University of Virginia Library

THE FALL OF THE LEAF:

AN EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO JOHN HENRY WILMOT, ESQ.

I.

Come, ere we quit our Paradise!—The world,
And fickle Fortune,—cruel as they are,—
Will not deny us that. In cities long
We sojourn'd and we wander'd; travell'd oft;
Saw men in various attitudes; and mark'd
How ill they keep their promises; how well
They smile, shake hands, swear friendship, and betray!
With various orders have we mix'd—
From prince to peasant:—from th' aspiring man,
Who earns a scanty pittance at a bust,
Which shall in after-times adorn his name,
To him, who, rising from the dregs of life,
Has roll'd in chariot to a Chancellor's.
What have we seen in this extended range?
Nothing to charm us from the secret shade!
Then come, I charge;—attend my anxious call.
Life is uncertain; and the joys of life
Still more precarious: I am happy now:
And, therefore, soon shall fall into the net
Ill-fortune spreads for all.—I charge thee, come!
For woe is often an attendant on
Soft hours, sweet smiles—the solace of the soul.

II.

Summer is gone, and Autumn soon will fill
Her lap capacious.—Clear, unspotted skies
Have tinged the forest with a yellow'd green;
And the hoarse torrent now resounds with wild,
But not unpleasing music. At our board
Nothing that savours of magnificence;
Nothing that brings disorder to the frame;
Nothing to rend soft slumber from our eyes,
Can tempt thee ever from the golden rule
Of wise Pythagoras. Sometimes in the bower
Julia shall spread, with cheerfulness and smiles,
Honey and cream, cool sallads, and the fruits,
That grow perfectious on our verdant shores.
No wines of Burgundy our cellar yields;
Sparkling champaign; nor claret, from the vines
Purpling the banks of Garonne; nor the juice
Of rich Constantia from the sultry Cape,
Found at the tables of the rich and great,
Or those luxurious at another's cost.
But brown October, and Pomona's juice,
Famed on the banks of Severn and the Wye.

III.

Ours is no mansion hid with antique oaks,
And hung with tap'stry, by our mothers wove,
Telling the history of the Holy Wars,
Or knights achievements in the tented field.
—'Tis a plain cottage—in a garden set;
Humble, yet graceful, on the mossy banks
Of winding Towy; near the circling bay,
That stretches wide, begirt with rocks, that throw
Their evening shadows o'er the azure deep.
Claude would have linger'd on the fairy scene,
And felt transported to Ausonian land!

IV.

Such is our cottage; such our humble fare!
Come, then; forsake the melancholy town,
Deform'd with smoke, which in dark masses hang,
Bronzing the splendour of meridian suns.
Come! quit the bar, port-folio, and the code;
Accept the welcome of a long-tried friend;
And, in the silence of his nest, consent
To pass the season of the Yellow Leaf.
None shall disturb you!—Sometimes in the mead
That lies below, we'll saunter out the day;
Listening with silent and attentive ear
To all the inconveniences we've suffer'd,
Since last we met, by accident, beneath
The fretted aisle of Gloucester's sacred fane.
Then will we loiter in the garden; mark
The fading honours of anemones,
Asters, auriculas, and Guernsey lilies,
Roses, carnations, and chrysanthemums.

V.

Then we will pay a visit to the herd,
That graze near yonder castle's ruin'd walls,
Listless how strong the rushing tide comes in.
Listless and senseless!—like the human herd,
Dead to the charms of Nature; though alive
To all the stronger passions of the heart.
Electric oft where reason should command;
And cool and temperate when to feel were virtue.

VI.

The morning lower'd; yet azure skies succeed;
Mantled with volumes of suspending gold,
Known in these rich, cerulean isles alone.
Come! let us fill our wallets: then with line,
Arm'd with two hooks, and bearing on our backs
The rod and basket, to the neighbouring stream
We'll saunter; listen to the bubbling noise,
That tells how fleet the winding waters are:
And then, descending from the meadow's side,
We'll creep beneath yon arching boughs, that shade
The babbling stream; where, fishing for a while,
Soon we will lose all memory of our line
In the sweet page of Walton, or the spells
Of frantic Comus, and the Faerie Queene.

VII.

Rosetta's environs abound in palms;
Persia's made musical by nightingales;
But here no scion of the palm tree grows,
Nor copse resounds with Philomela's note!
Yet there are charms upon yon mountain's top.
Come;—let us journey up its rugged sides;
And with yon shepherd our companion, eye
The vast Atlantic gem the purple west.
There, 'neath the rocks impending, we will sit;
Careless what factions rule the giddy world!
Careless alike, if — or the Czar
Sits on the zenith of blind Fortune's wheel.
Enough for us, tranquillity bestows
Her balm divine;---enough for us, that we,
Far from the tumults of the groveling throng,
Can draw a moral from a thistle's beard,
A moss-grown fountain, or a falling leaf.

VIII.

To be contented with an humble lot
Is the best wisdom, that the mind can shew.
Give me a cottage on some towering cliff,
'Neath which the billows in wild fury rage;
And if fair Julia and my faithful friend
Adorn its hearth—why—let the tempest rage,
And Fame and Fortune travel where they will.
Beneath yon cliffs thou might'st with joy recount
The many studious journies of thy youth;
Once more enjoy the vineyards of the Loire,
The olived glens of Italy, and vales,
The fragrant vales,—of proud, romantic Spain.

IX.

Then by the spring or fountain we would sit,
All fring'd with moss; and in their bubbles read
The fate of heroes, who with rapture stride,
Lawless and rude—abhorring and abhorr'd—
From realm to realm, to find themselves a grave.
Oh! could'st thou look into a tyrant's heart,
Thou'd see a thousand signs of stripes and stabs,
Engrain'd in bloody characters. A tyrant?
I would not pay his penalty of state,
For all this pen could number in a year!

X.

Behold yon rough and solitary scene!
No cot, no herd, no flocks, nor bounding goat
Adorn its sylvan solitude;—yet there
Insects wing winding circles in the air;
And verdant blood meanders through the veins
Of leaves and flowers; which revel in the thought
That tyrant footsteps seldom travel there.
Come,—let us pay due honour to the thought!
There we may take a transitory view
Of men, whose fame rings loudly in the world:
Search for their wishes; penetrate their hearts;
And judge their motives rather than their deeds.
And when fatigued, (as soon our minds may be,)
Then will we reason on the times gone by;
Number the streams in which our limbs have bathed,
Or the peak'd summits that our feet have climb'd.
Then we will muse on sculptures we have seen
Then on the paintings of Albani; Claude,—
His evening and his morning; the Cartoons
Of graceful Raphael; Rosa's midnight sketch
Or on St. Peter and the Martyrdom,
—Magical works of Titian's heavenly hand!

XI.

XII.

But mark—the rainbow hangs from hill to hill,
Arching the vale that stretches wide below;
Forming one vast, magnificent cascade.
Emblem of rank, of glory, and of fame,
It strikes the eye, and glitters for a time,
And then is lost for ever and for ever!
Now the gray clouds in fiery ramparts rise;
Now like wide rivers rolling in the sky;
And now like abbeys, castles, domes and towers,
Rock, glens, and mountains—visions of the air!
Visions like those a heart, well fashion'd, sees,
When in the outlines of a smiling face
It reads a vow, and thinks the heart sincere!

XIII.

Sometimes at noon's meridian we may see
The weary woodman slumbering in the shade;
While o'er his head the turtle mourns her mate,
Dropping soft tears upon the fading leaf,
That soon will fall upon her feather'd grave.
Then may we mark the mild and graceful swan,
Emblem of mildness and of majesty!
In silent state, with high o'er-arching neck,
And Ethiop beak, upon her snowy breast
Down the smooth current with her young she floats;
And proud of rank, and conscious of her power
Upon her native element, unheeds
The kite, the falcon, or the royal bird,
Sailing in air, or bending o'er the stream,
Down which, in conscious pride, she guides her feather'd young.
So may the man of independent mind,
Resting on motives, scorn the stubborn frown
Of untaught pride, or ill-directed power.

XIV.

Then we will visit old Aristo's home,
Rear'd in a meadow near the public way.
None ever went discouraged from his door!
Soon as he sees a stranger at his gate
The good old farmer quits his fragrant porch,
And down the pathway of his garden steals:
Then to his servants gives the cheerful call.—
They hear;—they heap the blazing fire anew;
Place on the table bread, and cheese, and milk,
And home-brew'd ale, and wholesome gooseberry wine.
Then near the corner of the fire they place
The cheerful pipe. Aristo at the gate
With open'd hand invites the traveller in.
The weary traveller, blushing and obliged,
Scrapes his soil'd shoes; and bending with delight
Follows his host, admiring as he goes:
Enters the porch—respects the well-wash'd floor—
Accepts the chair. Aristo lifts the jug;—
Declares him welcome;—vows 'twill rain all night:—
“You'd better therefore stay the night with me.”
The stranger smiles; Aristo cries, “content!”
And all is comfort round the crackling fire.

XV.

When clouds dissolve in copious showers of rain,
Or northern winds proclaim a hail-storm nigh,
Then will we sit, enjoying and enjoy'd;
Invite each other to the wholesome taste
Of fruits autumnal; while my Blanche shall smile.
Take the red fruit, and, stealing archly round,
Shew it her mother; then with blushes lean
On the loved lap, and chew the savoury pulp.
—Then we will listen to Orlando's tale;
Traverse the ocean from the Tagus, rich
In many a fruit, with Gama to the Cape;
Thence to the Isle of Ebony, to where
A bark of Europe first touch'd Indian shores.
Or if proud chivalry “delight thee more,”
Then will we read of old Castilian knights,—
The Cid, Amadis, or Prince Arthur, who,
With many a deed, upheld the British name:
Upon whose mount, and in whose secret caves,
So oft we've linger'd out the summer's day,
Hailing old Merlin in his favourite haunts.
Dreaming of witcheries and prophecies we'd see,
In our mind's kingdom, lords and titled dames
Sitting in judgment at a tournament.

XVI.

But what wild, strange, mysterious sounds are these
Floating in air? We know not whence they come.
They seem approaching! ope the casement wide.
It is the poor blind harper! who has stroll'd
For many a year among these mountains wild.
He knows each house from Towy to the Wye;
Can trace the history of each family,
E'en from the times of ancient Howel Dha.
The wind blows cold—the pointed hail descends—
Oh! let the bending, grey-hair'd, minstrel in!
Then rings our cottage with wild music. Hence,
—Ye sons of Naples,—'tis no place for you!
Refresh'd with cheer the holy man begins,
Spreads his grey fingers o'er the obedient chords,
And Glendower's fame, or Tudor's fortune rings.

XVII.

LINES

WRITTEN FOR THE PURPOSE OF RECITATION AT THE ORATORIO, PERFORMED IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FUNERAL OF H. R. H. THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

I.

Thus sung the Bard, in melancholy pride,
When Sidney's hopes, and Pembroke's mother died.
Ah!—had he lived in this eventful time,
Tears then had fall'n and blotted out his rhyme!
For wheresoe'er our mournful footsteps turn,
Fancy beholds Augusta's funeral urn!
Fair was her morn of life!—her Father's pride,
Her Mother's hope!—and all the Realm's beside!
Grief look'd relieved, whenever she appear'd;
And Love, delighted, smiled where'er her voice was heard.

II.

Early she knew, a People's love's the gem!
That shines the brightest in a diadem:
That gem (despising every courtier's art)
She won, she wore, and polish'd in her heart.
Proud of her Country, through that Country wide
She liv'd—she died—its ornament and pride.
Briton in views, in manners, and in mind;
Warm, open, honest, liberal, and kind;
All ease, all grace!—For her e'en peasants pray,
For wheresoe'er she look'd, Pride, sullen, stalk'd away!

III.

At length came he, upon whose noble breast
The loveliest angel might with rapture rest:
Illustrious Cobourg!—Form'd in Virtue's mould!
Though manly, gentle; and with heart of gold!
He came—he saw; awhile, as lost, he gazed,
Delighted, charm'd, adoring, and amazed.
He gazed—and loved! She saw his modest smile,
And blush'd! She felt its influence beguile
Her proudest wishes; while that secret Power
That rules in cot, in palace, and in bower,
Smiled at them both.—Not daring to explain:
The Royal Father saw their secret pain,
And softly whisper'd, “Cobourg! you may woo;
“To crown my wishes and the empire's too.”
Oh! blest that father, whose parental pride
Could make an empire's heir a good man's bride;
Could bend, in tears of rapture, from a throne,
To make his daughter's paradise his own!

IV.

Now, then, behold th' illustrious pair retired,
Blest with each wish their mutual hearts desired
Remote from splendour, and distractions rude,
Feeling no charm so great—as love in solitude.
Ah me! if joy from wedded love doth flow
In humbler bosoms, what must theirs, then, know,
When conscious Virtue,—visiting their dome,—
Planted soft beds of flowers, and own'd herself at home!

V.

The empire heard how swift their minutes flew
In every mental exercise! and you—
You know—you feel—the honest truth I speak!
Alas the time!—a tear bedews my cheek,
To think how soon their pleasures flew away,
Like the short sunshine of an April day.
All Britons hail'd, with eagerness, the hour,
So grateful to their happiness and power,
When, from their mutual tenderness, might spring
Their country's bulwark—in a future king.
Hope sate in ev'ry eye! but in the bloom
Of love matured, their melancholy doom
Fate seal'd! while Death the patient dove
Struck in the fruitage of her wedded love!

VI.

Oh sure!—a time so sad has never been!
Oh! sure—the suffering world has never seen
Its hopes so blighted! sure—relentless fate
Ne'er left a people's heart so—desolate!
Oh heaven!—But stay—the sorrow of mankind
Best shews the justice of th' eternal mind;
Which guards or withers, with impartial care,
A peasant's offspring, and an empire's heir.

VII.

Yet, though with awe we check the voice of woe,
We would not—cannot—check the tears that flow!
For ne'er, till now, has fond expecting bliss
Turn'd to a woe so exquisite as this!
The kindest mistress!—but ah!—wherefore dwell
On virtues such as hers?—You know them well!
And could your blood recal her—what a flood
Of tears in crimson!—for you'd weep in blood.

VIII.

IX.

You, too, who've lost a friend, so firm—yet mild!—
A friend?—nay more—the Empire's darling child!
I hear your sighs;—I feel you scorn relief;
You mourn in public for a private grief:
And when retired—in silence and alone,
You weep in private for a public one.
Ah! well ye may! Yet dry, oh! dry your eyes;
Though in the grave her sainted body lies,
She lives—she lives!—a Christian never dies!
Her soul has burst the fetters of the tomb!
Her soul now flies to her celestial home!
Ah! when arrived at heaven's eternal doors,
Her best and sweetest hope she'll turn on you and yours!
While you and yours shall so embalm her fame,
That every distant age shall venerate her name!

ODE

TO THE NYMPH OF THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS.

ODE TO JULIA;

WRITTEN AT PONT-ABERGLASSLYN, CARNARVONSHIRE.

ODE TO CLAUDE SPENCER, ESQ.;

WHO INVITED THE AUTHOR TO QUIT HIS RETIREMENT, AND MIX AGAIN IN THE WORLD.

Written under the Walls of Oxwich Castle.

ODE. ROCHEFORD'S RESOLUTION.

ODE

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING, IN A TEMPEST, UP THE BRISTOL CHANNEL.

I.

The waves run high;—wild tempests rage;—
The fears of death my heart engage!
What?—close the scene so far from shore;
And ne'er be seen, or heard of more?
Oh! sure this ocean's furious breast
Can never lull me to my rest!

II.

Ah!—I had wish'd the humble lot,
To live in some sequester'd spot;
Where, studious of divine repose,
Life's weary journey I might close.

III.

ODE TO HER WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.

WRITTEN AT CRICKHOWEL, BRECONSHIRE.

ODE

WRITTEN AT A FOUNTAIN, NEAR CADER-IDRIS, MERIONETHSHIRE.

ODE.

WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE INN, MARLBOROUGH.

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN:

SUNG BY THE NUNS OF ST. CATHARINE.

While the evening sun's descending,
'Mid yon vast, tumultuous, wave;
We,—and all the world,—are wending
To the soft and silent grave.
Holy Virgin, save,—oh save!—
Save our hearts and souls from falling;
Take our thanks for hopes to-day;
May to-morrow's worldly calling
Speed us on our heavenly way!
Holy Virgin!—pray—oh pray!
At night, at morn, at noon of day,
Oh! may thy mercy lead, and smooth the heavenly way.

THE EOLIAN HARP.

CANZONET.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A GLEN, NEAR VALLE-CRUCIS ABBEY, DENBIGHSHIRE.

Here let me rest!—In this sequester'd glen,
Far from the tumults of a giddy world,
The joys, the hopes, the energies of life,
Pleased, I'd resign.—
These mountains rude, which rear their heads so high,
And those dark woods, that screen their giant sides,
Should shield my monument from northern snows:
And that wild stream, which rolls unseen below,
Should murmur music near my humble grave.
As in oblivious silence I reposed,
Ah! how delighted were my peaceful spirit,
Should some sweet maid, at midnight's solemn hour,
(Led by the radiance of th' approving moon,)
Approach that spot, where long in soft repose,
Pleased I have slept; and water with her tears
The rose and jasmine, that around my tomb
In chaste, in generous, circling clusters grow
While from her lap she scatter'd flowers around,
Cull'd in the evening from the cottage door,
Of some good peasant.—All around would smile;
And sigh to know, what dear, enchanting maid,
Could be so chaste, so faithful, and so good!
While from my tomb, with pleasure and regret,
My heart would whisper it was—Juliet.

THE BRIDESMAID AND THE WATER-SPIRIT.

An Italian Legend.

I.

October's month is on the wane;
Orion decks the starry train;
And from his belt profusely throws
Materials of impending snows.
The leaves are yellow, brown, and sere,
And every curlew, far and near,
Proclaims th' approaching ruin of the year:
While, far remote from haunts of men unholy,
Wanders o'er many a brake the child of melancholy.

II.

Oh! say what sorrow and what fears, unblest,
So wildly move the gentle Margaret's breast?
What drives her on, 'mid hail and rain and snow,
With stately gait, but undetermin'd brow,
At times elate with hope;—but wild and wandering now?

III.

IV.

Arno and Lucca were two rivals; who,
From boyish age, a rivalship would shew,
In arts, in arms, in sports, and banquets too.

V.

Arno was fierce, impetuous, and proud
Lucca was gentle as a summer cloud!
At length they met, their rivalship to cease:
They met,—they sign'd—and swore perpetual peace.
And still that peace with greater force to bind—
—Oh! unsuspecting folly of mankind!
To think that wolves, in equal games, will play,
With sheep and sheep-kin, all a summer's day,
And not resume their hatred and their power,
Should unsuspecting sheep offend in luckless hour!—
This peace to bind the firmer, Lucca's lord
Proposed to wed proud Arno's beauteous ward.

VI.

Arno consents!—And now the marriage day
Shines, as if mellowing all the tints of May.—
Now the goblets foam with wine:
Now the guests with rapture join;
Now the dance the maids prolong;
Now in numbers, wild and strong,
Each harp resounds the following song.

VII. SONG.

“When Nature had these lovers plann'd,
Struck with the wonders of her hand,
Envy, dark, malign, and proud,
Beheld the forms, and mutter'd loud;
“These forms were made in Nature's pride,
“When she and Love stood side by side;
“And, smiling in each other's eyes,
“The rainbow threw athwart the skies.
“But year on year may roll away,
“And each long year be deem'd a day,
“Ere, with such splendid, happy train,
“Those mighty powers may meet again!
“Forms then like these, shall man no more behold;
“Hating these lovers—I will break their mould.”
With giant hand and angry frown,
He dashed the ivory models down;
And, arm'd with triumph's sudden sway,
Grinning with rapture, stalk'd away!”

VIII.

The music o'er,—the happy guests employ
Each festive art to raise the general joy.
All is gay and social mirth!
Arno's “power” and Lucca's “worth”
Animate the glowing throng,
And flow from echoing tongue to tongue.

IX.

“Arno's power and Lucca's worth?”
—Arno's goblet fell to earth!—
“Lucca's worth, and Arno's power?
“Now, by the sacred midnight hour,
“If Lucca's praised for virtue, he's my foe,
“Unless they praise Lord Arno's virtues too.”
Thus thought the chief; his bosom writh'd with pain;
Inward it swell'd with anger and disdain;
While Envy straight resumed her ancient home again.

X.

The Bridesmaid sate the chief beside;
She saw his cheek distend with pride!
But Lucca dreams, and speaks of nought but love;
While fires through every nerve, in wildest rapture move!
The Bride at length, 'mid fears and hopes, is led
To bridal chamber by her bridal maid,
Lucca's sweet sister, Margaret; who stood
Beside her pillow long in melancholy mood.—
All grace she was;—all beauty:—but the look
Of Arno's lord her breast with terror shook.
No joy she shew'd, dissembling;—pity fill'd
Her bosom mantling; while her veins were chill'd.—

XI.

The Bride beheld, and wondering ask'd her, “Why
“So little pleasure gemm'd her beauteous eye?”
As mute she stood—with stern and glaring eyes
Lord Arno enters:—“Why this wild surprise?”
Thundering he said:—“Lord Lucca's host is fled,
And he himself lies weltering with the dead!”
They heard—the lovely Bridesmaid and the Bride;—
They heard;—the latter fell upon her side:—
The shock was mortal!—Wonder and affright
Closed her blue eyes in death's oblivious night.
Her form Lord Arno spurn'd upon the ground:
Then stamp'd the floor:—a Herald heard the sound.
“Take this maid!—Yon ivied tower
“Shall be to me a lover's bower.”
The Herald heard;—he raised the shrieking maid;
And to the ivied tower her angel form convey'd.

XII.

Arno return'd into the hall,
To triumph over Lucca's fall.
That all the rosy guests should raise
The notes of joy in Lucca's praise;
While all they gave to him alone,
—Though seated on the festal throne—
Was lordly power, enraged his soul
Beyond his measure of control!
And as the Bridegroom through the arches roved,
To the white arms of her, he fondly loved,
His path he way-laid; gave the treacherous wound:—
The unsuspecting youth fell lifeless on the ground!

XIII.

The Bridesmaid still her senses kept;
And though her gentle eyelids wept;
And though her heart was all forlorn;
And though with woe her breast was torn;
And though she fear'd the tyrant's vow,
Yet would her courage ebb and flow!

XIV.

Beside her stood the rude and rugged guard,
With face all gloomy as the angry pard.
Yet as he stood in silent, savage state,
A cunning avarice on each eyelid sate.
He look'd, and on her finger threw
His wishful eye:—she saw;—she drew,
From off the joint the brilliant gem:
“I thank thee, fair and injur'd dame!”
The shining toy the guard surveys;
With rapture hugs the proffer'd prize;
And then, through secret vaults, he steals his way;
Leads the fair Bridesmaid to the starry ray;
Then closed the pond'rous door,—and wish'd her well away.

XV.

Thus, thus she triumph'd:—climb'd the mountain's brow:
Nor stopt to gaze upon the scene below.
Loud shouts her fancy echoes to her ears;
Each fountain's fall Lord Arno's voice appears:
Each star that rose,—each glow-worm of the night,
Fill her sad soul with withering affright!
She hears Lord Arno breathe in every wind;
Forward she darts, nor casts one look behind!

XVI.

The moon, now rising, fringed the speckled cloud,
That on the summit of Vancenza bow'd.
No guide had she;—no venerable man,
Whose age seem'd measur'd long ere hers began;
Whose sole employ might be, with care intent,
To guide her footsteps wheresoe'er she went!
No guide had she;—but frantic and alone
To rocks and echoing woods, she made her tearless moan.
As on she strays, unheeding where,
A prey to all the storms of care,
The wandering moon, through fleeces, gave
A dubious light to Mincio's wave;
Which rushing, foaming, wildly on,
Warn'd the lone stranger to be gone:
While chimes from distant convent's tower,
Proclaim'd it midnight's solemn hour.

XVII.

On what green turf, or on what mossy bed,
Shall this poor wandering virgin rest her weary head?

XVIII.

Full many a path, which ne'er before
The maid had seen, she traversed o'er;
While many a flower of dubious hue
Their fragrance o'er the midnight threw;
Though now was heard no eager hum
Of loaded bee returning home.
But as he slew each sleeping bird,
The sound of distant kite was heard.
And now the scene is thrill'd with fright!
For, riding on the wing of night,
Loud cries of wolves spread wild alarm,
From wood to wood, from farm to farm.

XIX.

XX.

Thus as she stood, 'twixt hope and fear, she spy'd,
On the torn margin of the river's side,
A form more beauteous than that shepherd wore,
Whom Venus tempted on the Syrian shore.
Slumbering he lay: yet seem'd in dreams to say,
“Turn not, sweet maid, thy gentle steps away.”

XXI.

The lovely youth, who thus reposed,
With cheeks all pale, and eyelids closed,
On nearer view and strict survey,
Which Margaret taught her eyes to pay,
Display'd no signs of heaving breath;
He seem'd to sleep the sleep of death!

XXII.

Form'd in Nature's mildest mood,
The pitying nymph affrighted stood;
And view'd, with awe and conscious fear,
The lifeless body on its bier.
“Poor youth!” thought she, “what power divine
“Could see a matchless form like thine,
“And yet not stay the fatal blow,
“That laid thy manly spirit low.”

XXIII.

XXIV.

Ah! who could see such beauty stand,
In all the pride of Nature's hand;
And ah! what maid but now had bow'd,
However fair, however proud,
In this eventful, sacred hour,
To that insidious, wanton power,
Who rules by smiles, or frowns, alone,
From cot to convent, tower, and throne?

XXV.

Night now once more her mantle spreads;
The moon her ray no longer sheds;
No longer her soft influence throws,
To charm the flocks from sweet repose.
Wild roll the angry waters on the shore;
The forest echoes to the thunder's roar;
While, as quick lightnings through heaven's concave play,
By turns 'tis sable night;—by turns 'tis brilliant day!

XXVI.

Appall'd she stands, bewilder'd with her fears;
For instant death in every flash appears!
“Heed not yon light,—this darkness,—nor this sound;”
(As o'er her form he throws his mantle round;—)
“Heed not the flash;—'twill light us on our way;
“Heed not the darkness;—soon returns the day:
“Heed not the sound;—stern music 'tis of heaven,
“When might to right its wonted power has given.
“Lord Arno dies!—His tower, involved in flames,
“Hisses loud music at his funeral games.
“See—how yon flashes mingle with the clouds!
“See—how yon towers, which circling ivy shrouds,
“See—how they nod!—Now list—that groan, that shriek,
“Which through these woods, in frightful echoes, speak,
“Flow from the heart of Arno's hated lord;
“The last, last sounds his agonies afford!—
“Now turn thee, fair one, turn; thy lover speaks;
“Softly he whispers; from these pallid cheeks
“He wipes thy tears and agonies away.
“He bids thee live;—he bids thee to survey
“The coral riches that adorn his sway.”

XXVII.

The maid, o'ercome with tumults and alarms,
Sunk;—and in sinking fill'd the Spirit's arms!

XXVIII.

I. INSCRIPTION

FOR A TABLET IN A FIELD NEAR BATTLE, SUSSEX.

Here Harold fought, and found himself a grave:
Here William fought, and found a royal crown!
'Tis many a century since the day was won;
And many a century since the day was lost.
Harold is dust; and William is the same!
Which wouldst thou be, oh! stranger, if thou could?
Harold or William? Neither dost thou say?
Ah! thou art wise. Return, and bless thy stars,
That Fortune gives thee, in her sportive mood,
No crown to conquer, and no crown to lose.

II. INSCRIPTION ON AN OAK IN THE NEW FOREST.

Stranger!—Thank heaven thou hast no wolves to hunt;
No boars, no panthers, and no brindled bears;
Nor lions, prowling in the woodlands wild.
Then do not waste thy manly strength away:
Fright not the hare;—nor start the stately stag,
Eyeing his antlers in the glassy brook.
No! let them live, in solitude and ease;
Fortune's best gifts,—if Liberty preside!

III. INSCRIPTION.

IV. INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT OVER ARTHUR LLEWELLYN.

Beneath this monument of turf repose
The sacred ashes of a real man:
Unknown to fame; and e'en unknown to those,
Who till'd the land, on which he gain'd his bread!
Yet, had he been in lofty turret born,
He might have been a minister of state;
Or led an army to th' embattled field.
He died neglected; withering all his days;
Scorning the earth!—For, since his birth decreed,
He could not rise, in this dull age, to fame,
He mused in silence on his humble state,
And listless fortune, till his wayward mind
Scorn'd to be any thing,—save one alone,—
An honest, sober, rough, unpolish'd man.

VI. INSCRIPTION.

SCENE—THE VALE OF FFESTINIOG.

VII. INSCRIPTION FOR A CEMETERY.

WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BRITTON-FERRY, GLAMORGANSHIRE.

HYMN TO THE MOON.

I.

O thou! who, rising from the vault of eve,
Tingest each rock and mountain with thy light,
Tranquil and solemn;—who in yonder main
Behold'st thy form reflected, and thy face
Furrow'd with many a scar;—impressions rude
Of Nature's seal;—more lasting than the signs
Carved on Mount Sinai; from whose sacred top
Th' Egyptian shepherd view'd the aged piles
Of pyramids immortal;—listen to my lay!
And pour thine influence on thy poet's lyre;
That he may charm the silent ear of night,
And teach vain man the moral of thy song.
For now eve's web invests each distant hill
With twilight grey; as if some spirit wove
The net aerial:—while the golden west
Melts into purple;—such as oft were seen
In old Atlantis, or the orange groves
Of fair Hesperia, when immortal nymphs
Guarded the sacred fruit:—O listen to my lay!
For now the bee no longer buoyant flies,
With loaded thigh, or sweet, distended bag,
And fluttering wings so musical;—but hangs
On a rough cluster of its murmuring tribe,
While all is silence in its honey'd hive.
The flocks repose;—the weary hunter rests;
And lowing herds now ruminate alone
Beside the babbling brook;—the peasant's nest,
'Neath yonder copse, that overlooks the glen,
Dusky and secret, mantled o'er with vines,
E'en from its threshold to its chimney top,
No longer winds its volumes through the air,
Marking the comfort and the peace within.—
Winding round shrubs, and arch'd by towering pines,
Oaks, elms, or sycamores, the woodbine wild
Throws a righ fragrance on the wing of night;
While birds of eve the blushing rose-bud woo,
Or hymn soft vespers to thy rising ray.

II.

Which love thee most of all the timid race
That traverse the wide region of the air?
—The bird of wisdom and the bird of love.—
Deep in his solitude immured the day,
At thy approach, the Owl,—pensive and wise,—
Forsakes his haunts, and flits from tree to tree,
As if he fear'd the earth.—The Nightingale?
With many a deep-toned orison she hails
Thy rising beam, and fills the forest wide
With warblings, grateful to a poet's ear.—
Beneath thy ray, in other climes, the moth
Flits with light wing, from slumbering shrub to shrub:
The Hippotamus, in circumference vast,
From whose rich blood the Indian artist draws
His tints of purple, leaves the slimy bed
Of Nile or Niger; and, as evening draws
Her mystic robe, devours the sugary cane.
The Armadillo, too, with pliant bands
Circling its back, and cover'd with a shell,
Forming an animal, distinct from all
That live on herbage, slumbers through the day;
And like the Tapir, roving through the woods
Of sea-girt Darien, or the Amazon,
Crops its pure food from sunset to the morn.

III.

From beings animate to vegetive—In thee
Delight the sober Night-shade of Peru;
The flower which charms the midnight of the Cape;
The rich Nyctanthes,—blushing on the banks
Of sultry Ganges;—and the splendid flower,
Surpassing all that blossom in the day,
Thence call'd Magnificent.—The solemn tree,
That bears mild Melancholy's sacred name,
Beholds thee, too, with silent gratitude;
Lulling the spice-trees of the balmy isles
Of rich Molucca; while the midnight air
Wafts the stolen fragrance o'er the murmuring main.

IV.

By thy mild beam light Fairies love to dance,
(As rosy maids in Ebwy's vale believe,)
On the torn margin of a torrent, grazed
By fearless goat;—on mountain's thymy side
To weave green circles for the shepherds;—or
To lie, the holy-bush beneath, to warn
The weary stranger o'er the pathless bog,
Against the ignis fatuus.—Echo, too,
Soothed by the azure of thy beauty, rests
Beside th' unwearied waterfall;—alone,
Silent, and pensive;—meditating where
The artless shepherd sleeps, who all the day
Had made each glen and moss-grown valley ring.

V.

VI.

What mourn'd the poet of the Western Isles?
When blind, and old, and tearful, and forlorn,
He walk'd with heartless men?—That he no more
Could watch thee, rising o'er the distant hill
From opening clouds of mist.—And Milton,—he—
Second to none but Homer,—fall'n on days,
Evil and dark, disgracing and disgraced,
In numbers soft, pathetic, and sublime,
Lamented long, that he alone could see,
With mental organ, Nature's wond'rous works;
And, from the seat of memory alone,
Compare the compass of the infernal shield
To the broad circle of thy spotty globe.
And Haller too,—the frame and mind's physician—
Mourning in exile from his native home:
And he who sung of solitude; —and he,
Who, 'mid the gardens of romantic Sheen,
Would rove, enchanted, while each nightingale
Vied with its rival, which should charm him most.
Thee Klopstock oft, amid his song divine,
Hails with a wild and melancholy grace:
And Dyer, too, who oft, in happier times,
Has charm'd my fancy, and has warm'd my heart;
When 'mid the groves of Grongar I have sat,
Beneath the hawthorn; where, at close of day,
The poet sung old Grongar's matchless shade.

VII.

VIII.

Why sits the Hermit on yon rocky cliff,
That screens his cave from rushing winds and waves?
While near his feet the azure beetle creeps
Its drowsy course, and round his hoary head
The moth, benighted, flies?—Why bends his eye
Full towards the west?—To see thy shadowy car
Sink in the bosom of the Atlantic waste!
Long has he watch'd the progress of thy course:
Nor will he slumber on his bed of moss,
Till in the east, dark Memnon's mother calls
Each fragrant zephyr from the pearls, that gem
The lips of roses, to enrich the ray,
That tips with coral every cloud of morn.—
To him thy waning is more beautiful
Than is thy high meridian. The stem
Of oak gigantic, wither'd by the blast,
More sacred is, than when it rear'd its head,
Peerless and proud, the monarch of the plain.
Th' embattled tower, o'ergrown with bearded moss,
And by the melancholy skill of time,
Moulded to beauty, charms his bosom more
Than all the palaces of princes.—Rocks,
Which raise their crested heads into the clouds,
Piled in rude grandeur, form a scene sublime,
More rich, more soothing to his pensive soul,
Than Rome, with all its palaces and ruins;
When through the lucid atmosphere of Claude,
In awful state, the glowing sun descends,
And every fragment wears the golden hue,
That robes the concave of Italian skies.

IX.

Beneath thy ray pale Melancholy roves,
In awful silence, to yon ruin'd tower;
Beneath whose ivied arch profoundly sleeps
The history of ages.—There she sits,
Musing the midnight on the varied change
Of earthly objects;—on the varied ills
That wring the bosom of the sensitive young,
And reasoning old:—and, sighing from the soul,
Deeply laments, how oft the sacred form
Of Virtue bends before the frown of Fate.

X.

Led by thy light the Lover roves, to muse
On her, who first engaged his secret sigh.
Thee, too, the fond Enthusiast deems his friend;
When o'er the scented grave of her he loved,
Untimely lost in death's oblivious shade,
He drops the silent tear, and bending kneels
To kiss the sacred spot, and sigh “Farewell.”

XI.

Ye heartless many!—Ye, who know so well
To use th' intriguing faculties;—and who,
Remorseless, poison all the purer springs
Of mental youth, and ridicule the soul;
As insects, perforating buds of flowers,
Steal their sweet juice, and wither them away;—
Why do ye smile to see th' enthusiast weep?
And why to see the fond enthusiast gaze,
With mournful silence, on the chequer'd light,
That beams, through vi'lets, on the sacred grave?
Ye are unholy!—Hasten to your homes,
That friendless, cheerless, speak the heartless man.
Away!—ye are unholy.—Not a tear
Would swell your eye-lids, were the world to die;
So that yourselves might live.—In vain for you,
The Catholic virgin gazes on the light,
Which gilds her rosary of beads;—in vain
Tears,—melting tears,—denote a broken heart;
While sighs,—responsive to her evening hymn,—
Steal through the cloisters of her convent grey.

XII.

Away!—ye are unholy.—Often have I stood
On the wild banks of Severn and the Wye,
Avon and Usk, the Towy, and the Cam,
Isis and Trent, green Medway, and the stream,
That winds Langollen's lovely vale along,
To view thy form reflected!—Often have I stray'd
Beneath the shade of venerable piles,
Netley, or Strata Florida, the walls
Of sacred Tintern, or the moss-grown abbey,
Bosom'd in mountains, near the winding banks
Of “wizard Dee;”—in silence to reflect,
How calm and constant thou pursu'st thy course,
Unheeding of man's passions!—As I've paused—
A fragrant balm has visited my heart,
Stealing a character from Paradise,
Which soothed my soul, and “wing'd it to the skies.”—
Where in the volume of thy wandering globe,
Names are inscribed of those, who, deep retired,
Through optic glass, beheld thy liquid zones,
Thy streams and mountains;—where at times is seen,
Circling thy space, a party-colour'd crown,
Like aureolas on the sacred head
Of saint or martyr;—and where oft appears
Refracted and reflected in the drops,
That lightly fall from heaven, the midnight bow,
Arching the deep horizon;—while the cot,
O'er which it rises in magnificence
Solemn and sacred, from the falling rain
Protects the weary woodman, as he sleeps
Secure,—unheeding of impending storms.

XIII.

XIV.

But all beneath the constant Moon decay!
All change!—All spring from infancy to age;
And, at the appointed season of decay,
Melt into dust;—to be reform'd again.
Reform'd in splendour more magnificent,
Than eye has seen, or ear has ever heard!
And by that power, Omnipotent, whose name,
Inscribed on all the Universe, proclaims
Him past, him present, future, and sole cause,
Sole power, sole love, sole wisdom, and sole end.