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5
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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