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ODE I. ON THE SPRING.
WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE CAM.
Ιδε πας εαρος Ο:αιειτος
Χαριτες ροδα βρυοισι.
Anacreon, Ode 37.
Χαριτες ροδα βρυοισι.
Anacreon, Ode 37.
Lo! where the rosy Spring is seen
Dancing forth in bright array,
Blithe as an eastern bridal queen,
To wed the Lord of day.
And see exulting Nature homage pay,
And all her breathing incense pour along!
The gentle breeze, the Nightingale's soft lay,
The stream's clear murmur, and the Poet's song;
All, all are thine! Earth, air, and sea, and sky,
All wake for thee, fair Spring, their sweetest minstrelsy.
Dancing forth in bright array,
Blithe as an eastern bridal queen,
To wed the Lord of day.
And see exulting Nature homage pay,
And all her breathing incense pour along!
The gentle breeze, the Nightingale's soft lay,
The stream's clear murmur, and the Poet's song;
All, all are thine! Earth, air, and sea, and sky,
All wake for thee, fair Spring, their sweetest minstrelsy.
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I too the vernal influence feel,
And join the rapt'rous choral song,
Musing smooth numbers, as I steal,
Oh Cam! thy banks along.
Though on those banks no myrtle breathes perfume,
No rose unfolds its blushing beauties there,
No tulip there displays its gaudy bloom,
No stately lily decks the gay parterre;
Inclos'd within the garden's fair domain,
These all in sultan pride still keep their splendid reign.
And join the rapt'rous choral song,
Musing smooth numbers, as I steal,
Oh Cam! thy banks along.
Though on those banks no myrtle breathes perfume,
No rose unfolds its blushing beauties there,
No tulip there displays its gaudy bloom,
No stately lily decks the gay parterre;
Inclos'd within the garden's fair domain,
These all in sultan pride still keep their splendid reign.
Yet wild flow'rs o'er the simple scene
Warm'd by the touch of gentle May,
Spring up to life, a num'rous train,
Softly sweet, and neatly gay.
To me the violet hath a balmy sweet,
To me the kingcup scatters golden hues,
E'en in the primrose modest beauties meet,
E'en the meek daisy can instruct the muse;
Roving with silent eyes she loves to stand,
And e'en in field-flow'rs views a master's matchless hand.
Warm'd by the touch of gentle May,
Spring up to life, a num'rous train,
Softly sweet, and neatly gay.
To me the violet hath a balmy sweet,
To me the kingcup scatters golden hues,
E'en in the primrose modest beauties meet,
E'en the meek daisy can instruct the muse;
Roving with silent eyes she loves to stand,
And e'en in field-flow'rs views a master's matchless hand.
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And see! the glowing sun-beams play,
Dancing on the crisped stream;
While thousand insects, light and gay,
Swift o'er the surface skim.
Nor does in vain the swan majestic sail,
Nor fervid bees rove on the flow'ry brink,
Nor fishes down the silver current steal,
Nor little songsters on the margin drink:
Then wild with bliss shiver the painted wing,
Or to their feather'd loves their sweetest wild notes sing.
Dancing on the crisped stream;
While thousand insects, light and gay,
Swift o'er the surface skim.
Nor does in vain the swan majestic sail,
Nor fervid bees rove on the flow'ry brink,
Nor fishes down the silver current steal,
Nor little songsters on the margin drink:
Then wild with bliss shiver the painted wing,
Or to their feather'd loves their sweetest wild notes sing.
Oh Spring! I love thy gentle reign:
Yet I will leave thee, gentle Spring,
What time his wisdom shall ordain
Who sits the sov'reign King:
Yes! all thy clouds, and skies of silver hues,
Thy hills and vales, soft gales and glossy bloom,
I'll leave them all; though friendly to the muse,
And uncomplaining wait the cheerless gloom;
Where Death's cold season chills the Poet's tongue,
Nor shall the sylvan muse e'er wake the vernal song.
Yet I will leave thee, gentle Spring,
What time his wisdom shall ordain
Who sits the sov'reign King:
Yes! all thy clouds, and skies of silver hues,
Thy hills and vales, soft gales and glossy bloom,
I'll leave them all; though friendly to the muse,
And uncomplaining wait the cheerless gloom;
Where Death's cold season chills the Poet's tongue,
Nor shall the sylvan muse e'er wake the vernal song.
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What though I love thee, spring-tide fair,
Yet there's a brighter spring above;
Gay laughs the sun the live-long year,
And all is light and love.
There gales immortal sweetness breathe around;
There grow fair shining fruits, and golden flow'rs,
Cherish'd luxuriant on the laughing ground,
With heav'n's own dews, and pure ambrosial show'rs;
There happy beings rest, their conquests won,
And weave from heav'nly trees a never-with'ring crown.
Yet there's a brighter spring above;
Gay laughs the sun the live-long year,
And all is light and love.
There gales immortal sweetness breathe around;
There grow fair shining fruits, and golden flow'rs,
Cherish'd luxuriant on the laughing ground,
With heav'n's own dews, and pure ambrosial show'rs;
There happy beings rest, their conquests won,
And weave from heav'nly trees a never-with'ring crown.
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ODE II. ON PITY.
Inopem solatur et ægrum.
Horat. Er. Lib. ii. Ep. 1.
Horat. Er. Lib. ii. Ep. 1.
Hence motley mirth and wanton song,
That frisk in airy mood along,
Too rapt in bliss to hear a sigh!
Hence too with these
Self-soothing ease,
That seest a tear unmov'd, and passest silent by.
That frisk in airy mood along,
Too rapt in bliss to hear a sigh!
Hence too with these
Self-soothing ease,
That seest a tear unmov'd, and passest silent by.
But hither come, thou meek-ey'd maid,
In sorrow's sable vest array'd,
Oh, Pity, sprung of heav'nly race!
Sweet nymph! I love thy pallid face,
Thy musing gait and gentle sigh,
And the soft language of the eye,
Where ever and anon is spied
The precious pearly drop to glide.
Oh, come, and by this root-house' mossy seat,
Still on thy vot'ry smile, and bless his calm retreat.
In sorrow's sable vest array'd,
Oh, Pity, sprung of heav'nly race!
Sweet nymph! I love thy pallid face,
Thy musing gait and gentle sigh,
And the soft language of the eye,
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The precious pearly drop to glide.
Oh, come, and by this root-house' mossy seat,
Still on thy vot'ry smile, and bless his calm retreat.
I love the bard, whose martial song
Thrills the deep sounding chords along.
How well accord the mighty strings
With bleeding chiefs and dying kings!
But Pity listens from afar
To the wild shouts of rising war.
And there she sits with trembling eyes,
And there she breathes her secret sighs;
And while the muse pours forth th'immortal strain,
Pity still sighs and weeps o'er chiefs untimely slain.
Thrills the deep sounding chords along.
How well accord the mighty strings
With bleeding chiefs and dying kings!
But Pity listens from afar
To the wild shouts of rising war.
And there she sits with trembling eyes,
And there she breathes her secret sighs;
And while the muse pours forth th'immortal strain,
Pity still sighs and weeps o'er chiefs untimely slain.
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And hail, ye darksome dreary cells,
Where pale imprison'd madness dwells!
Now wild she laughs in ruthful pain;
Then clinks in scorn the galling chain;
Now the loud thunder's rage she'll dare;
Then woful wan she looks despair.
Hard suff'rer! friendless and alone,
I hear her heave the hopeless groan.
Yet not unoft, low-bending at the grate,
Pity, sad pilgrim! deigns, in speechless wo, to wait.
Where pale imprison'd madness dwells!
Now wild she laughs in ruthful pain;
Then clinks in scorn the galling chain;
Now the loud thunder's rage she'll dare;
Then woful wan she looks despair.
Hard suff'rer! friendless and alone,
I hear her heave the hopeless groan.
Yet not unoft, low-bending at the grate,
Pity, sad pilgrim! deigns, in speechless wo, to wait.
Nor less where Edward's royal name
Recorded shines in deathless fame:
There Pity walks and weeps around;
'Tis Pity's consecrated ground.
Now by the poor man's bed she sighs
O'er with'ring limbs and fading eyes;
Or hears some mother's ceaseless moan,
The last farewell, the dying groan.
Sad luxury! as lamps in vaults still gleam,
So Pity lives with wo, and death her fav'rite theme.
Recorded shines in deathless fame:
There Pity walks and weeps around;
'Tis Pity's consecrated ground.
Now by the poor man's bed she sighs
O'er with'ring limbs and fading eyes;
Or hears some mother's ceaseless moan,
The last farewell, the dying groan.
Sad luxury! as lamps in vaults still gleam,
So Pity lives with wo, and death her fav'rite theme.
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Does truth lament a tyrant's reign,
Or sink beneath the galling chain?
Among the drooping and the dead
Meek Pity walks with silent tread!
Hears gallies groan with Christian slaves!
Views dungeons turn'd to martyrs' graves!
While cities pour a crimson flood,
And streams run dy'd with human blood:
Crimes, which nor genius, learning, prayer, nor pow'r,
Shall save from freedom's curse, and heav'n's avenging hour.
Or sink beneath the galling chain?
Among the drooping and the dead
Meek Pity walks with silent tread!
Hears gallies groan with Christian slaves!
Views dungeons turn'd to martyrs' graves!
While cities pour a crimson flood,
And streams run dy'd with human blood:
Crimes, which nor genius, learning, prayer, nor pow'r,
Shall save from freedom's curse, and heav'n's avenging hour.
Rise, hallow'd forms of martyrs rise!
And breathe, O France! thy plaintive sighs.
Nor will I cease the mournful strain,
But weep your wrongs, and share your pain.
Long as I view this lamp of day,
Long as I view the moon's pale ray,
As night's lorn bird her ravag'd brood
Moans in soft sadness through the wood,
So shall my verse complain, when truth's oppress'd:
And freedom's sons shall hear, and strike the pensive breast.
And breathe, O France! thy plaintive sighs.
Nor will I cease the mournful strain,
But weep your wrongs, and share your pain.
Long as I view this lamp of day,
Long as I view the moon's pale ray,
As night's lorn bird her ravag'd brood
Moans in soft sadness through the wood,
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And freedom's sons shall hear, and strike the pensive breast.
Blest be his lot, and fair his fame,
Who glows with Pity's softest flame;
Whose gentle hand would blunt the dart,
That's doom'd to strike the culprit's heart!
Not his the scornful stoic's praise,
Whose conscious pride himself surveys.
Hard egotist! whose wint'ry soul
Ne'er felt the tide of mercy roll.
Friend to the wretch unpity'd and unknown,
Oh, take that wretch's pray'r! 'Tis Howard, all thine own.
Who glows with Pity's softest flame;
Whose gentle hand would blunt the dart,
That's doom'd to strike the culprit's heart!
Not his the scornful stoic's praise,
Whose conscious pride himself surveys.
Hard egotist! whose wint'ry soul
Ne'er felt the tide of mercy roll.
Friend to the wretch unpity'd and unknown,
Oh, take that wretch's pray'r! 'Tis Howard, all thine own.
And go, great man! let Europe know
Thy teacher was the man of wo.
And to the frozen bigot prove,
He best believes, who best can love.
Nor shall it be thy meanest praise,
That Joseph crowns thy head with bays;
That, taught by thee, the Arabs dare
To heal the pestilential air.
Go, and like good Marseilles draw purer breath,
When Nature heaves around, and ev'ry gasp is death!
Thy teacher was the man of wo.
And to the frozen bigot prove,
He best believes, who best can love.
Nor shall it be thy meanest praise,
That Joseph crowns thy head with bays;
That, taught by thee, the Arabs dare
To heal the pestilential air.
Go, and like good Marseilles draw purer breath,
When Nature heaves around, and ev'ry gasp is death!
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But come, thou gentle, gen'rous maid,
Sink on my breast thy drooping head:
And let me from thy dove-like eye
Drink all the soul of sympathy.
Then shall the muse with Howard roll
With one big sigh from pole to pole.
Whenever virtue lies distress'd,
Or blooming beauty sinks oppress'd;
Then shall this heart with gentlest passions heave,
And ev'ry fibre feel, and ev'ry nerve shall grieve.
Sink on my breast thy drooping head:
And let me from thy dove-like eye
Drink all the soul of sympathy.
Then shall the muse with Howard roll
With one big sigh from pole to pole.
Whenever virtue lies distress'd,
Or blooming beauty sinks oppress'd;
Then shall this heart with gentlest passions heave,
And ev'ry fibre feel, and ev'ry nerve shall grieve.
Led by thy soul-subduing pow'r
I seek the Muse's sacred bow'r:
And from her breathing sweets entwine
A chaplet for thine Howard's shrine:
Though to his sacred brow belong
The fairest, sweetest flow'r of song;
And the immortal wreath to twine,
That praise, oh ---! shall be thine;
Yet shall not gentle Howard blush to wear
This wreath for Pity wove, and brighten'd with a tear.
I seek the Muse's sacred bow'r:
And from her breathing sweets entwine
A chaplet for thine Howard's shrine:
Though to his sacred brow belong
The fairest, sweetest flow'r of song;
And the immortal wreath to twine,
That praise, oh ---! shall be thine;
Yet shall not gentle Howard blush to wear
This wreath for Pity wove, and brighten'd with a tear.
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ODE III. ON PEACE.
WRITTEN, IN PART, IN JESUS COLLEGE GARDEN.
Ο νικων δε λοιπον αμφιβιοτον
Εχει μελιτοεσσαν ευδιαν.
Pindar, Ol. 1.
Εχει μελιτοεσσαν ευδιαν.
Pindar, Ol. 1.
Hence, avaunt, each sullen care,
Wrinkled grief, and grim despair,
Hence to your darksome dens below!
Where hollow sighs,
And frantic cries,
So antient bards have sung, 'mid hopeless spectres flow.
Wrinkled grief, and grim despair,
Hence to your darksome dens below!
Where hollow sighs,
And frantic cries,
So antient bards have sung, 'mid hopeless spectres flow.
But come, thou gentle wand'rer, come,
Who mak'st the quiet breast thy home,
Sweet Peace! who sail'st in equal sky,
'Mid purer forms that dwell on high;
But, scar'd by folly's gamesome shew,
Shunnest this noisy world below;
If not thy wing, still upward borne,
Waft thee, ah! never to return,
Oh hither come, and make thy downy nest,
Thou gentle wand'rer, deep within this pensive breast!
Who mak'st the quiet breast thy home,
Sweet Peace! who sail'st in equal sky,
'Mid purer forms that dwell on high;
But, scar'd by folly's gamesome shew,
Shunnest this noisy world below;
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Waft thee, ah! never to return,
Oh hither come, and make thy downy nest,
Thou gentle wand'rer, deep within this pensive breast!
Ah, feeble man, of insect race!
I see thee move thy little pace.
Now go thy short-liv'd summer's day,
Twinkle in fancy's fickle ray!
Now whirl'd on passion's flimsy car,
Float in mock state, and shine from far!
And rove this earthly sphere around,
If haply sweet Peace may be found.
But ah, in vain!—for still she dwells on high,
Where passion cannot soar, where folly cannot pry.
I see thee move thy little pace.
Now go thy short-liv'd summer's day,
Twinkle in fancy's fickle ray!
Now whirl'd on passion's flimsy car,
Float in mock state, and shine from far!
And rove this earthly sphere around,
If haply sweet Peace may be found.
But ah, in vain!—for still she dwells on high,
Where passion cannot soar, where folly cannot pry.
But see! a rev'rend form arise,
With beck'ning hands and streaming eyes.
“Where La Trappe's silent vot'ries weep,
“Or virgins midnight vigils keep,
“The cloister drear, the gothic gloom,
“Break the dark distance of the tomb.
“Ah, thither, restless rover, flee!
“And there sweet Peace shall lodge with thee.”
Vain boast of frantic zeal and sullen care,
Praying 'mid sighs and groans, or musing in despair!
With beck'ning hands and streaming eyes.
“Where La Trappe's silent vot'ries weep,
“Or virgins midnight vigils keep,
“The cloister drear, the gothic gloom,
“Break the dark distance of the tomb.
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“And there sweet Peace shall lodge with thee.”
Vain boast of frantic zeal and sullen care,
Praying 'mid sighs and groans, or musing in despair!
But lo! the gentle Rousseau smiles,
And Ferney's laurell'd sage reviles.
“See the fair path that leads to God
“Streaming with fire, or smear'd with blood.
“Ah! let us rather rest the head,
“Safe in the sceptic's milder shade.”
And had Messiah's boasted page
Taught frantic grief, or bigot rage,
Or the mean fears which fev'rish saints inspire,
Still I had woo'd fair Peace—but struck the sceptic's lyre.
And Ferney's laurell'd sage reviles.
“See the fair path that leads to God
“Streaming with fire, or smear'd with blood.
“Ah! let us rather rest the head,
“Safe in the sceptic's milder shade.”
And had Messiah's boasted page
Taught frantic grief, or bigot rage,
Or the mean fears which fev'rish saints inspire,
Still I had woo'd fair Peace—but struck the sceptic's lyre.
Now sweep the lyre, and breathe the lay!
On yon green bank the Muses play:
And Peace, perchance, the Muses' friend,
Shall there with turtle wing descend.
Beauty's softest charms I spy,
The rising breast, the wanton eye,
Gay smiles, and all the freaks of love.
There the wild charmers of the grove,
And warbling spheres, all wake their sweetest strain;
But ah, soft song deceives, love but refines the pain!
On yon green bank the Muses play:
And Peace, perchance, the Muses' friend,
Shall there with turtle wing descend.
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The rising breast, the wanton eye,
Gay smiles, and all the freaks of love.
There the wild charmers of the grove,
And warbling spheres, all wake their sweetest strain;
But ah, soft song deceives, love but refines the pain!
Hence passion's idle laughing train!
Hence wild devotion's ruthful pain!
And hence the Muse, and hence the loves,
Spheres and streams, and tuneful groves!
But hail the academic bow'r,
And hail the philosophic hour!
For which th'Athenian master sigh'd,
Yet paid the mighty debt, and died.
Ah, hapless wisdom, doom'd to keenest pain,
That weeping seeks for Peace, that weeping seeks in vain!
Hence wild devotion's ruthful pain!
And hence the Muse, and hence the loves,
Spheres and streams, and tuneful groves!
But hail the academic bow'r,
And hail the philosophic hour!
For which th'Athenian master sigh'd,
Yet paid the mighty debt, and died.
Ah, hapless wisdom, doom'd to keenest pain,
That weeping seeks for Peace, that weeping seeks in vain!
Hark! the shrill clarion's loud alarms!
The Grecian hero calls to arms.
But tell me, cruel conq'ror, why
Must millions bleed, must millions die?
“Round the wide world I'll slaught'ring roam,
“And then enjoy sweet Peace at home.”
But see, thy slaughter'd millions rise,
And breathe their mis'ries to the skies!
And shall sweet Peace e'er sooth thy midnight soul?
Lo! round thy couch pale ghosts their glaring eye-balls roll!
The Grecian hero calls to arms.
But tell me, cruel conq'ror, why
Must millions bleed, must millions die?
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“And then enjoy sweet Peace at home.”
But see, thy slaughter'd millions rise,
And breathe their mis'ries to the skies!
And shall sweet Peace e'er sooth thy midnight soul?
Lo! round thy couch pale ghosts their glaring eye-balls roll!
Ah! whither, whither shall I fly
To meet this tenant of the sky?
For long a vagrant hath she been
From all the busy haunts of men.
In vain I seek the wrangling schools,
In vain the domes of wealthy fools,
Or on the restless ocean rove,
Or wander in the silent grove;
For still, ah! still, the lovely vagrant flies,
And keeps her steady seat in pure unclouded skies.
To meet this tenant of the sky?
For long a vagrant hath she been
From all the busy haunts of men.
In vain I seek the wrangling schools,
In vain the domes of wealthy fools,
Or on the restless ocean rove,
Or wander in the silent grove;
For still, ah! still, the lovely vagrant flies,
And keeps her steady seat in pure unclouded skies.
The man who walks in holy fear
With God, and views him ever near;
Who knows his wants, laments his sin,
And breathes the humble pray'r within;
Who, when his mercies he surveys,
Feels his heart rise in grateful praise;
And if he form some gen'rous plan,
Stands firm, the steady friend of man;
He, while on earth, holds converse with the sky,
And he shall find, sweet Peace, thy presence ever nigh.
With God, and views him ever near;
Who knows his wants, laments his sin,
And breathes the humble pray'r within;
Who, when his mercies he surveys,
Feels his heart rise in grateful praise;
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Stands firm, the steady friend of man;
He, while on earth, holds converse with the sky,
And he shall find, sweet Peace, thy presence ever nigh.
Such he, the mitred sage, who shew'd
How weak is man, how frail the good:
But who, with manlier virtue fir'd,
Sigh'd o'er his weakness, and expir'd.
Such he with steadier mind endu'd,
Learned and brave, serene and good.
And he whose deeper system flies
The feeble search of vulgar eyes;
But whose immortal works shall charm the sight,
When Britain wakes from sloth, and feels about for light.
How weak is man, how frail the good:
But who, with manlier virtue fir'd,
Sigh'd o'er his weakness, and expir'd.
Such he with steadier mind endu'd,
Learned and brave, serene and good.
And he whose deeper system flies
The feeble search of vulgar eyes;
But whose immortal works shall charm the sight,
When Britain wakes from sloth, and feels about for light.
(And ah! if learning's fruitful stores,
If gayer fancy's brightest powers,
If wildest wit could challenge fame,
Thou, Sterne, had'st earn'd a deathless name.
And since with genius' dazzling ray
Thou shin'st the wonder of the day,
Take the faint praise to genius due,
And wear the garland on thy brow;
But long as wit shall charm, and virtue live,
Tristram must not the wreathe of spotless Fame receive.)
If gayer fancy's brightest powers,
If wildest wit could challenge fame,
Thou, Sterne, had'st earn'd a deathless name.
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Thou shin'st the wonder of the day,
Take the faint praise to genius due,
And wear the garland on thy brow;
But long as wit shall charm, and virtue live,
Tristram must not the wreathe of spotless Fame receive.)
And such within this green retreat,
Where Science yet maintains her seat,
Too great for pomp, too good for pow'r,
Tyrwhitt enjoys his peaceful hour;
Whether, as once in warmer youth,
He aim to smooth the path to truth;
Or trace, matur'd by studious age,
With critic eye the sacred page.
Thus may I live in peaceful virtues blest,
True to my country live, then sink to endless rest.
Where Science yet maintains her seat,
Too great for pomp, too good for pow'r,
Tyrwhitt enjoys his peaceful hour;
Whether, as once in warmer youth,
He aim to smooth the path to truth;
Or trace, matur'd by studious age,
With critic eye the sacred page.
Thus may I live in peaceful virtues blest,
True to my country live, then sink to endless rest.
Such Wakefield too, whose ample mind
Roves through all science unconfin'd;
Who, taught by truth's unerring page,
Stands upright in a tott'ring age.
Such too is Frend, a gen'rous name,
Glowing with freedom's sacred flame;
Who, ardent still in vig'rous youth,
Climbs up the steep ascent of truth.
Feeble the Muse's dart of glitt'ring praise;
Virtue's fair meed is Peace and everlasting days.
Roves through all science unconfin'd;
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Stands upright in a tott'ring age.
Such too is Frend, a gen'rous name,
Glowing with freedom's sacred flame;
Who, ardent still in vig'rous youth,
Climbs up the steep ascent of truth.
Feeble the Muse's dart of glitt'ring praise;
Virtue's fair meed is Peace and everlasting days.
Oh then, mild daughter of the sky,
With Truth's gay nurse, fair Liberty,
Sweet Peace return, and here again
Begin, begin your smiling reign!
From whom, in happier hour, proceed
Some great design, some godlike deed;
What time the patriotic fire
Shall Britain's nobler sons inspire:
Destin'd through unborn ages still to shine,
Like stars of human kind, a long illustrious line.
With Truth's gay nurse, fair Liberty,
Sweet Peace return, and here again
Begin, begin your smiling reign!
From whom, in happier hour, proceed
Some great design, some godlike deed;
What time the patriotic fire
Shall Britain's nobler sons inspire:
Destin'd through unborn ages still to shine,
Like stars of human kind, a long illustrious line.
Piercing through distant years, I trace,
With ravish'd eyes, a freeborn race,
Whose forming hands shall bring to view
That heav'n and earth serene and new;
When mad ambition's rage shall cease,
And clam'rous war shall yield to Peace:
Oppression drop her vengeful ire,
And vile hypocrisy expire.
Fair golden years! when Truth's unmingled ray
Shall, wide as Tyrwhitt's wish, extend immortal day.
With ravish'd eyes, a freeborn race,
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That heav'n and earth serene and new;
When mad ambition's rage shall cease,
And clam'rous war shall yield to Peace:
Oppression drop her vengeful ire,
And vile hypocrisy expire.
Fair golden years! when Truth's unmingled ray
Shall, wide as Tyrwhitt's wish, extend immortal day.
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ODE IV. ON THE MORNING.
Μετα σειο, μακαιρα Υγιεια,
Τεθηλε παντα, και λαμπει χαριτων εαρ.
Theogn. Εις Ψγιειαν.
Τεθηλε παντα, και λαμπει χαριτων εαρ.
Theogn. Εις Ψγιειαν.
Child of the light, fair morning hour,
Who smilest o'er yon purple hill!
I come to woo thy cheering pow'r,
Beside this murm'ring rill.
Nor I alone—a thousand songsters rise
To meet thy dawning, and thy sweets to share;
While ev'ry flow'r that scents the honied air,
Thy milder influence feels, and sheds its brightest dies.
Who smilest o'er yon purple hill!
I come to woo thy cheering pow'r,
Beside this murm'ring rill.
Nor I alone—a thousand songsters rise
To meet thy dawning, and thy sweets to share;
While ev'ry flow'r that scents the honied air,
Thy milder influence feels, and sheds its brightest dies.
And let me hear some village swain
Whistle in rustic glee along;
Or hear some true love's gentle pain
Breath'd from the milkmaid's song.
Wild are those notes, but sweeter far to me
Than the soft airs borne from Italian groves:
To which the wanton muse and naked loves.
Strike the wild lyre, and dance in gamesome glee.
Whistle in rustic glee along;
Or hear some true love's gentle pain
Breath'd from the milkmaid's song.
Wild are those notes, but sweeter far to me
Than the soft airs borne from Italian groves:
To which the wanton muse and naked loves.
Strike the wild lyre, and dance in gamesome glee.
21
And rosy health, for whom so long
Mid sleepless nights I've sigh'd in vain,
Shall throw her airy vestment on,
And meet me on the plain.
Gay laughing nymph, that loves a morning sky;
That loves to trip across the spangled dews;
And with her finger dipp'd in brightest hues,
My faint cheek shall she tinge, and cheer my languid eye.
Mid sleepless nights I've sigh'd in vain,
Shall throw her airy vestment on,
And meet me on the plain.
Gay laughing nymph, that loves a morning sky;
That loves to trip across the spangled dews;
And with her finger dipp'd in brightest hues,
My faint cheek shall she tinge, and cheer my languid eye.
Then will I taste the morn's sweet hour,
And, singing, bless the new-born day;
Or, wand'ring in Amanda's bow'r,
Rifle the sweets of May:
And to my song Amanda shall attend,
And take the posie from the sylvan muse;
For sure the virtuous fair will not refuse
The muse's modest gifts, her tribute to a friend.
And, singing, bless the new-born day;
Or, wand'ring in Amanda's bow'r,
Rifle the sweets of May:
And to my song Amanda shall attend,
And take the posie from the sylvan muse;
For sure the virtuous fair will not refuse
The muse's modest gifts, her tribute to a friend.
22
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
------ Ο βωκολος υμμιν εγω Δαφνις ουκετ' αν υλαν,
Ουκετ' ανα δρυμως, ουκ αλαεα.
Theocritus. Ειδυλ. 1.
Ουκετ' ανα δρυμως, ουκ αλαεα.
Theocritus. Ειδυλ. 1.
Touch'd by the glowing year,
Wake to life Æolian strings;
Wild music floats upon the liquid air;
Still the gay garden smiles, and still the painted meadow sings.
In Hammond's bow'r at ease reclin'd,
Thus late I sooth'd my weary mind;
Till busy thought and fancy gay
Seem'd to take their holiday;
And there I weav'd the flow'rs of song;
And must I drop th'unfinish'd wreathe?
Or strew it wild the tombs among,
Wither'd by the blast of death.
Adieu! ye laurels ever gay, adieu!
A mourner sad I go to court the baleful yew.
Wake to life Æolian strings;
Wild music floats upon the liquid air;
Still the gay garden smiles, and still the painted meadow sings.
In Hammond's bow'r at ease reclin'd,
Thus late I sooth'd my weary mind;
Till busy thought and fancy gay
Seem'd to take their holiday;
And there I weav'd the flow'rs of song;
And must I drop th'unfinish'd wreathe?
23
Wither'd by the blast of death.
Adieu! ye laurels ever gay, adieu!
A mourner sad I go to court the baleful yew.
And oh, thou dreary shade,
Receive again your trembling guest!
Ye solemn regions of the silent dead,
Find me some secret charm to sooth the suff'ring breast!
For ah! in vain I turn my eyes
To blooming groves and smiling skies;
Faint is the garden's gayest bloom,
Faint all the myrtles rich perfume,
And faint thy beams, oh sacred light!
Dearer to me the lonesome gloom,
Where the pale empress of the night
Silvers o'er the moss grown tomb;
For there remembrance oft shall love to stray,
To bid the friend repose, to bless my Theron's clay.
Receive again your trembling guest!
Ye solemn regions of the silent dead,
Find me some secret charm to sooth the suff'ring breast!
For ah! in vain I turn my eyes
To blooming groves and smiling skies;
Faint is the garden's gayest bloom,
Faint all the myrtles rich perfume,
And faint thy beams, oh sacred light!
Dearer to me the lonesome gloom,
Where the pale empress of the night
Silvers o'er the moss grown tomb;
For there remembrance oft shall love to stray,
To bid the friend repose, to bless my Theron's clay.
24
As in the lonely vale
The modest primrose droops and dies,
Or by the pathless hedge the violet pale,
So gentle Theron droop'd, so breath'd his dying sighs.
No tender consort's aid was near;
No children caught the closing pray'r;
No friend receiv'd the last request;
No friend the dying eyelids press'd;
Mid the deep silence of the night
Softly the genial heat retir'd,
And from his eyelids stole the light,
As the lamp of life expir'd.
Vain hope! How didst thou fan thy treach'rous fires!
False, as th'inconstant flame, that sparkles and expires.
The modest primrose droops and dies,
Or by the pathless hedge the violet pale,
So gentle Theron droop'd, so breath'd his dying sighs.
No tender consort's aid was near;
No children caught the closing pray'r;
No friend receiv'd the last request;
No friend the dying eyelids press'd;
Mid the deep silence of the night
Softly the genial heat retir'd,
And from his eyelids stole the light,
As the lamp of life expir'd.
Vain hope! How didst thou fan thy treach'rous fires!
False, as th'inconstant flame, that sparkles and expires.
Yet patient let me bend,
And praise Jehovah while I weep;
Truth may I find, and dying find a friend;
Like Theron may I live, then gently fall asleep.
For, nor to barb'rous regions borne,
By bigot hands his limbs were torn;
Nor were the last sad rites unpaid,
Nor sleeps he with the vulgar dead:
The sons of freedom o'er his bier
Hung in attentive silence lost,
Dropt o'er his grave the gen'rous tear,
And precious held his dust;
And the last off'ring paid at truth's fair shrine,
Theron shall wake to life, and own the truth divine.
And praise Jehovah while I weep;
Truth may I find, and dying find a friend;
Like Theron may I live, then gently fall asleep.
25
By bigot hands his limbs were torn;
Nor were the last sad rites unpaid,
Nor sleeps he with the vulgar dead:
The sons of freedom o'er his bier
Hung in attentive silence lost,
Dropt o'er his grave the gen'rous tear,
And precious held his dust;
And the last off'ring paid at truth's fair shrine,
Theron shall wake to life, and own the truth divine.
High on the topmost bough
Of Virtue's ever-smiling tree,
There grows a flow'r that once in Eden blew,
By mortal sight, ah! seldom reach'd, fair Charity.
Higher and higher may I soar,
Climb the fair tree, and crop the flow'r;
And deep within the troubled breast
Plant the heav'nly blooming guest:
Its sacred sweets should sooth me more,
When wrongs oppress, or grief invades,
Than could Arabia's spicy store,
Or soft Italian shades.
If mortal hand e'er cropt this flow'r divine,
To plant it in his breast, it was, my Theron, thine.
Of Virtue's ever-smiling tree,
There grows a flow'r that once in Eden blew,
By mortal sight, ah! seldom reach'd, fair Charity.
Higher and higher may I soar,
Climb the fair tree, and crop the flow'r;
26
Plant the heav'nly blooming guest:
Its sacred sweets should sooth me more,
When wrongs oppress, or grief invades,
Than could Arabia's spicy store,
Or soft Italian shades.
If mortal hand e'er cropt this flow'r divine,
To plant it in his breast, it was, my Theron, thine.
Among the village youth
The gen'rous Theron lov'd to dwell;
To them he strew'd the flow'rs of sacred truth,
With all a pastor's love, with all a patriot's zeal.
Yet could his genius' ample pow'rs,
Yet could his learning's copious stores,
And all his harmony of tongue,
Delight beyond a rustic throng:
No more would age her lot bewail;
Contentment smil'd at poverty;
Labour would welcome pain, and hail
The rising sun of liberty;
“Still let me toil, still not inglorious toil,
“In freedom's happy plains, in Britain's sacred isle.”
The gen'rous Theron lov'd to dwell;
To them he strew'd the flow'rs of sacred truth,
With all a pastor's love, with all a patriot's zeal.
Yet could his genius' ample pow'rs,
Yet could his learning's copious stores,
And all his harmony of tongue,
Delight beyond a rustic throng:
No more would age her lot bewail;
Contentment smil'd at poverty;
Labour would welcome pain, and hail
The rising sun of liberty;
“Still let me toil, still not inglorious toil,
“In freedom's happy plains, in Britain's sacred isle.”
But say, hath heav'n in vain
The gen'rous breast with freedom fir'd?
And o'er their tombs shall still the muse complain,
Whom virtue warm'd, and love of honest fame inspir'd?
Ah, no!—their honour'd names are blest,
In peace their sacred ashes rest;
And oft the grateful muse shall roam
To drop a garland on their tomb:
And brighter still their sun shall rise,
When time its transient course hath run,
Oer boundless fields and cloudless skies,
And keep a constant noon,
Where the fair tree of life for ever blows,
And the pure stream of bliss for ever, ever flows.
The gen'rous breast with freedom fir'd?
And o'er their tombs shall still the muse complain,
Whom virtue warm'd, and love of honest fame inspir'd?
Ah, no!—their honour'd names are blest,
In peace their sacred ashes rest;
And oft the grateful muse shall roam
To drop a garland on their tomb:
And brighter still their sun shall rise,
When time its transient course hath run,
Oer boundless fields and cloudless skies,
And keep a constant noon,
Where the fair tree of life for ever blows,
And the pure stream of bliss for ever, ever flows.
27
Sweet fields of vivid light!
Where storms no more succeed to peace,
Nor toil to rest, nor day retires for night;
But all is light, and love, and life, and boundless bliss.
The sons of freedom there shall meet,
There truth maintain her peaceful seat,
Conflict no more with shame or pain,
Nor toiling seem to toil in vain;
Unsullied glories deck her brow,
Immortal songs her triumphs tell;
There with fresh ardour shall she glow,
With truth immortal dwell.
No tyrant there molest the smiling plain;
But boundless freedom hold an everlasting reign.
Where storms no more succeed to peace,
Nor toil to rest, nor day retires for night;
But all is light, and love, and life, and boundless bliss.
The sons of freedom there shall meet,
There truth maintain her peaceful seat,
Conflict no more with shame or pain,
Nor toiling seem to toil in vain;
Unsullied glories deck her brow,
Immortal songs her triumphs tell;
There with fresh ardour shall she glow,
With truth immortal dwell.
No tyrant there molest the smiling plain;
But boundless freedom hold an everlasting reign.
28
ODE VII. ON LIBERTY.
Ουδεποτ' εγω πολεμον τονδ' υποδεξομαι,
Ουδε παρ' εμοι ποτε τον Αρμοδιον ασεται
Συνκατακλινεις, οτι παροενιος ανηρ εφυ.
Aristoph. Achanens. 977.
Ουδε παρ' εμοι ποτε τον Αρμοδιον ασεται
Συνκατακλινεις, οτι παροενιος ανηρ εφυ.
Aristoph. Achanens. 977.
Hail! more refulgent than the morning star,
Gay queen of bliss, fair daughter of the sky,
I woo thee, Freedom! May I hope from far
To catch the brightness of thy raptur'd eye?
While not unseemly streams thy zoneless vest,
Thy wild locks dancing to the frolic wind;
And, borne on flying feet, thou scorn'st to rest,
Save where meek truth her modest seat may find.
Hail! radiant form divine, blest Liberty!
Where'er thou deign'st to rove, oh! let me rove with thee.
Gay queen of bliss, fair daughter of the sky,
I woo thee, Freedom! May I hope from far
To catch the brightness of thy raptur'd eye?
While not unseemly streams thy zoneless vest,
Thy wild locks dancing to the frolic wind;
And, borne on flying feet, thou scorn'st to rest,
Save where meek truth her modest seat may find.
Hail! radiant form divine, blest Liberty!
Where'er thou deign'st to rove, oh! let me rove with thee.
33
Say, dost thou choose to tread the mountain's brow,
Or haunt meand'ring stream, or wanton plain?
Up the steep mountain's height with thee I'll go;
Or wake by river's brink the merry strain:
Or o'er the laughing plain I'll trip along,
A simple swain, 'midst hinds and virgins gay;
And still will chant to thee the even-song,
Unwearied with the raptures of the day.
And e'en when lock'd in sleep's soft arms I lie,
Still flatt'ring dreams shall wake the midnight ecstasy.
Or haunt meand'ring stream, or wanton plain?
Up the steep mountain's height with thee I'll go;
Or wake by river's brink the merry strain:
Or o'er the laughing plain I'll trip along,
A simple swain, 'midst hinds and virgins gay;
And still will chant to thee the even-song,
Unwearied with the raptures of the day.
And e'en when lock'd in sleep's soft arms I lie,
Still flatt'ring dreams shall wake the midnight ecstasy.
Or dost thou choose to wear the sober veil
Of mild philosophy, and walk unseen,
Serenely grave, along the cloister pale,
Or in the pensive grove, or shaven green:
Then will I tend thee on thy secret way,
And from thy musing catch the patriot flame,
Gentle and clear, as the sun's smiling ray
At dawn, yet warm, as his meridian beam,
When wond'ring nations feel the piercing rays,
And think they view their God, and kindle into praise.
Of mild philosophy, and walk unseen,
Serenely grave, along the cloister pale,
Or in the pensive grove, or shaven green:
Then will I tend thee on thy secret way,
And from thy musing catch the patriot flame,
Gentle and clear, as the sun's smiling ray
At dawn, yet warm, as his meridian beam,
When wond'ring nations feel the piercing rays,
And think they view their God, and kindle into praise.
Such wast thou seen by Isis' silver flood,
In converse sweet with Locke, immortal sage;
Such too by Cam with him, whose bosom glow'd
With thy sweet raptures, and the muses' rage.
Nor less with him, who bore to distant climes
His country's love, and o'er her mis'ries sigh'd;
Brave injur'd patriot he, in evil times
Who nobly liv'd, and not ignobly died.
Who nobly liv'd, whose name shall ever live,
While zeal in Britain glows, while freedom shall survive.
In converse sweet with Locke, immortal sage;
34
With thy sweet raptures, and the muses' rage.
Nor less with him, who bore to distant climes
His country's love, and o'er her mis'ries sigh'd;
Brave injur'd patriot he, in evil times
Who nobly liv'd, and not ignobly died.
Who nobly liv'd, whose name shall ever live,
While zeal in Britain glows, while freedom shall survive.
With Jebb and Price thou pass'dst the studious hour,
And stor'dst with gen'rous truths their ample mind;
Thou bad'st them glow with patriot zeal, and more,
Thou bad'st them glow with love of human kind.
And oh! fair queen, still think for Albion's weal!
Still with our Parrs and Masons, still abide!
Still may those gen'rous friends thine influence feel,
Alike in manners, and in worth allied:
When civil broils an injur'd nation rend,
Be thou fair learning's pride, the muse's constant friend.
And stor'dst with gen'rous truths their ample mind;
Thou bad'st them glow with patriot zeal, and more,
Thou bad'st them glow with love of human kind.
And oh! fair queen, still think for Albion's weal!
Still with our Parrs and Masons, still abide!
Still may those gen'rous friends thine influence feel,
Alike in manners, and in worth allied:
When civil broils an injur'd nation rend,
Be thou fair learning's pride, the muse's constant friend.
35
So shall my Disney still thy call obey,
And deck the patriot's tomb with wreathes of fame;
And still o'er classic fields shall Porson stray,
And Aikin still adore his Howard's name:
May Fitzroy too the gen'rous transport share;
And rais'd by love of thee and love of truth,
View Liberty's long lustre mild and clear,
Till its full orb illume Britannia's youth.
And I, the meanest of the tuneful throng,
On Cam's fair banks will chant to thee the grateful song.
And deck the patriot's tomb with wreathes of fame;
And still o'er classic fields shall Porson stray,
And Aikin still adore his Howard's name:
May Fitzroy too the gen'rous transport share;
And rais'd by love of thee and love of truth,
View Liberty's long lustre mild and clear,
Till its full orb illume Britannia's youth.
And I, the meanest of the tuneful throng,
On Cam's fair banks will chant to thee the grateful song.
Or dost thou from Columbus' blissful plains,
Invite thy Paine, to rouse the languid hearts
Of Albion's sons, and through their feeble veins
Dart the electric fire, which quick imparts
Passions, which make them wonder, while they feel.
Auspicious queen! still shew thy beauteous face,
Till Britons kindle into rapture ------
Invite thy Paine, to rouse the languid hearts
Of Albion's sons, and through their feeble veins
Dart the electric fire, which quick imparts
Passions, which make them wonder, while they feel.
Auspicious queen! still shew thy beauteous face,
Till Britons kindle into rapture ------
36
Or dost thou, sweet enthusiast! choose to warm
With more than manly fire the female breast?
And urge thy Wollstonecraft to break the charm,
Where beauty lies in durance vile opprest?
Then will I from my Jebb's fair pages prove,
That female minds might teach a patriot throng;
Or “on the Loire's sweet banks” with Williams rove;
Or hear thee warble in Lætitia's song;
Or see thee weep in Charlotte's melting page;
And from Macaulay learn to scourge a venal age.
With more than manly fire the female breast?
And urge thy Wollstonecraft to break the charm,
Where beauty lies in durance vile opprest?
Then will I from my Jebb's fair pages prove,
That female minds might teach a patriot throng;
Or “on the Loire's sweet banks” with Williams rove;
Or hear thee warble in Lætitia's song;
37
And from Macaulay learn to scourge a venal age.
Or dost thou, near Maria's early tomb,
Clad like the muse of sorrow, drop a tear.
Oh! I will kiss that sacred drop, and roam
To strew the cypress on Maria's bier.
Or I will hear thee, fair Melpomene,
In my own Charlotte's pensive notes complain.
Faithful to thee, though pensive------
Clad like the muse of sorrow, drop a tear.
Oh! I will kiss that sacred drop, and roam
To strew the cypress on Maria's bier.
Or I will hear thee, fair Melpomene,
In my own Charlotte's pensive notes complain.
Faithful to thee, though pensive------
Or art thou wont to couch with lion pride
Near Britons genius, slumb'ring as in ire;
Waiting what time thy children shall abide
Thy noblest form, and glow with purest fire?
Sweet slumb'rer rest! yet shall the times be found,
When Britain's bards shall wake no venal strain,
Her prophets give no more a double sound;
No more her patriots thirst for sordid gain:
And lawless zeal shall sink to endless shame,
Nor longer keep thy seat, nor bear thy sacred name.
Near Britons genius, slumb'ring as in ire;
Waiting what time thy children shall abide
Thy noblest form, and glow with purest fire?
Sweet slumb'rer rest! yet shall the times be found,
When Britain's bards shall wake no venal strain,
Her prophets give no more a double sound;
No more her patriots thirst for sordid gain:
And lawless zeal shall sink to endless shame,
Nor longer keep thy seat, nor bear thy sacred name.
38
But shouldst thou scorn at length Britannia's isle,
Then would I pass with Penn the dang'rous sea;
Yes! I would hasten to some happier soil,
Where tyrants hold no rule, no slaves obey.
There would I woo thee, goddess, heav'nly fair;
Sing my wild notes to thee, where'er I roam;
Britons no more the muse's praise should share,
Tyrants abroad, and miscreants at home—
E'en Britain's friend would publish Britain's shame;
While barb'rous tribes should hear, and scorn a Briton's name—
Then would I pass with Penn the dang'rous sea;
Yes! I would hasten to some happier soil,
Where tyrants hold no rule, no slaves obey.
There would I woo thee, goddess, heav'nly fair;
Sing my wild notes to thee, where'er I roam;
Britons no more the muse's praise should share,
Tyrants abroad, and miscreants at home—
E'en Britain's friend would publish Britain's shame;
While barb'rous tribes should hear, and scorn a Briton's name—
But shouldst thou e'en from Britain speed thy way,
On Gallia's plains still linger with delight;
And while her patriots hail this sacred day,
Oh! aid their counsels, and their battles fight;
May tyrants ne'er, those murd'rers of the world,
Austria's proud Lord, and Prussia's faithless king,
Their blood-stain'd banners to the air unfurl'd,
O'er freedom's sons the note of triumph sing;
Still with the great resolve the Polish heroes fire,
To live in thine embrace, or at thy feet expire.
On Gallia's plains still linger with delight;
And while her patriots hail this sacred day,
Oh! aid their counsels, and their battles fight;
May tyrants ne'er, those murd'rers of the world,
Austria's proud Lord, and Prussia's faithless king,
Their blood-stain'd banners to the air unfurl'd,
O'er freedom's sons the note of triumph sing;
Still with the great resolve the Polish heroes fire,
To live in thine embrace, or at thy feet expire.
39
ELEGY I. BALAAM'S PROPHECY.
Numbers, Chap. xxiv.
Happy, thrice happy, Jacob, heav'n's delight!
Around thy tents what various beauties shine!
Rich vales, fair op'ning on the ravish'd sight,
And gardens, cheer'd by living brooks are thine.
Around thy tents what various beauties shine!
Rich vales, fair op'ning on the ravish'd sight,
And gardens, cheer'd by living brooks are thine.
Along thy silver streams and peaceful vales,
See beauteous trees in lovely order rise!
Here the soft balsam sweetens vernal gales,
There the proud cedar meets the bending skies.
See beauteous trees in lovely order rise!
Here the soft balsam sweetens vernal gales,
There the proud cedar meets the bending skies.
44
For thee each blossom drops with balmy dews,
For thee rich streams the nursling fruits befriend;
Thy King has bless'd thy plains, and curs'd thy foes,
And still will curse thy foes, and still thy plains defend.
For thee rich streams the nursling fruits befriend;
Thy King has bless'd thy plains, and curs'd thy foes,
And still will curse thy foes, and still thy plains defend.
On Nile's proud banks thy God his pow'r display'd,
And brought thee conqu'ror from thy humbled foe;
Erect with manly zeal, and heav'nly aid,
With gen'rous pride how did thy bosom glow!
And brought thee conqu'ror from thy humbled foe;
Erect with manly zeal, and heav'nly aid,
With gen'rous pride how did thy bosom glow!
Thus have I seen across some distant hill,
With flying feet the mountain oryx glide;
Wanton and free he mov'd at large, and still
His tow'ring horns he wav'd with conscious pride.
With flying feet the mountain oryx glide;
Wanton and free he mov'd at large, and still
His tow'ring horns he wav'd with conscious pride.
Soon shall thy foes their barb'rous schemes deplore,
Soon their vile corses round thy tents be spread;
Shatter'd their spears shall lie, and wound no more;
No more infest thy tents, and fill thy plains with dead.
Soon their vile corses round thy tents be spread;
Shatter'd their spears shall lie, and wound no more;
No more infest thy tents, and fill thy plains with dead.
45
When the young brindled lion couches low,
What daring beast shall rouse the slumb'ring king!
Soon would his breast with wild resentment glow,
And the wide forest with deep howlings ring.
Who blesses thee, himself shall blessings see;
But ruin seize the wretch, who ruin wishes thee!
What daring beast shall rouse the slumb'ring king!
Soon would his breast with wild resentment glow,
And the wide forest with deep howlings ring.
Who blesses thee, himself shall blessings see;
But ruin seize the wretch, who ruin wishes thee!
46
ELEGY II. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
Επαιαζουσιν Ερωτες.
Bion. Epitaph. Adon.
Bion. Epitaph. Adon.
If ever Poet breathes a gen'rous strain,
If ever Pity heaves the tend'rest sighs,
It is, when virtuous youth is doom'd to pain;
It is, when blooming beauty droops and dies.
If ever Pity heaves the tend'rest sighs,
It is, when virtuous youth is doom'd to pain;
It is, when blooming beauty droops and dies.
But if with youth, with beauty were combin'd
The sweetest flow'r of genius op'ning fair;
The softest manners, and the purest mind;
Heroes might weep, and saints let fall a tear.
The sweetest flow'r of genius op'ning fair;
The softest manners, and the purest mind;
Heroes might weep, and saints let fall a tear.
Take then, oh earth! take to thy clay-cold bed,
Beauty and youth, as rich as earth can send;
And take the tear, tear softer ne'er was shed,
Of father, mother, brother, sister, friend.
Beauty and youth, as rich as earth can send;
And take the tear, tear softer ne'er was shed,
Of father, mother, brother, sister, friend.
47
But long thou must not hold that beauteous clay;
That virtuous maid more lovely still shall rise;
What's born of heav'n shall spring to endless day;
Beauty may fade, but virtue never dies.
That virtuous maid more lovely still shall rise;
What's born of heav'n shall spring to endless day;
Beauty may fade, but virtue never dies.
48
ELEGY III. ASTERIA ROCKING THE CRADLE.
------ Κελομαι, ευδε βρεφος.
Simonides.
Simonides.
'Tis fair Asteria's fond employ
To rock yon little restless boy;
How great a treasure does contain
That cradle, in its small domain!
To rock yon little restless boy;
How great a treasure does contain
That cradle, in its small domain!
Not all Arabia's spicy store,
Not all Golconda's glitt'ring ore,
Elysian fields, nor Eden's grove,
Could buy that little restless love.
Not all Golconda's glitt'ring ore,
Elysian fields, nor Eden's grove,
Could buy that little restless love.
Sweet babe! the fair Asteria cries:
Sweet babe! the list'ning muse replies;
While here a faithful guard we keep,
Sweet babe! enjoy the honied sleep.
Sweet babe! the list'ning muse replies;
While here a faithful guard we keep,
Sweet babe! enjoy the honied sleep.
49
Now hush, the sobs! and hush, the cries!
Lo, gentle slumbers close his eyes!
And here a faithful guard we keep;
Sweet babe! enjoy the honied sleep.
Lo, gentle slumbers close his eyes!
And here a faithful guard we keep;
Sweet babe! enjoy the honied sleep.
Ere yon fair orb, that rules the sky,
Beam'd on that lovely infant's eye;
And ere it whimper'd, ere it wept,
Close in the silent womb it slept.
Beam'd on that lovely infant's eye;
And ere it whimper'd, ere it wept,
Close in the silent womb it slept.
And, who can tell the bitter smart
That pierc'd Asteria's trembling heart?
Yet sure there's magic in that boy,
That wakes the soft parental joy.
That pierc'd Asteria's trembling heart?
Yet sure there's magic in that boy,
That wakes the soft parental joy.
And still Asteria's languid face
Wears the pale primrose' sickly grace:
Yet o'er that face what brilliant hues
Can her beloved babe diffuse!
Wears the pale primrose' sickly grace:
Yet o'er that face what brilliant hues
Can her beloved babe diffuse!
How sweet beside the cradle's brink
In musing state to sit and think!
No daisy'd bank, no green hill's side,
So shines in nature's decent pride.
In musing state to sit and think!
No daisy'd bank, no green hill's side,
So shines in nature's decent pride.
50
Now see the babe unclose his eyes!
And see the mother's transport rise!
How ev'ry feature charms her sight!
How ev'ry motion wakes delight!
And see the mother's transport rise!
How ev'ry feature charms her sight!
How ev'ry motion wakes delight!
What rising beauties there she views!
The rosy lip, the polish'd nose,
The slender eye-brow budding thin,
The velvet cheek, the dimpling chin.
The rosy lip, the polish'd nose,
The slender eye-brow budding thin,
The velvet cheek, the dimpling chin.
Anon she views the sparkling eye,
The lifted hand, the tuneful cry;
And hast'ning on through years to come,
She traces out his future doom.
The lifted hand, the tuneful cry;
And hast'ning on through years to come,
She traces out his future doom.
“Haply he'll plead Religion's cause,
“Or weep o'er Freedom's bleeding laws;
“Or feel the Poet's sacred rage,
“Or trace the dark historic page.”
“Or weep o'er Freedom's bleeding laws;
“Or feel the Poet's sacred rage,
“Or trace the dark historic page.”
Nor is so sweet the sweetest gale,
That breathes across the silent vale,
From myrtle grove, or garden's bloom,
As is the honied breath's perfume.
That breathes across the silent vale,
From myrtle grove, or garden's bloom,
As is the honied breath's perfume.
51
At length she breathes the pious pray'r:
Great God, oh! make my child thy care!
And may his future actions be
Sacred to virtue, and to thee!
Great God, oh! make my child thy care!
And may his future actions be
Sacred to virtue, and to thee!
Whatever fortune then betide,
Thou shalt his portion still abide;
And when the course of life is run,
He'll wear a never with'ring crown.
Thou shalt his portion still abide;
And when the course of life is run,
He'll wear a never with'ring crown.
52
TO ------.
[_]
The Author having requested of a lady, at whose house he was on a visit, to allow him to sit up, and read when the family were in bed, she gave him permission, provided he would write a recipe for her cold.
Αλλ' εμπης ερεω τι τομωτερον η απο δαφνης.
Vid. Wakefield's Silva Critica, Vol. I. Sect. v.
Vid. Wakefield's Silva Critica, Vol. I. Sect. v.
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
Gray.
Gray.
Come, lively fancy, bright-eyed maid,
Fain would I feel thy magic pow'r;
Come, fairy, cheer the midnight shade,
And aid me in this solemn hour.
Oh! find me out a sov'reign pill,
For, see! the fair Belinda's ill.
Fain would I feel thy magic pow'r;
Come, fairy, cheer the midnight shade,
And aid me in this solemn hour.
Oh! find me out a sov'reign pill,
For, see! the fair Belinda's ill.
When long a cruel cough had seiz'd her,
The fair one deign'd to ask a cure;
With pills, broths, gruels, long I teas'd her,
She deigns to take, but finds no cure.
No—all in vain—the fair one's ill,
And vain are gruel, broth, and pill.
The fair one deign'd to ask a cure;
With pills, broths, gruels, long I teas'd her,
She deigns to take, but finds no cure.
No—all in vain—the fair one's ill,
And vain are gruel, broth, and pill.
53
Daffy, said I, oh! gentle madam,
Daffy, dear Daffy, sure will do;
Or Dr. Gifford's, if you had 'em,
Oh! patient fair, one pill or two.
But little yet avails my skill,
For still the fair Belinda's ill.
Daffy, dear Daffy, sure will do;
Or Dr. Gifford's, if you had 'em,
Oh! patient fair, one pill or two.
But little yet avails my skill,
For still the fair Belinda's ill.
Perch'd near, methought, my fairy sat,
And simp'ring cried, Your skill is vain;
Here, I have hit upon it pat,
Take up your pen and write a strain.
A rhyme, beyond the doctor's skill,
Revives Belinda, when she's ill.
And simp'ring cried, Your skill is vain;
Here, I have hit upon it pat,
Take up your pen and write a strain.
A rhyme, beyond the doctor's skill,
Revives Belinda, when she's ill.
A Rhyme well turn'd is sure to please,
Cheers—warms—and aids the perspiration;
When coughs and colds a fair one seize,
The best physician in the nation
Is a brisk bard; and e'en though ill
His rhyme, it proves the sov'reign pill.
Cheers—warms—and aids the perspiration;
When coughs and colds a fair one seize,
The best physician in the nation
Is a brisk bard; and e'en though ill
His rhyme, it proves the sov'reign pill.
54
A-rhyme ill turn'd will wound the ear—
Ill turn'd will raise Belinda's ire;
Soon shall I hear the cruel fair
Cry, Betty, throw it in the fire.
But—no—I will not call her cruel,
Bad rhymes are found to make good fuel,
To warm Belinda's broth and gruel.
Ill turn'd will raise Belinda's ire;
Soon shall I hear the cruel fair
Cry, Betty, throw it in the fire.
But—no—I will not call her cruel,
Bad rhymes are found to make good fuel,
To warm Belinda's broth and gruel.
THE END.
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