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BOOK THE SECOND.
TO AN EMINENT PAINTER.
When the fond mother with a silent joy
Surveys her lovely girl, or rosy boy;
When the kind husband with soft-gazing eye,
The face, that first awak'd the lover's sigh;
When gentle friends, who feel the mutual flame,
Dwell in warm transport on each other's name;
Or nations hail the hero brave and just,
And bless the statesman faithful to his trust;
Say,—what the wish?—ah wish how vain!
That what once charm'd their eye, might charm again;
The smile, the bloom, the rose's blushing dye,
The awe-inspiring front, and dauntless eye,
The nameless charm, that wak'd the young desire,
Stirr'd the bold thought, or rous'd the soul of fire;
That all might ever live, nor time derange
Nature's fair workings with eternal change.
Surveys her lovely girl, or rosy boy;
When the kind husband with soft-gazing eye,
The face, that first awak'd the lover's sigh;
When gentle friends, who feel the mutual flame,
Dwell in warm transport on each other's name;
Or nations hail the hero brave and just,
And bless the statesman faithful to his trust;
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That what once charm'd their eye, might charm again;
The smile, the bloom, the rose's blushing dye,
The awe-inspiring front, and dauntless eye,
The nameless charm, that wak'd the young desire,
Stirr'd the bold thought, or rous'd the soul of fire;
That all might ever live, nor time derange
Nature's fair workings with eternal change.
Yes!—fondness hop'd in vain to trace
The youthful lustre in a wrinkled face;
And what the patriot's, hero's, statesman's lot?
—Their deeds recorded, but the face forgot.
The youthful lustre in a wrinkled face;
And what the patriot's, hero's, statesman's lot?
—Their deeds recorded, but the face forgot.
For, see! how Spring and Summer lead the year,
And Autumn follows close, and Winter drear!
How round the dial shadows steal away,
For ever changing with the changing day!
How on rude ocean, into tempest tost,
Wave follows wave, and is for ever lost!
So pass the years of man; thus swiftly fly
The cheek light-smiling, and the sparkling eye,
The blush of health, and Love's ætherial light,
With all the magic beamings of delight.
The heats of manhood, foul Ambition's rage,
And thirsty Grief, and slow-consuming Age;
All something of the sap of life consume,
Weaken the strength, and wither all the bloom:
Hence sombre tints obscure, what smil'd before,
Till love, and health, and beauty bloom no more.
Till, as the rolling Ganges spreading wide,
Buries the feeble Indian in his tide;
Thus Death, in pity to the driv'ller's pains,
Sweeps to th' oblivious grave his poor remains.
And Autumn follows close, and Winter drear!
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For ever changing with the changing day!
How on rude ocean, into tempest tost,
Wave follows wave, and is for ever lost!
So pass the years of man; thus swiftly fly
The cheek light-smiling, and the sparkling eye,
The blush of health, and Love's ætherial light,
With all the magic beamings of delight.
The heats of manhood, foul Ambition's rage,
And thirsty Grief, and slow-consuming Age;
All something of the sap of life consume,
Weaken the strength, and wither all the bloom:
Hence sombre tints obscure, what smil'd before,
Till love, and health, and beauty bloom no more.
Till, as the rolling Ganges spreading wide,
Buries the feeble Indian in his tide;
Thus Death, in pity to the driv'ller's pains,
Sweeps to th' oblivious grave his poor remains.
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Hail! Grecia, skill'd in art, that art divine,
Which bade the human face again to shine;
Made passion speak, and every feature live,
And gave to Beauty all that Art could give;
Say, what thy triumphs, when in living dye,
Fair Helen roll'd again the melting eye!
When Alexander's form again was seen,
His haughty dignity, and royal mien!
And all thy sages, bards, and heroes brave,
Burst into life, as ransom'd from the grave!
Which bade the human face again to shine;
Made passion speak, and every feature live,
And gave to Beauty all that Art could give;
Say, what thy triumphs, when in living dye,
Fair Helen roll'd again the melting eye!
When Alexander's form again was seen,
His haughty dignity, and royal mien!
And all thy sages, bards, and heroes brave,
Burst into life, as ransom'd from the grave!
—, if sav'd at length from Party's rage,
The deeds of heroes grace th' historic page;
If sage Philosophy, and sacred Song,
Plato's deep sense, and Homer's honey'd tongue;
If Sculpture, such as Phidias' hand could raise,
Command our wonder, and ensure our praise;
Say, shall the Painter's art be less endear'd,
Or, as more pleasing, be the less rever'd?
Shall Zeuxis, who full many a glorious name
Fix'd in the temple of ennobling Fame;
Or, 'mid the task of each revolving day,
Apelles living character pourtray,
And yet themselves amid the vulgar throng
Sleep, unrewarded with the wreath of song?
The Muse forbad—she knew the sister's part,
(For colours fade beyond the reach of art),
She saw, how time destroys what genius rears,
Or fire devours at once the toil of years;
Then, warm with zeal, she struck the living lyre,
Nor let the Painter with his works expire.
The deeds of heroes grace th' historic page;
If sage Philosophy, and sacred Song,
Plato's deep sense, and Homer's honey'd tongue;
If Sculpture, such as Phidias' hand could raise,
Command our wonder, and ensure our praise;
Say, shall the Painter's art be less endear'd,
Or, as more pleasing, be the less rever'd?
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Fix'd in the temple of ennobling Fame;
Or, 'mid the task of each revolving day,
Apelles living character pourtray,
And yet themselves amid the vulgar throng
Sleep, unrewarded with the wreath of song?
The Muse forbad—she knew the sister's part,
(For colours fade beyond the reach of art),
She saw, how time destroys what genius rears,
Or fire devours at once the toil of years;
Then, warm with zeal, she struck the living lyre,
Nor let the Painter with his works expire.
For see! the colours change; see time destroy,
Once more, the lovely girl, the rosy boy,
Love's purple light desert the languid eye,
And Beauty's roseat colours quickly fly!
See the stern hero lose his eye of fire,
And all the sages rev'rend form retire!
Though just proportion mark each flowing line,
Though all the graces own the fair design,
Yet from the canvas shall each charm depart:
So strong is genius, and so frail is art!
Where now the fruit, so swelling on the sight,
That stopp'd the winged songster in his flight?
The curtain, that with finish'd grace pourtray'd,
All the rich subtleties of art convey'd?
The trembling virgin, and her breast of snow,
And the wild parent speechless in his woe?
Th' unrivall'd fair, who, as of heavenly name,
Warm'd every heart, and set the world on flame?
The captiv'd maid, who foil'd the Painter's art,
And fix'd her lovely picture on his heart?
All, all, are fled! and as the Painter dies,
So the bright colour from the canvas flies:
Vanish'd each form; and every fair design
Lives but in numbers, or adorns a coin.
Once more, the lovely girl, the rosy boy,
Love's purple light desert the languid eye,
And Beauty's roseat colours quickly fly!
See the stern hero lose his eye of fire,
And all the sages rev'rend form retire!
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Though all the graces own the fair design,
Yet from the canvas shall each charm depart:
So strong is genius, and so frail is art!
Where now the fruit, so swelling on the sight,
That stopp'd the winged songster in his flight?
The curtain, that with finish'd grace pourtray'd,
All the rich subtleties of art convey'd?
The trembling virgin, and her breast of snow,
And the wild parent speechless in his woe?
Th' unrivall'd fair, who, as of heavenly name,
Warm'd every heart, and set the world on flame?
The captiv'd maid, who foil'd the Painter's art,
And fix'd her lovely picture on his heart?
All, all, are fled! and as the Painter dies,
So the bright colour from the canvas flies:
Vanish'd each form; and every fair design
Lives but in numbers, or adorns a coin.
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Hence should the sister-arts in union move,
The same their honours, and the same their love;
Each see, and feel, as though the Gods inspire,
And give to mortals their immortal fire;
Through air, and earth, and sea, together range,
Mark Nature's steadiest forms, and wildest change;
Extend to future days each glorious name,
And, giving fame to others, challenge fame.
And, while the Painter gives the feature strong,
The Poet lifts the Painter in his song.
The same their honours, and the same their love;
Each see, and feel, as though the Gods inspire,
And give to mortals their immortal fire;
Through air, and earth, and sea, together range,
Mark Nature's steadiest forms, and wildest change;
Extend to future days each glorious name,
And, giving fame to others, challenge fame.
And, while the Painter gives the feature strong,
The Poet lifts the Painter in his song.
Thus Waller sung in Charles's merry reign,
And Vandyck's name adorn'd the courtly strain,
With ready skill he trac'd the pencil'd face,
And from the Painter stole poetic grace.
And thus, enliven'd by the muse's ray,
The critic-poet pour'd his laureat lay;
And, as the royal hero rose to view,
He sung the hero, and the painter too.
His lyre the tuneful Pope to Jervas strung,
And, as the painter felt, the poet sung.
Each struck the chord, that rul'd the other's heart,
Each seiz'd an image from the sister-art;
Ev'n Dryden's prose shall Fresnoy's art prolong,
And Mason make it live in British song.
And Vandyck's name adorn'd the courtly strain,
With ready skill he trac'd the pencil'd face,
And from the Painter stole poetic grace.
And thus, enliven'd by the muse's ray,
The critic-poet pour'd his laureat lay;
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He sung the hero, and the painter too.
His lyre the tuneful Pope to Jervas strung,
And, as the painter felt, the poet sung.
Each struck the chord, that rul'd the other's heart,
Each seiz'd an image from the sister-art;
Ev'n Dryden's prose shall Fresnoy's art prolong,
And Mason make it live in British song.
So, when I view beneath thy powerful art
The speaking feature from the canvas start;
When thy bold colouring spreads the shining hue,
And gives some friend, as living, to the view,
How could I hope,—as long shall be imprest
His generous virtues on some kindred breast,
So to his children might thy skill convey,
—Nor dread the silent stealth of slow decay,—
His steady worth—that curious when they scan
The fair resemblance of the living man,
Read in his face, amid the warmth of youth,
The pride of honour, and the glow of truth;
The kindred passion they within might feel,
Glow with his friendship, catch his patriot zeal;
And conscious, whence they caught the potent flame,
Bless with an honest zeal his artist's name!
The speaking feature from the canvas start;
When thy bold colouring spreads the shining hue,
And gives some friend, as living, to the view,
How could I hope,—as long shall be imprest
His generous virtues on some kindred breast,
So to his children might thy skill convey,
—Nor dread the silent stealth of slow decay,—
His steady worth—that curious when they scan
The fair resemblance of the living man,
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The pride of honour, and the glow of truth;
The kindred passion they within might feel,
Glow with his friendship, catch his patriot zeal;
And conscious, whence they caught the potent flame,
Bless with an honest zeal his artist's name!
For me—well-pleas'd this wreath to thee I twine,
Proud to enroll my humble name with thine.
And should the verse but live beyond a day,
Some youthful genius, kindling at the lay,
Shall feel the proud desire like thee to please,
Catch all thy force, and rival all thy ease,
Ambitious 'mid the formost to excell,
Yet taught, how hard the task, to pencil well.
Proud to enroll my humble name with thine.
And should the verse but live beyond a day,
Some youthful genius, kindling at the lay,
Shall feel the proud desire like thee to please,
Catch all thy force, and rival all thy ease,
Ambitious 'mid the formost to excell,
Yet taught, how hard the task, to pencil well.
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HOMER'S STATUE.
Homer seem'd living brass, not destituteOf genius, and of mind; scarce unpossess'd
Of voice ambrosial: so divine the skill,
That e'en the brass appear'd a god in form.
For scarcely can I think, that labouring hand
Of mortal artist, station'd at his seat,
Could shape that brass; but rather Pallas' self,
Deep-counsell'd, fashion'd it: for she his form
Well-knew: she the rich song of wisdom breath'd
Through Homer, dwelling in his secret soul,
Apollo's partner: then conspicuous stood
My father, god-like Homer! Much he seem'd
Some aged man; yet was that age most sweet,
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Venerably sweet, that brighten'd all his form.
Behind his bending neck a time-worn lock
Flow'd from his hair, which from beside each ear
Meandring stray'd: beneath extended wide
His beard, which mellow curl'd, not to a point
Tapering, but sloping broad, reflecting charms
Upon his naked breast, and lovely face.
Bald was his forehead: yet that forehead bald
Shewed wisdom seated, counsellor of youth.
Around his jutting eyebrows wandered art
Considerate, nor in vain: for from his eyes
Fled was the light: yet did he not appear
Like a blind man: for on his sightless orbs
Sat a sweet grace, which viewing, one might think,
Art labour'd much, to make it seem to all,
That from the secret fountain of his heart
The bard sent up a stream of heavenly light.
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And somewhat hollowed, but upon them fat
The Grace's partner, Modesty innate.
The bee Pierian round his sacred mouth
Stray'd wanton, big with honey-dropping sweets:
In mutual embrace his hands were lock'd,
Which, as when living, rested on a staff.
His right ear list'ning seem'd, as though some muse,
Or Phœbus' lyre, were near; likening him to one
With mind intensely fix'd; while here and there
Genius, from inward light divergent, stray'd,
Various and quick, weaving some war-like theme,
Whose well-proportion'd harmonies might charm,
Like Syren, warbling-soft Pierian airs.
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ON VISITING THE TOMB OF DAVID HUME,
THE HISTORIAN, IN A BURYING GROUND AT EDINBURGH.
There comes a season, when man's eye, disturb'd,
Looks forth for nothing further, but appears
Awhile to close; and, the reflecting mind
Deep pondering on itself, forgets the world.
Fair Spring, with all her pearls, and tints, and flowers,
No longer charms, nor Summer's purple fruits
Distilling nectar'd sweets, nor Autumn's crops
Of glowing gold; nor Winter, with his frosts
Mantling the mountain-tops, and binding, close,
With freezing hand, waters, and glens, and groves.
Beauteously grotesque, or wanton-wild, the scene
Smiles vainly; for th' unconscious eye sees not
In seeing, with no rapture swells the breast:
Morning from saffron wing her airs perfum'd
Scatters in vain, and wakes her minstrel bird,
The tuneful lark, in vain; kind Heaven around
Drops softest influence, and high Noon in vain
Darts down her gaudiest ray: when Night ascends
Her throne imperial, and bright hosts attend
Of myriad constellations, man in vain
Gazes; and walks a stranger through the world.
For what may cheer the sight, when th' heart complains?
He, Moralist, by Sorrow's softest touch
Chastened and mellowed, like the golden ore
In furnace melted, ponders on distress,
Follies, and human frailties; forming thence
The rules of patience, and the laws prescrib'd,
On meek benevolence: manacling strong
The raving passions: till the soul, sublim'd,
And inly strengthen'd, grows serene and good.
Looks forth for nothing further, but appears
Awhile to close; and, the reflecting mind
Deep pondering on itself, forgets the world.
Fair Spring, with all her pearls, and tints, and flowers,
No longer charms, nor Summer's purple fruits
Distilling nectar'd sweets, nor Autumn's crops
Of glowing gold; nor Winter, with his frosts
Mantling the mountain-tops, and binding, close,
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Beauteously grotesque, or wanton-wild, the scene
Smiles vainly; for th' unconscious eye sees not
In seeing, with no rapture swells the breast:
Morning from saffron wing her airs perfum'd
Scatters in vain, and wakes her minstrel bird,
The tuneful lark, in vain; kind Heaven around
Drops softest influence, and high Noon in vain
Darts down her gaudiest ray: when Night ascends
Her throne imperial, and bright hosts attend
Of myriad constellations, man in vain
Gazes; and walks a stranger through the world.
For what may cheer the sight, when th' heart complains?
He, Moralist, by Sorrow's softest touch
Chastened and mellowed, like the golden ore
In furnace melted, ponders on distress,
Follies, and human frailties; forming thence
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On meek benevolence: manacling strong
The raving passions: till the soul, sublim'd,
And inly strengthen'd, grows serene and good.
Such is the season, when near Avon's banks
Bards weep at Shakspeare's tomb, with inward grief
Sorrowing, that such, whose songs have charm'd the world,
Lie silent down so quickly, like a harp
Old, broken, useless, whence gay melodies
The skilful minstrel never wakes again;
Or like a weapon, by th' encrusted mould
Close over-grown, and faded, till no more
Tapers and shines the time-devoured steel.
Such, too, the season, when from Calton Hill
The travellers with quicken'd steps approach
Death's silent mansion, where in long repose
Together sleep philosopher and fool,
Unenvying, undistinguish'd: there the sage
With reverence pauses; there the silent tear
Of sympathy lets fall, while on thy tomb
Gazing, oh, Hume! laughter, and song, and wit,
And idle babbling absent, much he sighs,
And thinks, I too must die:—Thro' the close breast
A pleasing sadness steals: for, 'mid the crowd
Of mortals dead, to ponder o'er the few
Of frame more durable, who living rais'd
Their fame's more lasting monument, and lest
A legacy of deeds to times remote,
Is sweet, even when the soul is sad, is sweet.
Bards weep at Shakspeare's tomb, with inward grief
Sorrowing, that such, whose songs have charm'd the world,
Lie silent down so quickly, like a harp
Old, broken, useless, whence gay melodies
The skilful minstrel never wakes again;
Or like a weapon, by th' encrusted mould
Close over-grown, and faded, till no more
Tapers and shines the time-devoured steel.
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The travellers with quicken'd steps approach
Death's silent mansion, where in long repose
Together sleep philosopher and fool,
Unenvying, undistinguish'd: there the sage
With reverence pauses; there the silent tear
Of sympathy lets fall, while on thy tomb
Gazing, oh, Hume! laughter, and song, and wit,
And idle babbling absent, much he sighs,
And thinks, I too must die:—Thro' the close breast
A pleasing sadness steals: for, 'mid the crowd
Of mortals dead, to ponder o'er the few
Of frame more durable, who living rais'd
Their fame's more lasting monument, and lest
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Is sweet, even when the soul is sad, is sweet.
And, such wast thou, sagacious moralist,
Whose lessons shine not only in thy works,
Thy life was moral: and may I condemn
The man of searching mind, who systems weigh'd
In judgment's nicer scale, and yielded not
His weight of faith, when he durst not believe?
Whose lessons shine not only in thy works,
Thy life was moral: and may I condemn
The man of searching mind, who systems weigh'd
In judgment's nicer scale, and yielded not
His weight of faith, when he durst not believe?
Nor less with grace, and ease, and dignity
Chasten'd, the historian shines, tho' not bestarr'd
With fancies luminous:—yet does the page
Spread a mild lustre round; nor shall the speck
That lightly passes o'er, eclipse its beams.
Chasten'd, the historian shines, tho' not bestarr'd
With fancies luminous:—yet does the page
Spread a mild lustre round; nor shall the speck
That lightly passes o'er, eclipse its beams.
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TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE MORGAN.
WRITTEN ON THE SEA-COAST.
Thou lonesome shore, I hail thee! Not a starIllumes the skies, and not a sound is heard!
Nature, as tho' to help mankind to think,
Seems a short pause to hold:—no traveller
Paces the beach; the only living thing,
Scarce living, the poor shell-fish, that I tread,
Buried in sand and stone, beneath my feet.
'Tis night—the time when real forms are still;
When superstition walks—when she creates
New eyes, new ears—and sees across the moor,
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Forms more or less than human, bloody or pale,
Slow-pacing, or quick-flying—she can hear
Foot-steps of terror, the loud clanking chain,
Disturbing the repose, at dead of night,
Of mansion, now untenanted; such forms,
As shake a very hero; sounds that stir,
In a saint's bosom, fear amid his prayers.
And ocean's waves, unruffled by the wind,
Sleep undisturb'd—and Fancy now might hear,
Far, far away, the shriek of mariners,
Faint, hopeless, lost; while the ship round and round
Tost, bulges, and then plunges in the deep.
But superstition here shall have no place,
And fancy none—realities demand
A genuine strain: and could that strain but flow,
As, Morgan, it should flow, not vainly then
Should it return: then recollection strong
Should be rekindled;—what thy brother was;
—The son, that could to age consoling give
The lov'd attentions;—th' husband that outstript
His partner's wishes;—the benignant fire,
His children's joy;—to thee another self,
Kindest of brothers;—and mid friends a friend,
Not of the vulgar and the narrow sort:
Such should he live—the patriot should live;
And, above all, the friend of human kind.
His principle should live; his love of man
Move in some breast, perhaps estrang'd before
To the large passion, bath'd, as it might seem,
Into his very spirit, 'till he rose
A soul baptiz'd, a new created man.
And fancy none—realities demand
A genuine strain: and could that strain but flow,
As, Morgan, it should flow, not vainly then
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Should be rekindled;—what thy brother was;
—The son, that could to age consoling give
The lov'd attentions;—th' husband that outstript
His partner's wishes;—the benignant fire,
His children's joy;—to thee another self,
Kindest of brothers;—and mid friends a friend,
Not of the vulgar and the narrow sort:
Such should he live—the patriot should live;
And, above all, the friend of human kind.
His principle should live; his love of man
Move in some breast, perhaps estrang'd before
To the large passion, bath'd, as it might seem,
Into his very spirit, 'till he rose
A soul baptiz'd, a new created man.
His was the pastor's lot:—and tho' he doff'd
The shepherd-trim, yet could he not shift off,
—Nature had cloath'd him there,—the pastor's heart.
For social was his soul; and what he gain'd
Of knowledge fair he freely would impart
To all in friendliest converse, but to youth
The most, as to the tenderest of the flock.
The pastor, become tutor, now instill'd
With science, principle, and love of truth,
Ardour for liberty, the proud contempt
Of power, and priest-craft, and the fondling wiles
Links of the chain, that rivets human kind.
The shepherd-trim, yet could he not shift off,
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For social was his soul; and what he gain'd
Of knowledge fair he freely would impart
To all in friendliest converse, but to youth
The most, as to the tenderest of the flock.
The pastor, become tutor, now instill'd
With science, principle, and love of truth,
Ardour for liberty, the proud contempt
Of power, and priest-craft, and the fondling wiles
Links of the chain, that rivets human kind.
And did he teach in vain? No—Morgan—no—
Love is a stirring principle—a seed,
That silently works upward into life,
Of flower and fruit most fragrant; and a soil,
The breast of youth, where heaven delights to shed
The richest influence, and to th' heart's root strikes.
Love is a stirring principle—a seed,
That silently works upward into life,
Of flower and fruit most fragrant; and a soil,
The breast of youth, where heaven delights to shed
The richest influence, and to th' heart's root strikes.
Oh! ye his children, when in distant years
Ye bustle thro' a world, where slavery, pride,
Avarice, ambition, and the abject routs
Of worse than pagan deities are seen,
Abominations, worshipp'd at highest noon,
On altars deep distain'd with precious gore,
With human victims,—tho' the cries are drown'd
In the loud shouts of victory, and the bray
Of triumph, and the din of midnight riot,
And self admiring soothings; rites more curs'd,
More filthy, hell-born, than were ever paid
On Grecian shrines, or to that tyrant god
Moloch, who erst by Rabba's fruitful vale
Drank of the hell-cup mixt with parents tears;—
Oh! when abominations, such as these,
Crowd on your eyes, and ye may, chance, reflect
On cities pillag'd, and on villages
In flames, lands wide wasted, with the pride
Of arts demolish'd, and of temples raz'd;
Then say, and let self-rev'rence work within,
“Such gods were not the worship of my sire.”
But, when ye see within the peaceful vale
Industry bend, and independence link'd
Closely behind her, Science, and the train
Of smiling virtues, honour and truth, and love,
The love of human kind: Oh! then revolve,
Such was my father; then may move within
The true ambition, the full soul of zeal,
To emulate his worth; and on your breasts
Striking, while sweet remembrance stirs within,
Say, with an honest pride:—“Here sleeps my sire;
“Here unforgotten lies an honest man.”
And, Morgan, in this breast too he shall lie:
Ye bustle thro' a world, where slavery, pride,
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Of worse than pagan deities are seen,
Abominations, worshipp'd at highest noon,
On altars deep distain'd with precious gore,
With human victims,—tho' the cries are drown'd
In the loud shouts of victory, and the bray
Of triumph, and the din of midnight riot,
And self admiring soothings; rites more curs'd,
More filthy, hell-born, than were ever paid
On Grecian shrines, or to that tyrant god
Moloch, who erst by Rabba's fruitful vale
Drank of the hell-cup mixt with parents tears;—
Oh! when abominations, such as these,
Crowd on your eyes, and ye may, chance, reflect
On cities pillag'd, and on villages
In flames, lands wide wasted, with the pride
Of arts demolish'd, and of temples raz'd;
Then say, and let self-rev'rence work within,
“Such gods were not the worship of my sire.”
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Industry bend, and independence link'd
Closely behind her, Science, and the train
Of smiling virtues, honour and truth, and love,
The love of human kind: Oh! then revolve,
Such was my father; then may move within
The true ambition, the full soul of zeal,
To emulate his worth; and on your breasts
Striking, while sweet remembrance stirs within,
Say, with an honest pride:—“Here sleeps my sire;
“Here unforgotten lies an honest man.”
And song shall tell his worth:—nor shall that song
Seem mean, except there be who thought him mean.
Verse hath its gaieties: nor think it vain,
If sometimes, to give life to languid hours,
Or a new zest to pleasure, it may choose
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For verse is often made by skilful hands
The heart's restorative, and often tips
Love with gay wings, and makes him fly at large
Free as the air, and oft on vagrant hearts
Slips the light chain of matrimonial bonds.
Verse hath, too, nobler services; to sound
The triumphs fair of Freedom, to record
The patriot virtues, honour, justice, truth,
Benevolence; nor is less fond to strew,
When worth departs, the flow'ret on its grave,
Blooming, tho' humble, speaking to the world,
“That virtue should not die:” such, Morgan, take
A friend's poor tribute to thy brother's name.
102
ON THE DEATH OF GILBERT WAKEFIELD.
MEDITATED IN A GARDEN, NEAR A CHURCH-YARD, AT THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.
Oh! rural walk! Thy stillness now how sweet,Thy stillness and thy gloom, as erst thy song,
Thy morning-smile, and flower!—from sickness now
I come, to count the sum of human life,
A sum how small! to muse its many ills,
Its frailties, follies, numerous; and I come,
To muse on death;—for Wakefield is no more.
And is he then no more? The man so full
Of schemes, of learn'd resolves, so prompt and quick
To execute, with temperance who had form'd
So close alliance, that, methought, he seem'd
Destin'd to live, the cool grey chronicler
Of years now passing, and of years to pass
Some thirty years to come;—the gen'rous friend,—
Is he no more? Farewell, then, world, awhile;—
And thou shalt be my cloister, rural shade.
No mountain scene is near, to lift the gaze
To gaudy prospects; no resplendent curl
Of falling cataract; no resounding noise
Of ocean, to inspire majestic thought,
Or language deep and strong; no poplar shade,
No myrtle grove, no softly-flowing stream,
With willow crown'd, to sooth a lover's breast.
Time is, such things shall please—sweet rural walk,
Thee now I seek: nor less, tho' church-yard near
Gives the memento, that life's cultur'd walk
Conducts but to the grave; and that I hear
The clock give notice, Time is on the wing,
And the full-tolling bell, that seems to say
“There fled from one the whole of passing time.”
Of schemes, of learn'd resolves, so prompt and quick
To execute, with temperance who had form'd
So close alliance, that, methought, he seem'd
103
Of years now passing, and of years to pass
Some thirty years to come;—the gen'rous friend,—
Is he no more? Farewell, then, world, awhile;—
And thou shalt be my cloister, rural shade.
No mountain scene is near, to lift the gaze
To gaudy prospects; no resplendent curl
Of falling cataract; no resounding noise
Of ocean, to inspire majestic thought,
Or language deep and strong; no poplar shade,
No myrtle grove, no softly-flowing stream,
With willow crown'd, to sooth a lover's breast.
Time is, such things shall please—sweet rural walk,
Thee now I seek: nor less, tho' church-yard near
Gives the memento, that life's cultur'd walk
Conducts but to the grave; and that I hear
The clock give notice, Time is on the wing,
And the full-tolling bell, that seems to say
104
Now closes Autumn—and, oh season calm!
Thou shalt instruct me,—thou to man canst act,
And well canst act, the moralizer's part;—
Thou art a page in nature's volume fair,
And wise thy lesson, and thy language plain,
And well-enforc'd, and strong;—thou art all truth.
Impressive monitor, I bend to thee
Submissive; to thy lesson grave and sage
Will be all eye, all ear;—for tho' I see
No blossom peeping on the smiling year;
Nor flow'r to greet me; nor the melting voice
Of nightingale, nor shining fruit t' allure
My taste; yet, closing Autumn, shall thy leaf
Yellow, and wrinkled, preach close to my heart.
Methinks, it says, ah! what art thou, O man?
A falling withering leaf—and such thy friend.
He had his Spring—his Summer—scarcely he saw
His Autumn—for as yet he had not pass'd
His glowing time of life; unless, perchance,
Our life is Autumn all; for in the midst
Of life we are in death, and while man seems
Smiling in years, falls like yon falling leaf.
Thou shalt instruct me,—thou to man canst act,
And well canst act, the moralizer's part;—
Thou art a page in nature's volume fair,
And wise thy lesson, and thy language plain,
And well-enforc'd, and strong;—thou art all truth.
Impressive monitor, I bend to thee
Submissive; to thy lesson grave and sage
Will be all eye, all ear;—for tho' I see
No blossom peeping on the smiling year;
Nor flow'r to greet me; nor the melting voice
Of nightingale, nor shining fruit t' allure
My taste; yet, closing Autumn, shall thy leaf
Yellow, and wrinkled, preach close to my heart.
Methinks, it says, ah! what art thou, O man?
A falling withering leaf—and such thy friend.
He had his Spring—his Summer—scarcely he saw
105
His glowing time of life; unless, perchance,
Our life is Autumn all; for in the midst
Of life we are in death, and while man seems
Smiling in years, falls like yon falling leaf.
Oh! well do I remember, years ago,
That I did wander, tho' long train'd to thought,
Still too, too thoughtless, near thy stream, oh Cam!
There first I saw the friend that now I mourn.
For near thy stream, he, too, was wont to crop
The flowers of learning—I remember well—
Beneath his garb, the trappings of the schools,
I saw a form erect and slender, like
T' one early form'd to manliness of thought
And rigid duties: o'er his visage pale
Fair Science beam'd; and quick around his eye
A critic archness play'd, that would have seem'd
On sternness bent and querulousness, but that
A gentleness was there, that still appear'd
To check some frowardness, which while it oft
Obtruded its dislikes, yet did not seem
From the pure fountain of his heart to rise.
His gait was steady, firm; for much he seem'd
As he but walk'd, to gather in his mind
Thoughts, that had stray'd, or to digest with care
The feastings of his soul in bookish hours.
I knew him not; at least, I did not know
The friend;—I only knew of worth and wit,
The zeal of industry, the love of fame,
Of virtue, science, and they call'd them, Wakefield.
That I did wander, tho' long train'd to thought,
Still too, too thoughtless, near thy stream, oh Cam!
There first I saw the friend that now I mourn.
For near thy stream, he, too, was wont to crop
The flowers of learning—I remember well—
Beneath his garb, the trappings of the schools,
I saw a form erect and slender, like
T' one early form'd to manliness of thought
And rigid duties: o'er his visage pale
Fair Science beam'd; and quick around his eye
A critic archness play'd, that would have seem'd
106
A gentleness was there, that still appear'd
To check some frowardness, which while it oft
Obtruded its dislikes, yet did not seem
From the pure fountain of his heart to rise.
His gait was steady, firm; for much he seem'd
As he but walk'd, to gather in his mind
Thoughts, that had stray'd, or to digest with care
The feastings of his soul in bookish hours.
I knew him not; at least, I did not know
The friend;—I only knew of worth and wit,
The zeal of industry, the love of fame,
Of virtue, science, and they call'd them, Wakefield.
This was his Spring of life, when hopes were gay,
And wishes blooming, not of honours high,
Or in the world, or in the churches mart,
But to secure the crown of well-earn'd praise,
Of genius, and of learning:—and he did
Obtain the well earn'd wreathe, which well was worn
Thro' life, and with advancing years still grew.
And wishes blooming, not of honours high,
Or in the world, or in the churches mart,
But to secure the crown of well-earn'd praise,
107
Obtain the well earn'd wreathe, which well was worn
Thro' life, and with advancing years still grew.
But, in the Summer of his life I knew him,
And call'd him friend: for in our hearts did dwell
Some kindred likings and some kindred scorns:
The tyrant's state, the pontiff's pomp and pride,
The hireling's meanness; the debasing tricks
Of avarice; the sycophantic airs
Of danglers after wealth: ah! subjects fit
Of generous scorn: together we did hail
The star of Freedom, rising on a world
Of slavery-goaded men: we liv'd to see
France rise to something of the new-born man,
Snapping her fetters off, enlarg'd and free.
Oh! had he liv'd to hail this day of Peace,
It should have wak'd some ardent, generous thoughts,
Some rapturous feelings, some exulting notes,
And he had triumph'd in his prison-house.
His prison-house! He had no prison-house:
Worth, freedom, wisdom, still can walk at large,
Tho' bolts, and bars, and walls of adamant,
May intervene: the sun's æthereal beam,
The lightest breeze, the voice of wife, of child,
And friend, and, chiefest, conscience, light within,
Cheer the brave man retir'd; while mind upsoars
Thro' worlds on worlds, beyond the reach of fear.
And call'd him friend: for in our hearts did dwell
Some kindred likings and some kindred scorns:
The tyrant's state, the pontiff's pomp and pride,
The hireling's meanness; the debasing tricks
Of avarice; the sycophantic airs
Of danglers after wealth: ah! subjects fit
Of generous scorn: together we did hail
The star of Freedom, rising on a world
Of slavery-goaded men: we liv'd to see
France rise to something of the new-born man,
Snapping her fetters off, enlarg'd and free.
108
It should have wak'd some ardent, generous thoughts,
Some rapturous feelings, some exulting notes,
And he had triumph'd in his prison-house.
His prison-house! He had no prison-house:
Worth, freedom, wisdom, still can walk at large,
Tho' bolts, and bars, and walls of adamant,
May intervene: the sun's æthereal beam,
The lightest breeze, the voice of wife, of child,
And friend, and, chiefest, conscience, light within,
Cheer the brave man retir'd; while mind upsoars
Thro' worlds on worlds, beyond the reach of fear.
But I have wander'd: let me then recount
The sum of life, and prosit by th' amount:
A little learning, and a little weakness;
A little pleasure, and enough of pain:
A little freedom, with its tale of slavery;
Passions and reasons struggle; where, tho' oft
Reason claims empire, passion governs still;
Believing much, yet doubting not a little;
Till sickness comes, and with it gloom of thought;—
When man, quite wearied with a world, perhaps,
Not moving to his mind, a foolish world,
Seeks inward stillness, and lies quiet down.
The sum of life, and prosit by th' amount:
109
A little pleasure, and enough of pain:
A little freedom, with its tale of slavery;
Passions and reasons struggle; where, tho' oft
Reason claims empire, passion governs still;
Believing much, yet doubting not a little;
Till sickness comes, and with it gloom of thought;—
When man, quite wearied with a world, perhaps,
Not moving to his mind, a foolish world,
Seeks inward stillness, and lies quiet down.
110
MONODY. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT ROBINSON.
I
“Warm'd by the glowing year,“Awake to life, harmonious strings;
“Still rise, my song, in numbers soft and clear,
“For still the garden smiles, the groves with wild-notes ring.”
In Hammond's bower, at ease reclin'd,
Thus I reliev'd my weary mind;
111
And friendship listen'd to the lay.
But what avail the flowers of song?
Must I thus drop th' unsinish'd wreath?
Or scatter it the tombs among,
To wither near the realms of death?
Ye flowery tribes, and vernal song, adieu;
A mourner sad I go, to court the baleful yew.
II
Again, thou yew tree's shade,Again receive your trembling guest.
Ye regions, where repose the hallow'd dead,
Find me some secret charm, to heal this aching breast.
Thro' garden, skies, and grove,
In vain should Fancy rove,
112
Faint all the myrtle's rich perfume,
And faint thy beams, oh! sacred light!
Ah! dearer now the church yard's gloom,
Where the pale empress of the night
Silvers, serene, the moss-grown tomb.
There fond to muse, in thought I now will stray;
For there my Theron sleeps, and I will bless his clay.
III
As in the lonely valeThe modest primrose droops and dies,
Or near the pathless hedge the violet pale,
So gentle Theron droop'd, so breath'd his dying sighs.
113
No children dropp'd the fervid tear;
No wife receiv'd the last request;
No friend the dying eye-lid press'd.
'Mid the deep silence of the night,
Softly the genial heats retire;
And quickly close his orbs of sight,
Like lamps, that suddenly expire:
Oh! wishes, that but flatter, to deceive:
Ah! prayers, that nourish hope, yet leave but cause to grieve.
IV
High on the topmost boughsOf Virtue's ever-blooming tree,
A flower, of rich ambrosial fragrance, blows,
Ah! never reach'd by Pride, fair Charity.
114
Climb the blest tree, and crop the flower;
And plant it deep within this breast,
To blossom there, a sacred guest:
The simple sweets should cheer me more,
When hopes decline, and grief invades,
Than could Arabia's copious store,
Or rich Italian shades.
If ever mortal cropp'd that hallow'd tree,
My Theron, it was cropp'd, thou kindest friend, by thee.
V
Among the village-youthThe generous Theron lov'd to rove;
To them he strew'd the honey'd gems of truth,
With all the patriot's zeal, with all the pastor's love.
115
Yet could his learning's fruitful stores,
And all his melody of tongue,
Charm wisdom's more enlighten'd throng.
Age ceas'd lost pleasures to bewail;
Contentment smil'd at poverty;
Labour would welcome pain, and hail
The orient sun of liberty:
“Still let me toil, still not inglorious toil,
“In Britain's happy plains, in Freedom's favourite isle.
VI
But, say, has Heaven in vainThe generous breast with freedom fir'd?
Shall friendship hopeless round their tombs complain,
Whom love of honest fame, and virtuous zeal inspir'd?
116
In peace their sacred ashes rest:
And oft the grateful bard shall stray,
To sing their worth, to bless their clay.
For brighter still their names shall rise,
Tho' time a restless course pursue,
Thro' fairer fields and purer skies,
And steady lustre shew.
Still in their works they live, and live to shine,
Like stars of human kind, a long illustrious line.
117
A NIGHT THOUGHT:
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION, IN EMANUEL COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, ON A VISIT, AFTER SOME YEARS ABSENCE.
I
As some lone redbreast, shivering from the storm,Forsakes the precincts of the leafless grove,
And, while bleak winter nature's face deforms,
Still finds a shelter in some neat alcove:
118
II
Thus I, still travelling thro' this vale of tears,And not unoft beset with tempests rude,
Here rest my weary steps, and hush my fears,
Wrapt in thy sacred haunt, blest solitude.
III
Ye walls, (for ye have witness'd oft my prayer)Oh once again receive a transient guest!
A wanderer oft, and now the child of care,
Here let him steal a momentary-rest.
IV
Studious of truth, I sought your mild abode;And wander'd still, tho' studious, far away:
Ah! could I think, as yet untaught, the road
So thorny was, that fancy painted gay?
119
V
Rich as the stream o'er thirsty Egypt pours,Soft as the breeze o'er Libya's parched plain,
To me so rich are memory's fruitful stores,
Thus soft to me the Muse's plaintive strain.
VI
Remembrance brings to view the polish'd friend,My youth's sweet pride, the patron of my song;
With grateful love at Askew's name I bend;
One hallow'd strain to Askew's name prolong.
120
VII
And long as reason holds its faithful seat,Eliza's worth shall dwell within this breast;
Wisdom and beauty in Eliza met;
Deep on this heart her image lies impress'd.
VIIII
At Hope's vain dream how smil'd insidious death!Ah! forms that live in wayward Fancy's eye!
Or hang but on a mortal's fleeting breath,
And with that mortal doom'd, ah! soon to die.
IX
But say, is Hope thus doom'd through life to dream?Is Fancy, though a gay, yet faithless guide?
False as yon orb, reflected from the stream,
Light as the meteors, that thro' æther glide?
121
X
No—let Reflection try her native force;Her aid let sage Experience duly lend;
So shall meek Patience smooth life's downward course,
And stern Affliction prove a faithful friend.
XI
Fair nature's volume, legible and plain,Its ample page unfolds to all mankind;
Read by the sage, though often read in vain,
Read by the savage, deem'd by sages blind.
XII
The breeze, tho' light, that whispers thro' the dale,The flower, tho' mean, that drinks the pearly dew,
The smallest insect, floating on the gale,
Give to their grief-worn cheek a brighter hue.
122
XIII
Yet are there, whom delights not Nature's green,Nor sooths the melting songster's sweetest lay:
Mourners there are, who love the midnight scene,
And, like the night-bird, shun the face of day:
XIV
There are, who love the gothic aisle to tread,The dark grove frowning round the hermit's stall,
The cloister'd pile, where sleep the noble dead,
And heroes bleed upon th' escutcheon'd wall.
XV
Nor dare, ye tribes, that frolic gay at noon,Nor ye, who grieve in state, their woes deride;
E'en the hoarse night-bird screaming to the moon,
More sooths, than Folly's noise, or Folly's pride.
123
XVI
Nor vainly twinkle those fair orbs of light;Nor vainly does yon moon's mild glory shine;
Nor the still waters shew the face of night:
Ah! scene, how well allied to cares like mine!
XVII
And e'en around this solitary room,Kind visitant, to cheer my midnight song,
The same fair moon throws no unpleasing gloom,
Spreading athwart its shadows dark and long.
XVIII
For not alone complaining Love shall findThe magic stillness of the midnight scene;
Sorrows, if such there be, of heavier kind,
Lose their severer form, and grow serene.
124
XIX
Ah! think not Fate will only bliss bestow;Pleasure and pain compose the motley plan:
Oh! may I learn to melt at human woe,
By knowing, what it is to feel like man!
XX
“To talk of truth, and miss it: to complain;“To toil and pant for fame; with love to sigh;
“To count that loss, which once was reckon'd gain;—
“Then to grow weary, turn aside, and die.
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