Poems, chiefly pastoral :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the full prospect yonder hill commands,
O'er barren heaths, and cultivated plains;
The vestige of an ancient abbey stands,
Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains.

II

Half buried, there, lie many a broken bust,
And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time;
And many a cherub, there, descends in dust
From the rent roof, and portico sublime.

III

The rivulets, oft frighted at the sound
Of fragments, tumbling from the tow'rs on high,
Plunge to their source in secret caves profound,
Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry.

IV

Where rev'rend shrines in gothic grandeur stood,
The nettle, or the noxious night-shade spreads;
And ashlings, wafted from the neighb'ring wood,
Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.

V

There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,
Her attitude compos'd, and aspect sweet!
Sits musing on a monumental stone,
And points to the Memento at her feet.

VI

Soon as sage ev'ning check'd day's sunny pride,
I left the mantling shade in moral mood;
And seated by the maid's sequester'd side,
Sigh'd, as the mould'ring monuments I view'd.

VII

Inexorably calm, with silent pace
Here Time has pass'd—What ruin marks his way!
This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,
Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.

VIII

Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes
In vain; and Melody her song sublime:
In vain, Philosophy, with maxims wise,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.

IX

Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not mov'd to spare,
Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;
And partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tott'ring tow'rs with twisted ivy ty'd.

X

How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss,
That terminates the view, yon cloister'd way!
In the crush'd wall, a time-corroded cross,
Religion like, stands mould'ring in decay!

XI

Where the mild sun, thro' saint-encypher'd glass,
Illum'd with mellow light yon dusky isle,
Many rapt hours might Meditation pass,
Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the pile!

XII

And Piety, with mystic-meaning beads,
Bowing to saints on every side inurn'd,
Trod oft the solitary path that leads
Where now the sacred altar lies o'erturn'd!

XIII

Thro' the grey grove, between those with'ring trees,
'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears
A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,
Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears:

XIV

Low levell'd in the dust her darling's laid!
Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom;
Nor could maternal piety dissuade,
Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

XV

The relics of a mitred saint may rest,
Where, mould'ring in the niche, his statue stands;
Now nameless as the croud that kiss'd his vest,
And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

XVI

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illustrious Chieftain lie;
As trac'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.

XVII

Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain,
His rights and rich demesnes extended wide!
That honour and her knights compos'd his train,
And chivalry stood marshal'd by his side!

XVIII

Tho' to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb,
And frown'd defiance on the desperate foe;
Tho' deem'd invincible, the conqueror, Time,
Level'd the fabric, as the founder, low.

XIX

Where the light lyre gave many a soft'ning sound,
Ravens and rooks, the birds of discord, dwell;
And where Society sat sweetly crown'd,
Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.

XX

The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,
Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room,
Where the sage matron and her maidens sat,
Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom.

XXI

The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste;
And the rude winds incessant seem to roar,
Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac'd,
Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.

XXII

His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide
To pure canals, a chrystal cool supply!
In the deep dust their barren beauties hide:
Time's thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them dry!

XXIII

Tho' his rich hours in revelry were spent,
With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew;
And the sweet brow of beauty still unbent,
Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew:

XXIV

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;
Not to be stay'd by masque or midnight roar!
Nor shall a pulse among that mould'ring dust
Beat wanton at the smiles of Beauty more!

XXV

Can the deep statesman, skill'd in great design,
Protract, but for a day, precarious breath?
Or the tun'd follower of the sacred Nine
Sooth, with his melody, insatiate death!

XXVI

No—Tho' the palace bar her golden gate,
Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around;
Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!

XXVII

What then avails Ambition's wide stretch'd wing,
The Schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty's bloom!
The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-rob'd king,
Level'd, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb.

XXVIII

The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,
Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began,
Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,
“Philip! remember, thou'rt no more than man.

XXIX

“Tho' glory spread thy name from pole to pole:
“Tho' thou art merciful, and brave, and just;
“Philip, reflect, thou'rt posting to the goal,
“Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!”

XXX

So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd,
(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdu'd)
Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd, when the perishable pomp he view'd:

XXXI

And as he rode, high in his regal car,
In all the purple pride of conquest drest;
Conspicuous, o'er the trophies gain'd in war,
Plac'd, pendent on a spear, his burial vest:

XXXII

While thus the herald cry'd—“This son of pow'r,
“This Saladin, to whom the nations bow'd,
“May, in the space of one revolving hour,
“Boast of no other spoil but yonder shroud!”

XXXIII

Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'd,
Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran;
And say, while memory weeps the blood-stain'd field,
Where lies the chief, and where the common man?

XXXIV

Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones,
And monumental trophies rais'd on high!
For Time confounds them with the crumbling bones,
That mix'd in hasty graves unnotic'd lie.

XXXV

Rests not beneath the turf the peasant's head,
Soft as the lord's, beneath the labour'd tomb?
Or sleeps one colder, in his close clay bed,
Than t'other in the wide vault's dreary womb?

XXXVI

Hither, let Luxury lead her loose-rob'd train;
Here flutter Pride, on purple-painted wings:
And from the moral prospect learn—how vain
The wish, that sighs for sublunary things!