Poetics :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now farewel summer's fervid glow,
Which, as the sun thro' cancer rides,
Meas'ring his way in chariot slow,
Scorches the beech-clad forest-sides!
Farewel, too, earlier Autumn's milder ray,
Which, the warm labours of the sickle o'er,
Could make the heart of swain industrious gay,
Viewing in barn secure his wheaten store,
What time the social hours mov'd blithe along,
Urg'd by the nut-brown ale, and jolly harvest song.

II

What different sounds around me rise!
Now midst a naked scene I rove,
Where the rude halm in hillocks lies,
Where the rash sportsman frights the grove.
Ah, cruel sport! ah, pain-awakening sound!
How hoarse your death-note to his listening ear,
Who late, wild warbled music floating round,
Blest the wild warblers of the rising year!
Who, as each songster strain'd his liquid throat,
Grateful himself would try the soft responsive note!

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III

Yet still in Autumn's fading form
The tender melting charms we trace,
Such as, love's season past, still warm
The sober matron's modest face;—
Mild-beaming suns, oft hid by fleeting clouds,
Blue-mantled skies, light-fring'd with golden hues;
Brooks, whose swoln waters mottled leaves o'erspread;
Fields, where the plough its steady course pursues;
And woods, whose many-shining leaves might move
Fancy's poetic hand to paint some orange grove.

IV

Be mine,—for Fancy is a child—
Still with the circling hours to play,
And feast on hips and blackberries wild,
Like truant school-boy gay;
Or eager plunge in cool pellucid stream,
Heedless, that Summer's sultry day is fled;
Or muse, as breathes the flute, some rural theme,
Such theme as Fancy's song may yet bestead;
Or, stretch'd at ease, to sing in simple strains,
Thus tuneful Maro erst, of nymphs and rustic swains.

V

Now bear me to the distant wood,
And bear me to the silent stream,

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Where oft I stray'd, in serious mood,
Lost in some youthful dream.
To me, O Hornsey, what retreat so fair?
What shade to me so consecrate as thine?
And on thy banks, poor streamlet, did I care
For all the spring-haunts of the tuneful Nine?
Ah! pleasures, how ye lengthen as ye fade!
As spreads the sun's faint orb at twilight's dubious shade!

VI

For, oh! pale stream, how many a tear
I mingled in thy waters slow!
E'en midst the blossoms of its year,
Youth hath its share of woe.
And thus thro' life: for what is human life?
A changeful day, a motley-tinctur'd scene;
How quick succeed the hours of peace and strife!
How sombre tints o'erspread the cheerful green!
E'en while fair Hope lights up her brightest sky,
She wavers 'midst her doubts, and learns to heave a sigh!

VII

But, lo! the sun now seeks the west;
Now o'er the landscape steals a gloom;
And now, with walking toil, opprest,
I view yon distant dome!

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Ah! soon, too soon, I give the faint adieu,
And sleeps my song, as fades the cheerful day;
Soon shall the dusky city bound my view;
And hag-ey'd spleen November's call obey.
Ye meads, and fields, whose every charm could please,
Ye gentle friends, adieu, and farewel rural ease!

VIII

Yet fields, and meads, and gentle friend,
When Memory bids, shall re-appear;
Quick, where she lifts her wand, ascend
The long-departed year:
The choirs, whose warblings charm'd the youthful spring,
And summer's golden flowers, and all that now
Of Autumn fades, their mingled charms shall bring;
And the full year 'mid Winter's frosts shall glow;
While Fancy, as the vision'd forms arise,
Shall pencil woods and groves, and streams and purple skies.

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ODE III. THE RANSOM.

EGIL.

King, I sail'd by passage swift,
Borne across the western sea:
Teems my breast with Odin's gift;
And that gift I bear to thee.

109

England's chief, and Norway's pride,
Fame has far thy triumphs told;
Long in bray of battle tried,
Eagle swift, and lion bold.

But, tho' valour claims renown,
Minstrels have the flower of song:
They must wreathe the lasting crown,
If you wish for glory long.

Song the mighty gods inspire;
Song can vanquish mortal strife:
Do my crimes provoke thine ire?
Hear my song; but spare my life.

Well you know to guide the spear;
Much you love the clash of arms;
And where Danger stalks more near,
Fiercer fire your bosom warms.

Strong your arm, and fix'd your eye;
You with skill can twang the bow;
Where your thirsty arrows fly,
Falls some haughty Daneman low.

Where the shields resounding move,
There attend the raven-brood:
There the grim-wolf loves to rove,
Gorg'd with many a warrior's blood.

110

Nora's sister on the plain,
Cannot fill your soul with dread:
You can traverse hills of slain;
You can smile mid piles of dead.

On the dark heath do you stray,
Where pale ghosts arise to view?
How should they your soul affray?
None but Norway's foes you slew.

Do your ships o'er ocean sail?
Sure success must still attend;
Strong the waves, and swift the gale;
Great Niorder is your friend.

Where opposing foes combine,
First to follow, last in flight:
Where embattling warriors shine,
Eric tow'rs a god in sight.

Thus you traverse sea and land;
Conquest on your banners waits;
All who dare your arm withstand,
Down descend to Hela's gates.

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Shall a warrior, chief of men,
Me, poor helpless minstrel, slay?
Springs the Lion from his den,
On a feeble insect prey?

Yes! I slew of youth the flower;
Norway's hope and pride I slew:
And at silent midnight hour,
Rises oft his ghost to view.

But, live, prince, in high renown,
Strong the stock, and new the stem:
And let mercy in thy crown,
Be the brightest purest gem!

Warrior, King, great Eric, hear;
Odin loves the minstrel throng;
In my hand his gifts I bear;
Spare the minstrel for his song.

ERIC.

Yes! you slew—too well I know;—
Do you know how parents grieve?
I have drank the cup of woe;
Shall the murd'rer hope to live?

Where the reeking sword appears;
Where blood flows in torrents warm;

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Midst a gathering host of spears,
Dauntless I can brave the storm.

I have stood midst heaps of slain;
Seen a thousand warriors die;
And as sigh'd the minstrel's strain,
Heav'd the sympathetic sigh.

I have lost, too, many a friend,
Much have mourn'd o'er nature's plan;
True and faithful to the end,
Tho' a king, I felt as man.

Ills like these I learn to bear:—
But, to lose a blameless son,—
By a traitor murder'd—ere
Half his course of life was run—!

Think you, as your numbers flow,
Warriors breasts are made of steel?
—Warriors, tell him;—well ye know
How it is, that parents feel.

Had some prince of high renown,
Caus'd in Eric half this smart,
I had struggled to his throne,
Pierc'd the tiger thro' his heart.

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Had the flow'r of Norway's race,
Sprung from purest, noblest blood;—
Soon, within some hideous place,
Serpents soon, had suck'd his blood.

Yes! by Odin's name I swear,
Name I never durst profane,
Like him fix'd—a mortal prayer
Might have sued to me in vain.

But since Odin's gift you bring,
'Tis a language from the skies:
Well the wreath becomes a king;
And your ransom be the prize.

Live then, Egil, go in peace;
Live, oh! bard, to raise my name:
Mine be conquest's proud increase;
Thine to spread the conq'ror's fame.

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ODE IV. ON SCIENCE.

Are there, who skim the stream of life,
Catching delight from every passing gale?
Their ear no sounds of grief assail,
They heed not nature's strife:
Bright skies illume their dawn of day,
While music wakes her magic powers;
No clouds obstruct their noon-tide ray,
And to soft measures move their evening hours:
Gaily, Love's idle rovers, on they glide,
And Pleasure, laughing Fair, the vessel deigns to guide.

Their destin'd course some lonely bend,
Where no propitious gales attend;
And, hark! the note of woe from far,
The frantic scream, the din of war:

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Struggling with storms, their mornings doubtful rise:
Slow, sullen, sad, proceed their hours along:
'Mid scowling tempests close their evening skies,
Nor soothes their ear the cheerful voice of song.

But, lo! the sons of genius stand,
And Science open spreads the volume fair;
And Friendship waves her hand,
To check the child of Mirth, to soothe the child of Care.
Nature assumes her smiling form,
Like Ocean resting from a storm:
From distant India's pearly shores,
From mystic Egypt's latent stores,
To where in Grecia's tuneful groves
The Graces wanton'd with the Loves,
Lo! Science comes, and takes her awful seat;
See Genius glide along, his Queen's advance to greet.

Deep in a vale, remote from noise,
Long bloom'd the lovely Stranger, fond to trace
The starry spheres—the world of mind, the grace
Of mystic truth—her joys,
Her vestment, simple:—Sages came;—
They mark her eye, her even soul,
The modest blush, the living flame,
From inward light, that o'er the visage stole.
—To them 'twas given to deck the lovely dame,
In robes by Beauty wove, and lift her into fame.

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Saw you the sun dispensing light?
Clouds soon have veil'd the glory bright.
And thus, in Grecia's baneful hour,
Beneath the misty frown of power,
Science lay hid;—then Goths and priests arose,
And scatter'd blasts and mildews wide around;
Till in the vale where fruitful Arno flows,
Fair Science smil'd again, as on Parnassian ground.

Now see her rise serenely great,
Dispensing golden blessings from on high!
A sun, in more than royal state,
Supreme she rules, amidst a cloudless sky:
See Dulness close her eye of lead!
See Superstition's reptiles dead!
Sloth drags along her slimy way,
And Ignorance retires from day!
While Genius lifts his eye of fire,
Beholds the light, and strikes his lyre:
Views all around a new creation rise,
Fields of perennial green, and fairer brighter skies.

The blooming wreath of rapt'rous praise
Now weave with varied skill, and conscious pride,
As when, near Pisa's laurell'd side,
The Theban wove the bays.
Of soul serene, and eye sublime,
Immortal Science, hail! to thee,

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Bright with the precious spoils of time,
We yield the crown, we bend the willing knee;
To thee the Virtues all obedient rise,
And Truth unveils her face, and looks with smiling eyes.

“Ye sons of Mirth, and sons of Care,
“See me the bower of bliss prepare:
“Near me descend ambrosial showers;
“Near me shall bloom immortal flowers;
“Oh! hither, then, your erring courses bend;
“Soon near my side shall Care forget to grieve;
“Here Mirth's wild crew may haply find a friend;
“And pining Melancholy dare to live!”

Thus Science spoke aloud—when, lo!
By Fancy's eye was seen the sacred choir,
That taught with vivid glow
The canvas first to shine, that wak'd the melting lyre.
And round and round their Queen they move,
Symphonious to the voice of Love.
Nor did in vain the thrilling dart
Of Music pierce the captiv'd heart;
Till every discord died away,
As clouds before the solar ray.
Thro' the wide earth th'harmonic chords resound;
While Rapture lifts her voice, and Goodness smiles around.

118

ODE VI. TO AN ENTHUSIAST.

Where you, my friend, some nimble-winged thing,
That could with eagle speed extend your flight,
Then you might range the world,
Then pierce each lonely place:

Whether 'twere lazar-house, or dungeon drear,
Or hill, or beetling cliff, or time-worn cave,
Where Misery sat and sigh'd
Her troubles, still unseen;

And there, perchance, at eve her hollow eye
On the hard stone at times might drop the tear—
As once the dame, who mourn'd
Her hapless children's fate.

Then had you, gentle friend, the chymic art
Of some young bee, that roves from flow'r to flow'r,
How fondly might you rove,
What balmy sweets enhale!

Then, blest employment! with what tender skill
Wondering might you those honeyed treasures mix,
And form a sovereign balm
To heal the mourner's heart!

121

Were you, my friend, some dart-emitting god,
Like him who pierc'd in Græcia mortal hearts,
How might you range the world,
And find each gladsome place!

Whether 'twere village green, or city gay,
How might you roving find each cheerful scene,
Where youths and maidens smile,
And carol thro' the day!

And when, perchance, with joy-illumin'd eye,
Thoughtless of love, they frolic'd in the dance,
How might you throw your dart,
And flit unseen away!

Then you again might change your tiny form,
Stand forth the god, protector of the fair,
Your head with roses crown'd,
And in your hand a torch!

Then you might light the lovers on their way,
Then sing the song, that should endear their hearts,
Till they should love, and love,
And still grow old in love!

Ah! could you fondly climb yon orient sun,
Ride on his beam, and travel round the world,
How might you, crown'd with light,
Cheer all the nations round!

122

Yes, friend, were you like that refulgent sun,
How might you in your daily course dispense
Light, liberty, and love,
Still travelling to bless!

Were you—but cease, enthusiast, cease your speed;
For what avail, my friend, fantastic flights?
Why muse ideal schemes,
Heedless of what is true?

You are nor bee, nor sun, nor sprite, nor god—
You are a humble, weak, unwinged thing,
The frail inhabitant
Of this poor clod of earth!

And has not this poor earth, that very spot,
Where thou art wont to move, enough of range?
Ah! where then would'st thou move?
Behold your proper sphere!

Yes, cease enthusiast, cease: thy slender bark,
How should it hope to cross the mighty sea?
Keep close to shore—or ah!
Soon founder shall thy bark.

123

ODE VIII. ON PEACE.

“Hence, avaunt, soul-cankering Care,
“Wrinkled Guilt, and grim Despair,
“Down to your dungeons deep below!
“Where hollow sighs
“And frantic cries,
“So ancient bards have sung, from hopeless spectres flow.

125

“But come, thou gentle wand'rer, come,
“(If mortal breast may be thy home)
“Sweet Peace!—Tho' scar'd by Folly's noise,
“Her gaudy griefs, and jilting joys,
“Thou sail'st thro' equal sky, afar
“From mad ambition, pomp, and war;

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“If not thy wing still upward borne,
“Waft thee, ah! never to return,
“Oh! hither come, and make thy quiet nest,
“Thou gentle wand'rer, deep within this wavering breast.

And see! a rev'rend form arise,
With beck'ning hands and streaming eyes.
“Where La Trappe's silent votaries weep,
“Or virgins midnight vigils keep,
“The Gothic cloyster's length'ning gloom,
“Breaks the dark distance of the tomb.
“Ah, thither, restless rover, flee!
“And there sweet Peace shall lodge with thee.”
Vain boast of bigot zeal, and phrenzied prayer,
The sighs of discontent, and musings of despair.

127

Hark! then the lyre—To numbers gay
On yon green bank the Muses play:
And Peace, perchance the Muses' friend,
Shall there on turtle wing descend.
Beauty's softest form I spy,
The rising breast, the melting eye,
And all the smiles and freaks of love;
And nymphs and swains in chequer'd grove,
Lengthen fond tales to music's sweetest flow:—
But, ah! soft song but soothes, love but refines our woe.

Hence! wild Devotion's brooding pain!
Hence! Pleasure's fitful wanton train!
And hence the muse, and hence the loves,
Fields, and streams, and tuneful groves.
“But, hail! the academic bower!
“And hail! the philosophic hour!

128

“For which th'Athenian master sigh'd—
“Yet paid the mighty debt—and died!”—
Ah! hapless Wisdom, doom'd to keenest grief;—
Which knows all human ills, but finds not their relief.

Hark! the hoarse trumpet'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 miseries to the skies.
And shall sweet Peace e'er smooth thy harrow'd soul?—
See 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.

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“For still, ah! still the lovely vagrant flies,
“And keeps her steady seat, in clear unclouded skies.

“The man who walks in holy fear
“With God, and views him ever near;
“Who knows his want, laments his sin,
“And breathes the humble prayer 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, with heav'n holds converse dear,
“And he shall find, sweet Peace, thy presence ever near.”

Oh! then, mild daughter of the sky,
With Truth's gay nurse, fair Liberty,
Return, sweet Peace! and here again
Begin, begin your smiling reign!
From whom, in happier hour, proceed
Some wise design, some godlike deed—
What time the patriotic fire,
Shall Britain's nobler sons inspire,
Destin'd thro' unborn ages still to shine,
The stars of human kind, a long illustrious line.

Piercing thro' distant years, I trace,
With ravish'd eyes, a free-born race,

130

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.

ODE IX. ON CONSIDERING THE UNSETTLED STATE OF EUROPE, AND THE OPPOSITION WHICH HAD BEEN MADE TO ATTEMPTS FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE-TRADE.

Why droops Britannia's friend?—Or why,
After short transports, gaily wild,
Seems he to languish o'er a sigh,
Like Sorrow's feverish child?

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And why the bards, of soul sublime,
Who warbled sweet the rapt'rous rhyme,
Now, as tho' anxious to complain,
Sigh out a lonesome strain?
Thus have I seen on soaring wing
The lark gay-circling rise;
Then midst its varying preludes cease to sing,
And downward darting quit the skies.
Listening I seem'd its absence to deplore,
As tho' the melting strain would never charm me more.

But soon again in notes more clear and strong,
The minstrel-bird struck up its magic song,
When, to the breeze as spreads the fleecy sail,
It pierc'd with fluttering wing the mellow gale.
Thus Fox shall rise, meek Mercy's son,
The sons of verse thus strike a nobler lyre,
Tho' now to catch the living fire,
Anxious to future years they run,
When War shall break his lance, when Slavery shall expire.

132

And, see! I view a distant land;
And, hark! I hear a minstrel band.
The negro-slaves, now slaves no more,
Have struck a chord untouch'd before.
Of Afric's wrongs, and Afric's pains,
Oft had they sigh'd in lonely strains;
A tale it was of woe,
Discordant, sad and slow!
But, now 'tis Freedom's song.—And, see!
How the rapt soul fills the eye!
And, hark! was ever minstrelsy
So wing'd with fire, and strain'd to notes so high?
Wildly grand, and strangely sweet—
Yet all is harmony complete,
As when (so sung) atoms in atoms whirl'd,
And Chaos grew to form, and order rul'd the world.

Me distant hope invites;
Me, panting for maturer day,
The fair young dawn delights;
And leaps my heart, tho' humble flows my lay.
For see o'er fair Columbia's plains
Peace extend her halcyon wings;
And tho' no Washington now reigns,
Still Freedom laughs and sings.
This civic wreath with song I blend to thee,
For thou, oh! Fox, wast first to hail Columbia free.

And lives there still a generous band
Studious to raise our sinking land?

133

Foremost amidst the group I trace
Thy form superior rise with manly grace;
And many a tear I see thee shed
O'er slaves oppress'd, and heroes dead:
On thee thy country's blessing still attend;
Oh! live thy country's hope, the people's generous friend.

ODE XII. WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF JOHN HOWARD, AT HIS VILLA AT CARDINGTON, IN BEDFORDSHIRE.

Hard is his lot, however honoured, he
Who braves in slender bark the ruffian wave,
Eager the shipwreck'd mariner to save,
Unknown the latent dangers of the sea!
There lurk the rocks, which, ah! he shall not flee:
And ocean boisterous raves, and wild winds roar,
Nor pitying pilot hails him from the shore:
And in the storm his bark o'erwhelm'd must be.
Ah! thus oft sinks the friend of human kind:
Prudence and Pride, expand your silken sail
O'er halcyon streams; coax every saucy wind;
And Fortune's mirthsome crew in passing hail.
Pour, too, from niggard hearts the frugal sigh,
And measure out the prayer,—for well ye can,—
And grieve, that man, poor man, so soon should die:
Thus live—your own dear friends; but not the friends of man.

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ODE XIII. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet songster! that unseen, unknown,
Dost strain thy little, heaving breast;
Why dost thou warble still alone,
Wakeful, while other songsters rest?

Oft have I linger'd in the grove,
Charm'd with thy soothing, melting song:
It told—or seem'd to tell—of love—
Nor was the night, tho' darksome, long.

Yet oh! sweet bird, why shun the light?
Why warble still the lonesome lay?
Those notes, which smooth the brow of night,
Might wake the genial smile of day.

But tho' thou shunn'st my wistful sight,
So melting-soft thou wont to sing,
I deem thee not a bird of night,
But hail thee Poet of the Spring.

142

ODE XV. TO A MINIATURE PAINTER,

ON HER TAKING THE CORRECT LIKENESSES OF TWO ESTEEMED FRIENDS.

Artist, think not I lightly prize,
Tho' you may call it small, the art,
Which gives to life the light of Annette's eyes,
Which shews so well the language of her heart.

Think not, but that I must admire,
The touch so soft, the skill so true,
Which gives to her a lover's soul of fire,
That sets to me a friend so full in view.

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The eye, which speaks the soul divine,
The face, which shews the nobler mind,
As on the mirror living objects shine,
In earth or heavens, what beams there so refin'd?

And can thy colors copy these,
And teach them how to reach the heart?
Then shall not gentle Betham fail to please,
Nor I to prize as great, her pleasing art.

Why do we hail yon orb of day,
But that we feel its ardors glow?
And that, while spreading wide its vivid ray,
It adds, with light, new life to all below?

Go then, fair friend, with genius blest,
Still give with care each fleeting grace;
And all the finer movements of the breast,
Shew us with colors on the magic face.

Bid all the mother rise to view,
The silent smile, the fond caress,
The glow of soul romantic, yet so true,
That something, which no mother can express.

Paint us the sire, like him of Troy,
With care, but more with love opprest;
And paint their fondest hopes, their infant boy,
Close-clinging to its mother's beating breast.

146

Paint, for you can, the patriot youth,
Whose mind direct no arts can move;
And, in some female face, unalter'd Truth,
And virgin Innocence, and artless Love.

Paint, for you can, the brow of thought,
The open front, the eye of fire,
As tho' some sage his weightiest precept taught,
Or poet, rapt in visions, struck the lyre.

Paint us the hero, all on flame,
Ardent thro' life, and brave in death,
As tho' his country's love, no empty name,
Could but expire with his last heaving breath.

So when, at length, our friends may die,
And Death—how near he takes his stand!
Tho' to the grave we bear them with a sigh,
Still shall they live by Betham's skilful hand.

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ODE XXI. AN EPITAPH FOR A HUMAN BEING.

He did not hate the world, and yet,
Liv'd from the world retir'd;
And cheerful he paid Nature's debt,
And unobserv'd expir'd.

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Reader! within thy gentle breast,
Does Pity lodge, thy plaintive guest?
Bid her leave no complainings here;
But mark the tribes of human kind:
Can she no living mourner find?
Then bid her come—and drop a tear.

ODE XXII. TO A HUMBLE FRIEND.

Poor animal! when thou didst come to me,
Thou look'dst so meager, suppliant, and meek,
So wanting pity, that I pitied thee:
My offer'd crust fearful thou seem'dst to take,
Yet taking, lick'dst my hand so gratefully,
Shiv'ring with fondness: and thy look did speak,
Needing no voice: “Oh! take me, let me be
“Thy humble friend, content with humblest fare.”
—Such hast thou been, poor dog, and well we met,
Thou, a poor outcast; I, a solitaire.
Now 'tis agreed, who first pays Nature's debt,
If, (as well I know thou'lt mourn my end)
I'll write, “Here lies a well-proved, humble Friend.