Poetics :: :: University of Virginia Library

This is a Dramatic Ode. The subject relating to different countries, allusions, as in a former ode, are made to different mythologies. The Muse, the Queen or Goddess of Poetry, is introduced, asserting her ancient character, as seen in the exciting of benevolent and social affections. The reflections, which thence arise, confirm this appeal, and superadd, that poetry is qualified to produce similar effects, even in modern times. In confirmation of these ideas, the Queen of Poetry bursts out in an address to Benevolence or Love, as being worthy, in every age of the world, of the highest praise.— Effects, which soon followed, in a Race of Heroes, the offspring of Benevolence, distinguished by their exertions for the public good. At the same time, Avarice and Ambition were born, introducing into society innumerable calamities. Love, immediately perceiving the source of these fatal ills, calls upon her sons, the Race of Heroes, to revive her ancient laws, and to teach mankind the proper use of riches.

A peculiar measure is adopted for the sake of variety, and the boldness of its transitions, which, perhaps, may be called Anti-Pindaric, of which more hereafter.

This poem had in view, originally, the design of the Literary

Fund, a society, which first arose out of the meeting of a few men of Letters for benevolent purposes. It is now distinguished by the attention of the higher circles, and has for its President and Patron, the Prince of Wales.

I.

1.

“Lives there a man, who does not feel
“Love's deeply-thrilling joy?
“Him let the swarm of hovering cares annoy:
“His forehead wears the monster-seal.
“Has he no music in his heart?
“Far from the social board let him depart;
“Bid him seek some Cyclopean cave,
“Where the giant-furies rave;
“Or some charm-resisting ground,
“Where scowling ghosts stalk round and round;
“Or darkling 'mid the blasted desert stray,
“Scar'd by the demon of the troublous way.”

2.

Such was the song of ancient time,
Which rous'd, as by a spell, the slumbering soul;

And still shall bid th'enthusiast rhyme
From breast to breast in mingling streams to roll.
For kindred spirits, fraught with passions strong,
Heav'n gave to feel the magic power of song.
Yet shall the bard still toil around,
For souls of Grecian, Roman name?
Still call the muse of fairy-ground,
To lift some storied Arthur's fame?
Man fills a little space,
Nor long shall hold his way;
Princes and glittering knights, ah! who shall trace
Beyond a day?—
These flowers of human kind but bloom for death,
And fable is but mortal breath;
While Love, still fair and fragrant, never dies,
Fills the wide range of earth, fills all th'expanse of skies.

3.

“To thee of boundless fame,
“And blest with matchless powers,
“Benevolence or Love, whate'er thy name;
“If when th'expectant hours

“Were taught again harmonious to advance
“In light mysterious dance,
“Then life was thine, thy grand delight to plan
“The genial solace of the future man;
“When at thy touch confusion fled,
“Again mov'd on the course of years,
“And order shew'd its orient head,
“'Mid the music of the spheres:
“Or rather, if 'twas thine, thro' years to rest
“In some fair Island of the Blest,
“Where one unclouded glory gilds the sky,
“Where from the sea the gales ambrosial fly;
“Oh! thou of peerless grace,
“Whate'er thy name, where'er thy place,
“Thine be the song of time.” Thus roll'd along
The goddess of the Lyre, th'impetuous tide of song.

II.

1.

Thro' the deep long extent of time,
A race of heroes sprung;
Love was their sire—They in each distant clime,
Liv'd by Love's law, his triumphs sung.
See Discord back to Chaos hurl'd!
See dawning reason harmonize the world!

Soon o'er his realms so vast and wide
Ocean views the vessel glide:
Commerce, lo! has spread the sail,
And lands remote th'advent'rers fondly hail:
And Tyre, how great thy rapture to explore
The treasures new of many a distant shore!

2.

Ah! what is all the blaze of power?
And what the pride of wealth, but pomp, and pain?
Then brooding Avarice knew her hour;
Then wrapp'd her niggard soul in dreams of gain;
Ambition, too, thy growing hopes were bold;
She ponder'd where to hide the worshipp'd gold,
Remorseless, curs'd amidst her hoard;
Thou durst bid ocean wear thy chain,
Like gorgeous Persia's madden'd Lord,
And the wide world confess thy reign.
Love call'd his sons; he saw
Where lust and wanton waste
Each fram'd with tyrant pride the lawless law;
And lo! they haste,
The Hero Race, man's guardian angel-bands;
What hero sleeps, when Love commands?
“Proceed, he cries, my ancient laws proclaim,
“Still imitate my deeds, still emulate my fame.”

3.

“Then only gold is bright
“When like the sun it shines,

“And round the world distributes generous light:
“But when the dirt of mines
“Cleaves to a miser's soul, the base-born ore
“Is baser than before;
“Shine ye in bounty rich; to all impart
“Their boon of bliss, the genial warmth of heart:
“Let earth be cloth'd in golden grain,
“Make vallies smile and rivers flow,
“Teach every art to own thy reign,
“And genius with new fires to glow:
“Bid science from her sleep of years to start,
“And Laws controul the miscreant heart:
“And bid the muse with her soul-soothing charm
“The grizly host of human ills disarm,
“To soothe or fire the breast:
“Thus live, in blessing others blest,
“Thus reign, and, more than conquerors, rule the mind,
“Such be the Hero Race, the stars of human kind.”

III.

1.

Lo quickly speeds the word divine;
Zeal to adventure led;
Wisdom held out a cheering light to shine,
And wide the vivid glory spread.
Ye northern climes, unknown to fame,
Whence else have sprung your souls of noble name?
Ye hills, whence living waters pour,
From east to west their mingled store,
Whence else your bards, and many a sage
Gods amongst men, and masters of the age;

Hence Anacharsis, and each Eastern sire,
And Cadmus' lore, and Orpheus' heavenly lyre.

2.

And thou, oh! Britain, isle so blest,
Whom valour gives the glory of a name,
Have generous fires ne'er warm'd thy breast,
Or were your fires but wild ambition's flame?
No—Britain heroes boasts, and still her pride,
Alfreds who rul'd, and Nelsons who have died.
See Bacon, nature's laws unfold!
From world to world see Newton soar!
In mercy's cause see Howard hold
His patient course from shore to shore!
Enough—lo! fancy now
Conducts the muse along,
The azure robe and golden lyre well show
The queen of song:
And did she vainly lift the heroic lays?
Rich were her songs, and breath of praise;
And dear is still her sweetly-warbled lyre,
As wing'd with zeal divine, she breathes the ennobling fire.

3.

“Know, Genius is a light,
“Guiding millions on their way;
“A friendly moon, which gilds the deep of night,
“A sun, which rules the day;
“And science, flowing thro' the vast of time,
“A stream which cheers each clime.

“Hence well-directed plans and counsels sage,
“Which guide, exalt, and harmonize an age.
“Hence art, and taste, and wealth, and power,
“The charm and bliss of life inhale,
“The bees, which rifling every flower,
“On their treasur'd sweets regale.
“I come! this wreath (the task to me assign'd)
“Pensive on sacred brows to bind—
“For more is still to worth and genius due;
“And lo! the task of love I leave to you:
“Poor are the muse's lays,
“But oh! be yours the heroes' praise:
“While thro' the skies their merits I resound;
“Yours be the nobler task to raise them from the ground.”

ODE II. PEACE AND FREEDOM.

When long thick tempests drench the plain,
And lightnings cleave an angry sky,
Sorrow invades each anxious swain,
And trembling nymphs to shelter fly:
But should the sun's bright beams appear,
Hush'd are their sighs, and calm'd their fear.

So when fierce zeal a nation rends,
And dark injustice veils the throne,
Beneath the storm meek virtue bends,
And modest truth is heard to groan:
But let the sun of freedom rise,
They hail the beams with grateful eyes!

Who, then, when patriots long oppress'd
Decree to curb a tyrant's pride,
And justice fires a nation's breast,
Who shall the generous ardor chide?
What shall withstand the great decree,
When a brave nation will be free?

Thus Greece repell'd her numerous foes;
Thus Britain curb'd a Stuart's race;
Columbia thus to glory rose;
Heralds of peace to future days:
And thus may all the nations rise,
And shout their triumphs to the skies!

The wars of ages thus decided,
Commerce shall bless each smiling land;
And man from man no more divided,
In peace shall live, a friendly band:
But tyrants, with their glare of power,
Like meteors, fall to rise no more!

Then blooming youths, and sages hoary,
Shall sing the deeds of ancient days,
And tender virgins learn the story,
And children lisp their grandsire's praise.
The heavens shall smile, and earth be gay,
When Peace with Freedom rules the day.

ODE III. TO MRS. OPIE, WHEN MISS ALDERSON,

ON HEARING HER SING SOME LINES OF HER OWN COMPOSITION.

So bright thine eyes! so kind thy heart!
So sweet thy voice! such grace and ease!
In every breast is left a dart;
How could'st thou only hope to please?

The heedless youth who dares to gaze,
Is led thine easy prey along:
And those, who can resist thy face,
Feel the keen arrows of thy song.

ODE IV. TO AN INFANT,

FOURTEEN MONTHS OLD, VERY FORWARD IN ITS INTELLECTS, AND FULL OF OBSERVATION, BUT VERY SHY TO STRANGERS.

Sweet Sophia, light and gay,
Like bee, that sips the flowers of May;
When your ears drink-in every sound,
And eyes so glance on all around;
Tell me, little damsel, why,
Only on me you look so shy?

Archest maiden, I am told,
That you are not yet two years old;
Yet you, young mock-bird, how you sing,
And have a name for every thing!
Why to me then still the same,
Will you nor talk, nor learn my name?

I in vain my gambols play;
In vain the pretty things I say;
As shrinks the plant with touch imprest,
So cling you to your mother's breast:
Seem I sad, or sour, or stern?
Or is my name too hard to learn?

By the shadows on thy face,
What moves within thee well I trace;
In that true magic glass I see,
The infant fears that hurry thee;
There I read the reason, why
My little Sophy is so shy.

Me you have but seldom seen,
Unknown my voice, my name, my mien;
And till we're more familiar grown,
I still shall seem a strange unknown,
Like, perchance, a hawk or kite,
That seizes little birds in sight.

Thus, young maid, still act your part;
Thus ever guard your virgin-heart;
Be not too anxious to inthral;
Nor give your smiles alike to all;
But each wooing gallant prove,
And know your lover, ere you love.

Be not early fond or gay,
The rose of April or of May;
But, as for better times repos'd,
Long keep your beauties all unclos'd:
Thus bloom safely, though not soon,
Nor be the full-blown rose, till June.

ODE VI. ON CONTEMPLATING THE WEALTH AND AGGRANDIZEMENT FLOWING FROM CERTAIN TRANSACTIONS IN INDIA.

TO A FRIEND.

Start not, my friend, that those who feel
Of wealth th'insatiable lust,
Should have a heart of steel,
And be unjust.

The heart of flesh is virtue's meed;
The thrilling joys which thence arise,
These are, 'tis so decreed,
It's pride and prize.

Virtue, which braves the storms of life,
Tho' lab'ring long, and struggling hard,
There, where it meets the strife,
Finds the reward.

But harden'd thoughts, and stubborn care,
With them, like fiends, their station keep,
Whose breasts no pity share,
Whose eyes ne'er weep.

Then let them spread their arms around,
And bid them still their hopes expand,
As ocean with no bound
Circles the land.

Tell them to hug their god of gold,
And off'rings only to him pay,
With him close converse hold,
By night and day.

Tell them to bid aloft the pile
In all the pomp of kings to rise,
To bid their garden smile
'Midst kindest skies.

Let wood and vale, and hill and plain,
With art's improvement meet,
To spread their parks domain,
And grace their seat!

Bid them enjoy what others till'd,
Level the cottage to the ground,
To spread from field to field
Their prospect round!

Lo! India wafts to them her trees,
China her golden fruit removes,
To sweeten every breeze,
Which fans their groves.

See France mature its softest vine,
And Spain her richest grapes dispense,
Its choicest fruits the Rhine,
To feast their sense!

See Rome with Grecian sculpture vie,
To decorate their halls;
And Titian's brightest dye
Shine on their walls!

All this be theirs; thus blest,
If blest, thus let them live and shine;
And, Justice for thy guest,
A cottage thine.

ODE X. ON THE EVENING.

ADDRESSED TO THE LATE REVEREND MR. THEOPHILUS LINDSEY.

Hail! nurse of thought, with brow serene;
Who, as the sun, so wont, retires,
And leaves the sky to milder fires,
Tingest with shadowy forms the fading scene,
Thee woo I, sober Eve; ere yet that sun
Hath his last beam on ocean shed,
Ere he reclines to rest his head,
Slow-sinking in the west, his course imperial run.

Emerging now from opening glade,
I come to watch thy purpling skies,
As doubtful tints alternate rise,
'Till the last blushes mellow into shade.
Nor in the meekness of its light,
Less will I greet thy faithful star;
Nor, where enthron'd on silver car,
She claims her ancient rule, the Queen supreme of night.

Or now on rustic seat reclin'd,
I hear the brook, which skirts the wood,
Or nightingale of plaintive mood,
Sounds to the scene attun'd, and to the musing mind:
Or from the humble cot, or lonely farm,
The barking watch-dog's voice I hear;
Or friendly voice from hamlet near,
Breaking from solitude all of the selfish charm.

Still then, fair eve, thy stay prolong,
Ere night enwrap the changing scene,
Ere sleeps the sport-encircled green,
Oh! let thy softness steal into my song.
So generous youths, and virgins, young and gay,
Who yet estrang'd to grief or care,
Ask not the sadly plaintive air,
'Midst many a verse which weeps, may read one pleasing lay.

Or if, perchance, the church-yard drear,
Where slowly tolls the passing bell,
And seems in lengthen'd notes to tell
The death of village swain, may claim a tear;
Lindsey might read the sober pensive line;
For he unchanging, and too good to grieve,
Serene as the last tint of gentle eve,
From life's fair pleasing scenes can see his sun decline.

For, what tho' life's fair scenes decline,
Nor sun, nor star, nor silver beam

Of moon, nor rock, nor hill, nor sea, nor stream,
Thro' heaven or earth, again to mortal shine?
Still goodness, like the purpling ray,
Up-darting from the setting sun,
When his diurnal course is run,
Leaves light behind, which may not soon decay.

But, when this world shall disappear,
If there remain worlds still more bright,
Which ask no renovated light,
Where shines the sun, unwearied, thro' the year;
Then Virtue, tho' quick-footed Time
Run out in trackless path his feeble thread,
Shall to those worlds pursue her steadier tread,
New life shall there begin, and bless that brighter clime.

ODE XI. CUPID'S ADDRESS;

OR THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.

“Teeming with nature's living fires,
“I bid thee welcome, genial spring;
“While the spheres wake their mystic lyres;
“And woods and vales responsive ring.

“She comes—Lo! winter scowls away;
“And forms harmonious start to view,
“Nymphs tripping light in circles gay,
“And deck'd in robes of varied hue.”

Now I, to amorous mischief bent,
Like a sly archer, take my stand,
Wide thro' the world my shafts are sent,
And every creature owns my hand.

Thro' seas and earth, and boundless sky,
The sweet subjection all must prove,
Whether they swim the stream, or fly,
Or thro' the boundless forest rove.

Nor less the garden's sweet domain,
The mossy heath, and pregnant mead,
The towering hill, the level plain,
And fields with verdant life o'erspread.

Ye plants, that catch the sunny ray;
Ye flowers, which drink the morning dew;
Now all your softest charms display;
Connubial-leagu'd your tribes renew.

Now shine the parterre's grace and pride,
Beneath the fragrant hedge-row gleam;
Or bending from the green bank's side,
Kiss your own beauties in the stream.

Ah! why should ye, a short-liv'd race,
Be niggards of your sweetest bloom?
That soil where now ye rise in grace,
That soil shall soon become your tomb.

Another archer skulks unseen—
Ne'er from his mark the arrows stray;
And I shall drop my arrows keen,
And leave to Death his feeble prey.

Heed then my call ye short-liv'd race,
Nor idly waste one fleeting hour;
Let sweetness fill your little space;
For soon ye fade to bloom no more.

ODE XII. ON SEEING A LADY'S PORTRAIT.

Lady, that portrait does but shew,
What you were thirty years ago,
Or a few years before;
The rose and lily of the face;
The sparkling eye; the youthful grace;
But it can shew no more.

But you have more; the heart refin'd;
A sprightly wit; a thinking mind;
This from your face appears.
And your old friends, as well as new,
Declare, that they perceive in you,
The growth of thirty years.

Time, then, whom oft a thief we name,
You, lady, should at least proclaim
A thief of gen'rous mould:
For tho' he has from day to day,
Been stealing a few flowers away,
He has left you all your gold.

ODE XIII. LOVE OF PLEASURE.

FROM HAFEZ, A PERSIAN POET.

Sweet are the meads; the social friend is sweet;
May then the rose's season, blooming May,
Propitious prove! for I would still be gay
With wine's true lovers, and, as virtuous, greet

Morning's sweet breath: and, tho' the rose so fleet
Hastens to death, and, tho' the nightingale
Is hush'd, still other warblers shall prevail,
And other flowers shall wanton near my feet.
Yes—all a love-lorn wand'rer's path shall cheer.
For from the lily's upright head I learn
To rise with honest joy; duteous to hear
Pleasure's high call: burn, Hafez, burn,
With love of pleasure; but let worldlings know,
Their pleasures are not thine, nor can the world bestow.

ODE XIV. THE MUSIC OF THE GROVES.

Clara and I, the other day,
Walk'd out: the birds were blithe and gay,
As striving all to please their loves:
So great a stir the warblers made,
In their orchestras over head,
There seem'd a concert of the groves.

Clara and I sat down together,
Like two young birds of the same feather,
Yet grave as two old Quaker-preachers.
Quoth I, “Clara, you have read Gay,
“And well know what these warblers say,
“For they have often been your teachers.

“Of all these birds that seem so blest,
“Pray, tell me which you like the best,
“And why by you they are preferr'd?”
Quoth Clara, “That I'll freely do,
“But after, I must hear from you
“As freely, what's your fav'rite bird.

“I love the bird that hails the morn;
“The linnet trilling on the thorn;
“The blackbird's clear loud song:
“But most I love the melting tale,
“That's warbled by the nightingale,
“So sweetly warbled all night long.

“That lark has taught me when to rise;
“Those other warblers, how to prize
“The cheerful song of day:
“I love to soothe affliction's pain,
“And I have learn'd the soothing strain,
“From Philomela's ev'ning lay.”

Then I: “Clara, you oft have seen
“A little bird on yonder green,
“In varied colours gaily drest;
“To me it pours a pensive song,
“Yet sweet—and neither loud nor long;
“That is my bird, Robin Redbreast.

“It sings no better than it teaches,
“And thus, methinks, the warbler preaches,
“Clara, it surely speaks to you;
“One day I listen'd at the door,
“And heard you sing an hour or more,
“A song, I thought, to nature true.”

“Those birds which there so gaily sing,
“They do but hail the flaunting spring,
“And gaudy summer's golden hours:

“I sing, when sombre autumn comes;
“I love to cheer the winter glooms;
“And may my song, sweet girl, be yours!

“They droop at the departing year;
“While I still all the village cheer:
“May you your spring-time gaily fill!
“But cheer, when spring-time shall decay,
“Your friends with your autumnal lay,
“And be their winter-warbler still!”

ODE XV. GAIA, OR MY OWN HONEST LANDLADY IN A COUNTRY VILLAGE.

Ye landladies flaunting and gay,
Who live in the great London town,
Who dress and look fine every day,
Each day brings you many a crown;

Too proud your trim lodgings to shew,
Such chambers no shelter afford,
But to him who looks spruce as a beau,
But to him who can strut like a lord.

O! hear a poor rover complain,
And destin'd to rove about still,
How deeply his pockets ye drain,
How quickly your purses ye fill.

A while cease to sport in the ring,
And give me one moment or two;
Of Gaia, good Gaia, I sing,
A landlady honest and true.

Remote from the noise of a town,
Unread in the jargon of schools,
This landlady liv'd in renown,
And squar'd by the wisest of rules.

She toil'd in her own humble cot;
The village was full of her praise;
The rustics all envied her lot;
Her poet shall crown her with lays.

Her cottage so decent and neat,
Might gladden a lady most fine;
Her table so cleanly and sweet,
That with her a princess might dine.

Her provident hands did not spare;
Her friends she would help to the best;
For, tho' she maintain'd friends are rare,
She soon made a friend of her guest.

Each Sunday at church she was seen
In silks, and with posy so sweet;
And, as she walk'd over the green,
Each neighbour she kindly would greet.

For Gaia lov'd king and her church,
And thought it a maxim most true,
That who left a poor priest in the lurch,
Would soon rob the king of his due.

Yet hers was a catholic heart;
Good Non-cons kind Gaia could love;
To all she would kindness impart,
As mercy she look'd for above.

She welcom'd the gay early lark;
And hated the chattering jay;
But the owl that delights in the dark,
She said was accurs'd thro' the day.

Her garden, tho' small, could afford
A portion for pleasure and use;
To cousins, when seen at her board,
She cakes and good wine could produce.

A neat little damsel was by,
Who waited and work'd at her will;
And a spinning wheel always was nigh,
That Molly might never stand still.

She gave to each rosy-fac'd boy
A cake, if he read his book well;
Her scraps gave the beggar-man joy;
Gipsy Joe all her praises would tell.

Like the bee and the provident ant,
Thus she toils, and she spends while she spares;
And tho' she so hated a cant,
Yet Gaia would oft say her prayers.

Ye landladies flirting and gay,
Give Gaia the praise that is due;
And call her, for call her you may,
A landlady honest and true.

And now I have finished my lays,
To her tho' more virtues belong:
But Gaia ne'er ask'd for my praise;
And therefore I give her a song.

ODE XVI. THE PHILOSOPHY OF EVIL.

It was when dark November frown'd;—
Country and town alike were dreary;
Nothing was smiling all around,
Nought within cheary.

“Oh! for some pure ætherial sphere,
“To which no dregs of matter cling,
“Where flows serene th'all-perfect year,
“From mind's pure spring.”

It might not be—a Form I view—
Stern was his front, and fierce his eye;
His robe mix'd of November's hue,
On crimson dye.

Clamour, and Rage, and trembling Fear,
In grim wild state before him go;
And in his hand he couch'd a spear,
As towards some foe.

“Sing not to me,” he cried, “of loves;
“Sigh not to me in Pity's strains;
“Nor think to lure me to the groves,
“To pipe with swains.

“Different my joys—I traverse earth,
“I range thro' air, I pierce the sea;
“And every creature by its birth,
“Is bound to me.

“Each from me some strong instinct draws,
“Which towards its kin engenders strife;
“Birds, fishes, yielding to my laws,
“Prey upon life.

“Have you not heard in distant wood,
“How greedy beasts pursue their way?
“By turns, each drinks some creature's blood,
“By turns the prey.

“Have you not mark'd the busy world,
“Where reason forms its wisest plan!
“How man, by furious passions whirl'd,
“Preys upon man?

“'Tis mine—I stir the active thought,
“I rouse the passions, urge the deed;
“And there I feast, where thousands fought,
“And thousands bleed.

“'Midst storms and fires I sit and sing,
“Most pleas'd where least I see of form;
“I sail upon the whirlwind's wing,
“And guide the storm.

“When Ætna belches flame around,
“I gaze and gaze with greedy eye,
“Where cities, late with plenty crown'd,
“In ruins lie.

“Does ocean rave? I look and think
“Unruffled on the sounding shore,
“And rise with joy, as thousands sink,
“To rise no more.

“Do earthquakes growl beneath the land?
“I wait expectant of the sight;
“And grow, as earth's wide jaws expand,
“Wild with delight.

“Of life their babes when Hindoos spoil,
“The pious deed I loud proclaim,
“And of their widow's funeral pile,
“I light the flame.

“'Tis mine—all mine—I boast the deeds—
“And call myself the friend of man—
“'Tis mine—and see! the work proceeds—
“'Tis Nature's plan.

“On Man what crowding ills attend!
“See how creation pants for room!
“Ah! wretch—I haste, that wretch's friend,
“To build his tomb.

ODE XVII. ADDRESS TO THE CAM.

While yon skylark warbles high,
While yon rustic whistles gay,
On thy banks, oh! Cam, I lie,
Museful pour the pensive lay.
Willowy Cam, thy lingering stream,
Suits too well the thoughtful breast;
Languor here might love to dwell,
Sorrow here might sigh to rest.

Near yon steeple's tapering height,
Beauteous Julia, thou art laid;—
I could linger thro' the night
Still to mourn thee, lovely maid.
In yon garden Fancy reads,
Sophron strays no longer here;
Then again my bosom bleeds;
Then I drop the silent tear.

Hoary Cam, steal slow along
Near yon desolated grove;
Sleep the partners of my song;
There with them I went to rove.
He, the youth of fairest fame,
Hasten'd to an early tomb;
Friendship now recals his name;
Pity mourn'd his hapless doom.

Hark! I hear the death-bell sound!
There another spirit fled!
Still mine ear the tidings wound;
Philo slumbers with the dead.
Well he knew the critic's part;
Shakespeare's name to him was dear;
Kind and gentle was his heart:—
Now again I drop the tear.

Bending sad beside thy stream,
While I heave the frequent sigh,
Do thy rippling waters gleam
Sympathetic murm'ring by?

Then, oh! Cam, will I return,
Hail thy soothing stream again,
And, as viewing Julia's urn,
Grateful bless thee in my strain.

Still there are, who raptur'd view,
Scenes, which youthful hope endear;
Where they Science wont to woo;
Still they love to linger here.
Peace they meet in ev'ry grove;
Lives again the rapt'rous song;
Sweetly sportive still they rove,
Cam, thy sedgy banks along.

Stately streams, and glens, and lakes,
They can leave to Scotia's plains;
Mountains hoar, and vales, and brakes,
They resign to Cambrian swains:
But these placid streams full well
Suit the quiet-musing breast:
Here, if Fancy may not dwell,
Science shall delight to rest.

ODE XVIII. TO A LADY, WHO HAD RALLIED THE AUTHOR IN THE MONTHLY MAGAZINE, FOR HIS REJECTION OF TITLES.

Yes! things that are old, and some things that are new,
I love and I hate; yet I play you no trick:
I like an old friend, and I own I like you;
But I hate the new tax, and still more old Nick.

But you like old things, because they are old,
The church so believes, and so you believe;
Then I vow by the church, my faith you should hold;
For mine is as ancient as Adam and Eve.

But Adam, like Nick, is too old: then, dear friend,
Pray take up your Bible, and read it right on;
And what can you find from beginning to end,
But Adam, and Sarah, Ruth, Mary, and John?

So you see I here at least square with the church;
A church old enough, too, not wanton in youth;
Nor think that he'll leave an old friend in the lurch,
Who sticks to his oldest, his best friend, dame Truth.

ODE XXI. TO NARCISSA.

Verses I love, the young Narcissa said;
Quoth I, the poets always lov'd the misses:
Give me some verses, then, rejoin'd the maid:
I will, quoth I, give me as many kisses.

She smil'd—I thought—consent—I stole a kiss;
And warm with pleasure pour a glowing line:
She smil'd again, and I repeat the bliss;
And to the first a second verse I join:

Then said, the bee from sweetest flow'rets sips,
And hence so sweet the honey of the bee;
And lines, inhal'd from those nectareous lips,
Made of thy kisses, shall be worthy thee.

ODE XXII. TO MELANCHOLY.

Oh! thou of pallid hue, and raven hair,
Who mid sequester'd haunts alone art seen,
Deep-nurturing some silent care within,
Some weight of grief, which none with thee may share;
Whose eye, whence tears have long forgot to flow,
To heav'n-directed looks, of earth afraid;—
Dear is to me thy form of speechless woe;
Still sacred are the haunts, where thou hast whilome stray'd.

For I have mark'd thee oft near willowy stream;
And tho' no youthful smile endear'd thy face,
Tho' on thy cheek no roses I could trace,
Yet didst thou but in Life's soft spring-time seem:
Careless thy vestment hung, as snowdrop white!
Loose-floating fell thy locks, unbound thy zone;
Thine eye now softly sad, now wildly bright,
Bespoke thy lover dead, and thou wouldst love but one.

Oft have I view'd thee wand'ring in the wood,
Where pour'd the nightingale her liquid throat,
And varied thro' the night her melting note,
As tho' her mate were fled, or tender brood:
To thee more pleasing then the vestment grey,
Pale mourner! saddest of the widow-train,
Doom'd to lament, at thy dark close of day,
Some aged Priam dead, some youthful Hector slain.

Thee Fancy sometimes hails, the Muse of Woe,
Whom fabled wrongs could wake to real smart:
Ovid's soft fictions make thee melt at heart;
And suffering ghosts instruct the tear to flow.
Do tender sorrows Pity's Bard inspire?
Thy lute responsive gives the tragic moan:
But does Orestes curse the God of fire?
I see thee leave thy lute, to listen to his groan.

Say, can that pensive look thy mind reveal,
While from thy lips th'unfinish'd accents fall,
As tho' thy forward tongue would utter all,
Which yet thy secret bosom would conceal?
Witness to wrongs no pity can relieve,
To joys, which flatter, but must shortly flee:
—E'en fancied mis'ry wakes the cause to grieve—
Thou hast a sigh for all! none heaves a sigh for thee!

Then haste thee, Queen of Woe, from mortal eye;
Thy mansion fix within some lonely cell,
Where pale-ey'd Superstition loves to dwell,
Sated of life, and lingers but to die.
As the sand streams to mark the fleeting hour,
As the death's head reminds thee of thy doom,
As the spade sinks thy future grave-bed lower,
I too will learn to die, sad pilgrim, at thy tomb.

For, oh! whatever form I see thee wear,
If yet soft mercy dwell within thy breast,
Thyself so sad, yet anxious to make blest,
For others' woe, while thou a sigh canst spare;

Tho' like the sage, that only liv'd to weep,
Tho' all the load of human ills were thine;
For thee will I forego the balmy sleep,
Or wand'ring wild, like thee, will make thy sorrows mine.

ODE XXIII. MEDITATED IN THE CLOISTERS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL.

Now cease, my song, the plaintive strain;
Now hush'd be Pity's tender sigh;
While Mem'ry wakes her fairy-train,
And young Delight sits laughing by:
Return, each hour of rosy hue,
In smiles, and pranks, and garlands gay,
Playful of wing as when ye flew,
Ev'ry month then seeming May;
While, as Invention wak'd the mimic powers,
Genius, still wand'ring wild, sigh'd for enchanted bowers.

Then, too, in antic vestment drest,
Pastime would lightly trip along,
Throwing around the ready jest,
Satire and sting, or simple song;
And merry Mischief oft would weave
The wanton trick for little hearts;
Nor Love a tender vot'ry grieve;
Soft were his hands, nor keen his darts:
While Friendship, with a gay enthusiast glow,
Gave her full half of bliss, and took her share of woe.

And, what tho' round a youthful spring
A lowering storm may sometimes rise?
Hope her soul-soothing strain can sing,
Quickly can brighten up the skies.
How sweetly pass'd my youth's gay prime!
For not untuneful was my tongue:
And, as I tried the classic rhime,
The critic school-boy prais'd my song:
Nor did mine eye not catch the orient ray,
That promis'd fair to gild Ambition's distant day.

Ah! pleasing, gloomy cloyster-shade,
Still, still this wavering breast inspire!
Here, lost in rapt'rous trance, I stray'd,
Here saw with horror spectres dire!
For, soon as day dark-veil'd its head,
With hollow cheek and haggard eye,
Pale ghosts would flit from yon death-bed,
And stalk with step terrific by!

Till the young heart would freeze with wild affright,
And store the dismal tale to cheer a winter's night!

How like the spirit of the place,
Good Edward's form here seem'd to move!
As lingering still its growth to trace,
With all a Founder's, Guardian's love!
How of his name each syllable
Repeated oft, on youthful ears
Like no unholy charm would dwell,
And mingle fondness with the prayers!
While still the day, made sacred by his birth,
Brought with the rolling year memorials of his worth.

Yet, what avails the school-boy's praise,
Tho' taking Gratitude's sweet name,
The stately monument to raise
Of royal Edward's lasting fame?
Tho' never on thy youthful brow
Flaunted the helmet's towering crest,
Tho' ne'er, as martial Glory led,
The corslet sparkled on thy breast;
Yet, blameless youth, to worth so true as thine,
Virtue herself might weave her purest virgin line.

But, ah! what means the silent tear?
Why e'en mid joy my bosom heave?
Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear!
Lo! now I linger o'er your grave!
—Fly, then, ye hours of rosy hue,
And bear away the bloom of years!
And quick succeed, ye sickly crew
Of doubts and sorrows, pains and fears!
Still will I ponder Fate's unalter'd plan,
Nor tracing back the child forget that I am man.