too fragrant for the world.—No sounds are here
But low of heifer, bleat of lambkin mild,
Matin of warbling bird, or lapse of rill,
Whose scarce-heard murmur, like the tender plaint
Of some fond youth just parted from his nymph,
Wailing a moment's absence, sighs so soft
'Tis tearful pleasure. Now we view the stile,
A simple branch of maple plac'd aslant,
Rustic and unadorn'd; near which the May-bush waves
Its virgin blossoms, while beneath its shade
Wild flow'rs, in love with water, faintly lend
Their scanty essence, bathed in the brook
Which, by the foot-stone, trickles to the verge
Of the fair river, who with easy flow
Glides silent on, and oft, in passing, greets
His aged willows, that in waiting seem
To bow their bare and venerable heads
Along his tufted banks. Ah! spot serene!
Here by the various charm of nature bound,
Each object stealing swift into the heart,
By potent Truth impell'd, by Fancy fir'd,
Soften'd by Love, by all in union met,
That fills the eye with Passion's blissful tear,
The breast with transport, and the soul with joys,
Which few of this bad world, alas! shall feel,
Cleone tries her pencil, sketching fair
The Paradise she shares:—The landscape lives
Beneath her magic touch:—And lo! the glen
Skirting the lucid stream, where flow'ring shrubs,
The hawthorn hedge, and many an orchard tree,
Whose antique trunks, with mossy coats are wrapt,
While from their arms, irregular and old,
Bursts the young blossom, like the ruddy bloom
That temperance fixes in the wholesome cheek
Of blameless age:—Soft peers, thro' foliage deep,
The russet dwelling of an antient pair,
Who thrice ten smiling years, beneath its roof,
(Blush gay and great ones of a jarring world!)
Have led a virtuous life of wedded Love!
In days of nuptial dissonance and strife,
This pattern, rare and high, Cleone views,
And plucking soft the unadorned latch,
Enters the cot, where love with nature reigns
Far from the city artifice:—the pair
We find, with all their progeny around,
In goodly rows assembled at the board
Of buxom health, who spreads the light repast,
Which hospitality, (such as of yore
Our Antient Britons, lov'd, ere courtier pomp
The once wide opening door insidious clos'd)
With importunings sweet, invites to share.
Their offer'd boon accepted, we survey
Silvan Simplicity her graces lend
To clear Content, who in the herdsman's hut
(Which scorns the gilding of felicity)
Resides with real Happiness a friend,
Ev'n as an Houshold Goddess, ever near
With gentle hand, to bless this couple blythe,
To pour the spirit of the freshest gale
Upon the modest rose that humbly blows
Around their dwelling small:—from the clean spring
That lends its little tide, the purest stream
To draw, for use or pleasure:—o'er the couch
To shed the sweetest sleep from night till morn,
Light as the silent dews that fall in both.
And now we listen to the honest tale
Of cottage fondness, and of cottage faith
Told by the matron, while the shepherd swain
(Instructed well to read the secret heart)
Traces with skill, even to its rosy source,
The crimson flush that paints Cleone's cheek,
As, by the scene subdued, I seem more close
To fold her tender form:—This counsel kind
Distill'd at length like honey from his lip:
“Yes, youth and maiden, I can see your hearts
“Twine round each other like your circling arms:—
“Behold! in us, a pair grown old together,
“Our morning tender, and our evening true;
“Then live and love, as we have lov'd and liv'd;—
“Go with our mutual blessing on your heads;
“And when in richer domes, ye see pale Care
“Lift her proud crest to cheat the gaping croud
“With specious shews of rapture, seldom found
“In palace or in hut—then softly say,
“As many a year remote when we are laid
“Beneath the verdant turf, ye hither come,
“Here dwelt the Couple of the Cot;—here oft
“We sat us down in courtship's blooming hour,
“And swore, if Hymen e'er should join our hands,
“To live as faithful, and to love as long.”
All these, and yet a thousand more, of power
To charm the fond enthusiast, Fancy lends:—
And now again she bears us on her wings,
Glossy with dyes, more vivid than the hues
Which in the rainbow vary, to fresh scenes.
Under her guidance, soon, secure we reach,
Ah! sweet remembrance! yonder breezy down
Stretch'd like a lawn, full many a verdant rood
Of velvet sod compos'd;—hard by a grove
Of all-enduring firs, their ample rows
Extend in fair array;—thither we speed,
There woo the umbrage, whose immortal leaves
Outlive the wintry blast;—along the grass
Unsunn'd, of darkest green, and hung with dew
That chills the length'ning glade, pensive we go,
Pensive, yet pleas'd; for gentle Love attends
Our pilgrim steps: and where Love deigns to lead,
Smooth is the rock, and midnight darkness smiles.
At length upon a seat of mossy stone
Resting, we listen to the whisper'd gale
That sighs amongst the trees;—lo! now it plays
On my Cleone's cheek, or sportive hides
In her luxuriant tresses, meriting
Th'ætherial visitant;—and hark! we hear
Another guest assorted to the scene,
The widow'd Turtle mourns amongst the boughs,
That echo to her sobs; and from the vale
The village bell with melancholy sound
Rings out the knell of death:—at every pause
The dismal tone admits, my throbbing heart
Suggests to Fancy's startled ear, the hour,
When she who is now seated by my side
(On the due motion of whose wholesome pulse
My being hangs) shall wake a note like this!
O as I turn affrighted thought this way,
Horror its icy tear upon my cheek
Congeals; I draw the object of my griefs
More near my breast, on which the last cold drop
Of my Cleone's life appears to fall,
And the soft orbs, which now their gentle beams
Lambent with love, dart on my inmost soul
The light of tenderness, shall shine no more.
Alas! the blood that feeds my mourning heart
Seems wrested from its course:—Strange shudders seize
My lab'ring frame, and in her fate, my own
Glooms in dark characters upon my brow:
Cleone feels the change;—and in her eye,
Of unaffected sympathy the shrine,
Where nature's genuine incense sweetly flows
In scorn of art—her imitation vile—
Springs the soft tear that hurries to her lip,
On which it hangs like dew-drops on the rose.
I'll kiss it off.
“O frail mortality!
“Thy flowrets bloom about the human heart
“Like slender blossoms on the slightest stem
“Which Flora's breath may wound! ev'n as the leaf
“Of aspin young, that shivers in the gale
“With which Aurora plays, when first she sheds,
“At earliest tinge of aromatic dawn,
“Fresh gather'd fragrance over earth and heav'n!
“Oh! of what silken texture hast thou wove
“Man's proudest hopes! to which, the waving film
“Whose light web floats across the glowing mead,
“The radiant net-work of a summer day,
“Is as a massive chain, compact and strong!
“O frail! O weak! O poor Mortality!”
Ev'n in this self-same spot, (by memory hung
With deepest glooms)—this melancholy spot—
Now many a variegated year elaps'd,
On autumn's verge and at the evening hour,
Such were the accents bursting on my ear,
As from a void—for no apparent form
Th'astonish'd eye that search'd the scene around
Could trace—“O frail mortality!”
The breeze resum'd, in repetition strong,
Distinct and aweful—“Frail mortality!”
Re-echo'd thro' the hollow of the grove,
That grove, of late so redolent of bliss,
Whisp'ring the voice of love.—At length I saw,
From the surrounding foliage rushing forth
Into the darkest path, a sable form
In mourning garments—his disorder'd locks
Half veil'd his visage—vehement and loud,
Temperate and sad, by turns, he wept, or rav'd;
Ev'n as some ghost had burst th'unquiet vault
Haunting the murderer. Oft he quicker strode,
Spurning the ground; and as he swept along
Would rend th'opposing branches—lash the air
With the torn boughs, then throw them as in scorn
Upon the sounding earth—then raise his arms—
Then clench his hands in horror; till his grief,
Like some vast bed of waters, fathomless,
Flow'd silent, in the depths of agony
For clamour too profound:—'Twas dumb despair.
Anon the passing bell with sullen tone
Knoll'd thro' the firs:—the falling shades of night
Began to thicken round:—the swelling winds
Bore the dead notes upon their viewless wings
Piercing the man of sorrow, who aghast
Broke short his step, and, as by light'ning smote,
Stood fix'd, with palms uplifted:—with soft voice
I spake—he heard not—with a gentle step
I cross'd his path—his eyes were bent on heav'n:—
He saw me not—his vision was above!—
And next appear'd, winding th'eventful avenue,
Nearest the church-way, a sepulchral train
Amidst the torches light; which to the view
Disclos'd a coffin, whose deep-folded pall
Six weeping damsels held, while six sad youths
Beneath, in sable robes, their burthen bent,
Noting the funeral of some gentle maid,
Like the sweet snow-drop, earliest child of spring,
By the first gale, untimely swept away.
The man of sorrow saw, and shudd'ring fell.
Ev'n at the bare foot of yon aged tree,
The wither'd monument that marks the scene.
The stranger lay, cold as the corpse he mourn'd,
That corpse so lov'd, so honour'd, so deplor'd!
But O! if thou canst pity, hear the tale:
If thou canst love, give to th'historic muse
Thy list'ning soul, while she in anguish paints
Thy changeful day—“O frail mortality!”
In Fanny's form, the graces of her heart
Were painted fair: her beauty and her worth,
Each of excelling kind, were all her dow'r:
To fortune born, and not of humble birth.
Birth, fortune, and the summer friends they bring,
The fools they buy, or flatteries they bribe,
By the strong arm of sharp adversity
That on her father press'd, were all destroy'd:
A narrow cottage, and an ample soul,
That would a palace fill with generous deeds,
Were now her sire's possessions—save a wife,
Choice of his youth, and honour of his age,
That grac'd his silver hair—save this fair maid,
Pledge of their mutual faith, their mutual joy;
Who like a precious gem, from ocean sav'd,
Amidst the general wreck, with virtuous hand
Lin'd the parental couch with filial down
More white, more soft, than what the cygnet drops
Upon the summer stream. In hope's fair May,
While yet the prospect smil'd, Agenor lov'd,
And spoke his welcome flame:—the blooming youth
Was by the blooming maid belov'd again:—
But when he saw the smiling prospect low'r,
And Fanny's golden hopes upon the wing
Of the dark tempest toss'd in desert air,
Shrunk he away?—Say, dost thou think he flew
Fast as that drenching storm, like the vile slave
Whose soul for ever grovels in the dross
That stains the mine?—O no! he lov'd the more:
And as the chilling gale began to blow,
The clouds to gather, and the rain to pour,
He drew her nearer to his shelt'ring breast,
And spread more wide the refuge of his arms.
Who ever purchas'd love, by aught but love?
Blush, bankrupt gold, at what is ev'n beyond
Thy giant grasp:—He woo'd her gentle heart,
He woo'd and won it:—By their parents bless'd,
Bless'd in themselves, and in their love too bless'd,—
Unspotted love,—they wait the festal hour,
That festal hour all redolent with bliss,
For which young Fancy twines her fairest wreathe.
It comes, it comes! its odorous plumes prepare
To spread abroad—for on the morrow's dawn,
(Which soon shall see a blushing rival bloom
In Fanny's cheek) all things were fix'd to wed.
Ah interval of every soft excess
The human heart can prove! suspence divine!
Fill'd with each ardent hope and roseate fear,
Where Pleasure meets her antient foe, meets Pain,
With such unwonted smiles upon his brow,
His temples bound with sweet-briar, to denote
As well the fragrant leaf as pointed thorn,
(Emblem of wedded bliss and misery)
Pleasure herself the mystic garland takes,
And grants a truce, and is in league with Pain:
So soft the sigh, so sweet the tear he brings,
When virgin Innocence by manly Truth
Is led to Hymen's altar. And ah! see,
Behold! the meek eve, that foreruns that morn:
“Yet, yet awhile, a few thin shades between,
“And thou art mine for ever;” cried the youth.
Meanwhile th'approving sire and aged dame
Bestir themselves, with all a parent's zeal,
To deck the bridals, and to dress the bower,
Fit to receive whom Eden might admit,
Where Raphael, with the first betrothed pair
Was wont to sit in blissful Paradise
Commission'd from above. The redd'ning west
Announc'd the setting sun, and mellower tints
Painted the firmament: Sirius all day
His flaming car had driven along the sky
With kindling rage. But now the Breeze of eve,
From her cool grotto, ventur'd forth to dip
Her feathers in the rill, and in the air
To take her twilight circuit: as she shook
Her humid pinions, nature felt restor'd
Thro' all her works; for valley, hill, and stream,
Bird, beast, and man, the balmy essence hail'd!
Season of universal calm! all breath'd
Ambrosia.—Ah! what an hour for love—
Now almost wedded love—to steal unseen
From all eyes but their own!—Such sweets to taste,
Walk'd forth Agenor and his destin'd bride.
Now tell their happiness, ye blessed few
Who e'er have felt true passion, felt your hearts
Beat quick with transport at the coming dawn,
Ev'n as ye seem to reach the dearest point
Of all your Fancy ever imag'd fair:—
O tell the extacy which now they shar'd,
Beneath the lustre of the rising moon,
Arm wreath'd in arm, and soul to soul conjoin'd!
But who, alas! may trust the coming dawn?
Or, for the joys which Fancy paints so fair,
Rely upon to-morrow? Who could yet
Chain up the tempest? Who, when not a breeze
Disturbs the azure surface of the main,
Can say, To-morrow shall be calm?—Ah me!
The goodly hopes of earth, and air, and seas,
Are on the mercy of a moment flung;
And often—when their prospects shine most bright,
And the believing heart their promises
Like nectar quaffs, eager as drinks the lark
The sun's first ray, whlle moist with morning dew—
The sweeping whirlwind is most near:—It comes,
(Tears up the cherish'd flower we fondly nurs'd
Ev'n in our bosoms, where we saw it bloom
With Hope's soft tears bedewing it) it comes,
And all is dust:—“O frail humanity!”
Lur'd by the song of Philomel, who pour'd
Into their souls her solitary chaunt,
(Which seem'd to mourn some dear Agenor lost)
The lovers wander'd long, and sighing drank
Each sorrowing plaint; but as the cadence clos'd,
Homeward they wended; yet whene'er the lay,
Responsive to the murm'ring of the stream
That flow'd beside, renew'd the tuneful woe,
As if by spell attracted tow'rds the spot,
They linger'd on the brink—when swift the clouds
Resum'd the sultry power—a dead'ning heat
Without a sound, and night without a star,
Its raven vest and raven omens spread;
Trembling the breeze, trembling the moon withdrew:
Big, burning drops, where clashing elements,
Water and fire, (as if incorporate)
Appear'd to blend—the storm's fierce ministers,
Wild, savage winds, fell lightnings, and the powers
Of rolling thunder, their dire pastime took
In the astonish'd air.—Of nature's works
Tremendous, these, to Fanny's gentle soul
The most—her soul tho' innocent and pure
As skies without a cloud—from the dread shock
Of sulphurous combustion she shrunk appall'd.
Loud rav'd the hurricane: the first keen flash,
Shuddering she saw descend in spiral flame,
Then mount and settle on Agenor's breast,
Which like a comet stream'd:—a second came,
And 'thwart his visage shot a livid glare
Corse-like and horrible to human view.
“Have mercy, heav'n,” she cried:—“he dies!—he dies!”
Then shriek'd and ran—ran whither? darkness wrapt
The troubled pool, save when at intervals,
The lightning blaz'd—Agenor mad'ning call'd
Th'affrighted fugitive, but call'd in vain,
For soon a plunge in the contiguous stream
(That stream so placid late, where zephyr bath'd)
Was heard, and next a piteous voice that plain'd
For instant aid:—that instant aid to give,
Agenor dash'd into th'accursed brook,
With piercing tone exclaiming—“God of earth,
“Of waters, and of heav'n! O help to save
“This drowning lilly!”—Then with eager stretch
That shook the pool he swam, uttering more loud
“I come, my soul, I come! O hither turn—
“This faithful bosom be thy plank to shore,
“These arms extended to their utmost verge—
“Yet ah! they reach thee not—thy safeguard sure!”
Mysterious Providence! a different way
Poor Fanny floated!—but at length, with voice
Like dying martyr's sweet, she faintly cried,
“Where art thou, love? alas! thy Fanny dies,
“But dies Agenor's—on his bosom then,
“In his dear arms, O let me breathe my last!”
Directed by the sound, the youth now sprung
Swifter than light can travel thro' the flood;
Her shivering form—in agony of grief,
Mix'd with faint hope, he caught, he felt the heart
Beat in those faithful arms—those faithful arms
Held, as he reach'd the bank, his Fanny's corpse!
Then while he kiss'd the cold clay o'er and o'er,
Wild hurrying to the cot—raving, he cried,
“O that this vital warmth into thy frame
“Could be infus'd, my Fanny—that this air
“Which feeds my hated life could thine restore—
“Ah! as I breathe into thy pale, pale lip,
“Re-animated Being—dead! quite dead!”—
Prone on the earth, ev'n with her lovely corpse
In his embrace, he fell—then starting rose
And hasted onward.—Frantic, to the hut
He bore his watry burthen—on the bed—
(By a fond matron's hands so late prepar'd
To fold a virtuous pair—with flow'rets gay,
May blooms, and all the incense of the spring,
Cull'd by a father's hand) frantic, he laid
This lovelier flower than ever Eden grew,
Or Paradise could boast—frantic, he clung
Around the breathless body of the maid,
In death as life ador'd—and frantic still,
Alas! he lives—if life it may be call'd,
From fair society shut out—the pride
Of man's supremacy shook from its seat,
Yet memory left to tremble o'er the past:—
If this be life, he lives; in yonder dome
Thou may'st behold the ruins of Agenor,
Ruins that ask no fetter, clank no chain:
His rage is fled—sad Melancholy's power
Has made his breast her mansion—there she broods
And rears her gloomy throne—and mixes sighs,
And mingles tears, and blends her groans with his.
While Melancholy seems, alas! to love
Whom thus she grieves: but he, poor luckless youth,
Soften'd by suffering, finds a charm in woe;
And oft he calls upon his Fanny lost,
And oft in mystic characters he carves
Her fancied image on the walls around;
Then tells how blest he is, if chance he shapes
From straw-made pillow, or from rushy couch,
Some gift or garland that may speak his love.
Hail to the happier parents!—they are laid
In their pure graves, beside their angel child:
And seest thou not, that He whom late we left,
At the dread sound of Fanny's passing bell,
At the dread view of Fanny's coffin'd pall,
Sunk on the bare foot of yon aged tree,
Was poor Agenor's self, who phrenzied fled
Ere Fanny for her last home from the cot
Was mov'd along the firs, where first began
Our tender tale:—O frail mortalily!
Yet from our tender tale this moral glean:—
Ah learn! even in the bosom of delight,
To take each proffer'd good with pious awe:
Should fair Felicity inviting hold
Her nectar'd cup full flowing to thy lip,
Let not pale Fear reject the smiling boon,
Lest evils may ensue—but should they come,
Should Hope's gay sun which suckles every flower
In life's mix'd garden, his bless'd beams withdraw,
(Even as the blossoms promise golden fruit)
O think on Fanny's and Agenor's life;
By their try'd faith and goodness shape thine own;
Then, tho' like theirs, thy death be terrible,
As dark upon thy startled soul it strike,
Here thou mayst suffer:—but there is no heaven,
( And that there is, earth, skies, and deeps, declare)
There is no God, if goodness such as theirs
Meet not eternal recompence above.
Cleone sooth'd, and Fancy still a friend,
Young Theodorus thus pursued his lay:—
Fir-grove farewell!—for homeward now we bend
Our matin step, along the down-hill path
That steals into the town: We view the wall,
Along whose top the deathless laurel shews
Its glossy foliage, sacred to the lyre.
With verdure old o'ergrown we note the gate
Of Gothic arching, mantled in the moss,
With clinging ivy crown'd, and many a shrub
That, spurning culture, vegetates on stone,
Mineral or spar, or bloom-forbidding rock!
Sturdy companions of the barren waste,
That artless blossom where the tender flower,
Helpless and delicate, would fade and die:
Like the soft nursling lillies of the world,
That ask the mildest soil, the gentlest breeze,
The fondest care, and wither in the storm,
Which hardier plants, accustom'd to the wild
And season'd to the elements of life,
Would brave. Lo! in perspective fair,
Contrasting yonder poplars' vivid rows,
Where well-arrang'd the vista shines complete,
The clust'ring yew-trees wave the funeral branch
Of never-changing green;—while ancient oaks,
Forefathers of the shade, their patriarch arms
Stretch 'thwart the dell, where many a fathom down
Glooms the still lake, across whose surface dun,
Haunted by pensive water-fowl alone,
The sable moor-hen housing in the sedge,
Or querulous sparrow of the humid reeds)
Slopes the sad willow, weeping as she dips,
In the dark stream her melancholy boughs.
Amidst this varied scenery we sit
A world within ourselves—till forc'd at last
To seek the city, the fair landscape fades
Till morning blooms:—Such, Fancy, are thy gifts;
Thus thou redeem'st remembrance of the past,
At once delicious, dreadful, sadly dear,
Commixture strong of agony and joy,
Transcendent both, and cherish'd both by love,
Whose very griefs are precious:—Take then, take
Thy vot'ry's thanks, pour'd from the fervid heart,
And in the desolate hour of absence dear,
Be ever present, and be ever kind!
Nor deem, ye Maids Pierian, that I slight
Your gentle visitations:—ye who oft,
In the drear hour of dark adversity
Have help'd my trembling hands to tune the lyre,
And chear'd my pensive spirit with your strains,
Sweet as the sounds, and dulcet as the voice
Of melting love—Ye whose ætherial harps,
Tun'd to the music of your native spheres,
Oft, when the passions blew their loudest storm,
And keen afflictions roll'd their blackest wave,
Have wak'd Compassion's pang-relieving tones,
Honied as voice of cherubim, and smoothe
As the dove's plumage—ev'n the Dove of Peace;
Upon whose downy breast, the troubled soul,
Lull'd by thy magic song, forgets its rage,
Feels it griefs hush'd, and sinks subdu'd to rest.
Hail! holy Nine! ye progeny of heav'n!
Daughters of Light and Love! fair as the orb
That opes the soul of day,—whose orient beam,
With tuneful inspiration fraught, ye quaff,
O ever throbbing to your touch divine,
Which paints the vest of Spring with brighter hues,
Her lily's cup in purer white arrays,
Tinges with tenderer pale her cowslip's bell;
And on her rose-buds fresher vermeil throws,
Beats my fond heart!—'Tis ye, who round the sun,
The sun your parent—bind with filial care,
A zone more radiant, and from ye the moon
Borrows a mellower tint, the air a balm
More soft, ocean a greener robe, and earth—
Thro' all her rich domain of wood and stream,
Cloud-piercing mountain, and exuberant vale,
Fantastic water-fall, and vaulted cave,
The glowing powers that gem her central mines,
And ev'ry flow'r which on her surface blooms—
To ye owe grace and beauty—Chief your sway
Th'obedient Passions feel:—Humanity,
Thro' all her wond'rous mazes, to the Muse
Heaps tribute large and holy, catching, charm'd,
Lofty enthusiasm from her raptur'd lyre.
Rous'd by the spirit, breathing in her shell,
Forth from the panting heart, her votive train
With incense to her beauteous shrine advance;
Ambition, as he rushes up the steeps
Of tow'ring life, in pride of youthful days,
To win the warrior, or the patriot wreath,
Midway in his career suspends his step,
List'ning the note that swells to honest praise,
Then onward presses to the sunny brow,
Where Fame awaits to crown him:—Mad Revenge,
Aw'd by the threat'ning lyre, awakes from dreams,
Where his vex'd spirit thro' the troublous night
Had toss'd thro' seas of blood, while Murder drew
In vision dire th'assassin's reeking blade—
Soul-soften'd, see he drops the instrument,
And weeps upon the breast he meant to stain:—
Ev'n Jealousy, that maniac of the mind,
His pale lip quiv'ring to his dark intents,—
Intents which mark for death the maid he loves,—
(Haply for glance misdeem'd, or dubious word,
Tortur'd to sense perfidious) should thy voice,
Like to th'Almighty fiat, bid the storm
Forbear to rage;—O should thou touch the chord,
And thro' thy melting lute bid Pity breathe
Her softest music of forgiving love—
The furious youth like one entranced stands,
Till streams of tenderest anguish o'er his cheek,
Like gentle showers upon the with'ring shrub
Smote by the torrid beams of sultry noon,
Begin to flow, till lily'd Constancy
(That flower of Paradise while bless'd) adorns
The idol of his heart—and soon he flies
With fond repentance to her faithful arms.
Fir'd by th'ætherial Muse, young Genius soars
An eagle flight to crop thy own-lov'd plant,
Where, foster'd midst the regions of the sun,
And water'd by the consecrated stream,
It grows to crown the favor'd bard, who wins
Thy partial smile—O universal power,
'Tis thine to gild pale Poverty's chill hut,
Smooth the dark brow that glooms on wan disease,
Thine is the tear of woe, the smile of joy,
Of social life thine ev'ry gracious charm;
Untutor'd Nature, midst her savage wilds,
Carols with artless note thy wond'rous praise;
In friendship's sacred bower, and in the path
Of rosy love, thy flow'rets sweet diffuse
Immortal fragrance, and immortal bloom.
Descend then, O inhabitants of heav'n,
In all the colours of the glowing morn,
When May with fragrance fills the vernal gale!
And soft—in robes of variegated light,
Where blended tints of azure and of gold,
With many a silver clouding, forms a couch
In yonder sky, I see the train Parnassean,
With each the symbol of her magic sway,
(Still Fancy grac'd and Honour as their chief)
Sit in assemblage fair—Lo! now they spread
Their burnish'd pinions, by the air upborn;
And hark! what music from their vocal shell,
Floats on the downy bosom of the breeze:
Here ended they their chaunt—here Fancy too
Rode on the parting sun-beam: for the moon
On her blue throne began with crescent ray
To shine, and raptur'd Theodorus now
Saw his Cleone speeding to his arms.
Thus in the absence of his plumy love,
Tender of heart, the Turtle tunes his voice
To plainings gentle, and the interval
Soothes with a soft consolatory song,
While on the tow'ring tree's supremest bough
Waving he sits to ken his wand'ring mate:
But, lo! at length she cuts the blue profound
With wing precipitate and fond, while all
The glowing purple of her glossy neck
Sun-burnish'd glitters in the beam of day,
Then glad he gives his plumage to the breeze,
And springs along to welcome her return.