 | Poetics |  |
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I. VOL. I.
ODES.
BOOK THE FIRST.
ODE I. VISIONS.
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Every nation has its peculiar Mythology or Fabulous History, and Mythology has been rendered subservient to each nation's particular poetry. Different writers have treated of some ancient opinions on this subject: but as the author alludes, in the following poem, to different mythologies, and the poetry of different nations, he is led to contemplate them under the form of visions. The Power (according to the Platonic philosophy, the Genius) that has controlled the destinies of his life, leads him to a great Instructress, who directs him to pursue a walk of poetry best adapted to his talents, and most according with his experience: and from his situation near Isis, the poetical river of Oxford, he is led, incidentally, to reprove such writers as under-rate each others literary pursuits.
INTRODUCTION.
Yes, Mysta, yes—me much thy fables please,
Thy dreams of other days, and other climes:
For truths and kind affections with thy rhymes
Commix, inwoven well:—be thine to seize
The Poet's ground, the high æthereal way;
Mine the terrestrial walk: nor me hath age
Yet chill'd, tho' stealing on; and so I stray
Into thy upper grounds, like palmer sage.
Here let us kindly meet, and the world see,
How friends may differ much, and yet may much agree.
Thy dreams of other days, and other climes:
For truths and kind affections with thy rhymes
Commix, inwoven well:—be thine to seize
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Mine the terrestrial walk: nor me hath age
Yet chill'd, tho' stealing on; and so I stray
Into thy upper grounds, like palmer sage.
Here let us kindly meet, and the world see,
How friends may differ much, and yet may much agree.
Me too thy Spenser pleases, and his song
Lur'd me to Fairy-land: there I did meet
King Arthur and St. George, in converse sweet,
Of their achievements proud, and labours long,
And gentlest charities, and lineage high:
From diff'rent lands they come, to diff'rent ways
They go, yet come and go as friends; so I,
Thy reas'nings heard, will now unfold what says
My secret guide; and shoulds't thou ask of me,
Why he near Isis taught, I will explain to thee.
Lur'd me to Fairy-land: there I did meet
King Arthur and St. George, in converse sweet,
Of their achievements proud, and labours long,
And gentlest charities, and lineage high:
From diff'rent lands they come, to diff'rent ways
They go, yet come and go as friends; so I,
Thy reas'nings heard, will now unfold what says
My secret guide; and shoulds't thou ask of me,
Why he near Isis taught, I will explain to thee.
It was, because he knew in early years,
I bath'd my limbs in Camus, classic stream;
And that I might unthinking lightly deem
Of those two kindred streams, his bright compeers:
For well my genius knew, in days of yore,
How bookmen oft, rivals in pedant pride,
Would over-rate each his own college lore,
And each the others minstrelsies deride;
Hence oft to Isis now my steps he leads,
To muse upon her banks, and tread her flowery meads.
I bath'd my limbs in Camus, classic stream;
And that I might unthinking lightly deem
Of those two kindred streams, his bright compeers:
For well my genius knew, in days of yore,
How bookmen oft, rivals in pedant pride,
Would over-rate each his own college lore,
And each the others minstrelsies deride;
Hence oft to Isis now my steps he leads,
To muse upon her banks, and tread her flowery meads.
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And there he taught me still that stream to love,
Wherein long since my young limbs laved were;
For that great Spenser, Milton, Cowley, there,
Dryden and Gray, whilom were wont to rove,
And were baptiz'd, as in some wizard stream;
And will'd, too, I should ponder well and long,
That Chaucer, of old British bards supreme,
In Isis wash'd; but that the Prince of Song,
Immortal Shakespeare, Nature's fav'rite child,
Bath'd in no classic stream, but ranged the mountains wild.
Wherein long since my young limbs laved were;
For that great Spenser, Milton, Cowley, there,
Dryden and Gray, whilom were wont to rove,
And were baptiz'd, as in some wizard stream;
And will'd, too, I should ponder well and long,
That Chaucer, of old British bards supreme,
In Isis wash'd; but that the Prince of Song,
Immortal Shakespeare, Nature's fav'rite child,
Bath'd in no classic stream, but ranged the mountains wild.
------ The Dreams of Pindus, and th'Aonian maids.—
Pope's Messiah.
Pope's Messiah.
In that blithe season, when on every spray
Life lifts the fluttering wing, and warms each flower,
In muse-frequented, fancy-colour'd bower,
Sleeps prisoner, lock'd in visions deep, I lay:
Cherwell, fair river, flow'd the bower beside,
Moist'ning the bank, as wont, with kisses sweet;
While Isis pour'd along her silver tide,
Her kindred stream in kind embrace to meet:
Ah! thus, I cried, as now these streams combine,
Might man with fellow-man in friendly union join.
Life lifts the fluttering wing, and warms each flower,
In muse-frequented, fancy-colour'd bower,
Sleeps prisoner, lock'd in visions deep, I lay:
Cherwell, fair river, flow'd the bower beside,
Moist'ning the bank, as wont, with kisses sweet;
While Isis pour'd along her silver tide,
Her kindred stream in kind embrace to meet:
Ah! thus, I cried, as now these streams combine,
Might man with fellow-man in friendly union join.
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The stately sun had left his mid-day throne,
And on the waters play'd his sloping beam;
Silent awhile the feather'd warblers seem,
And faint with heat the daisied meadows shone.
Soon as soft slumbers had ensnar'd my eyes,
I heard a voice which spoke in accent strong:
“Bright scenes shall rise successive: man be wise,
And mark each shadowy form which glides along:”
All is now still; a lighter landscape shines,
Of Nature's gayest green, of Beauty's softest lines.
And on the waters play'd his sloping beam;
Silent awhile the feather'd warblers seem,
And faint with heat the daisied meadows shone.
Soon as soft slumbers had ensnar'd my eyes,
I heard a voice which spoke in accent strong:
“Bright scenes shall rise successive: man be wise,
And mark each shadowy form which glides along:”
All is now still; a lighter landscape shines,
Of Nature's gayest green, of Beauty's softest lines.
One Vision soon is past, when I behold
A power descend, that nine fair virgins led:
A glory beams from his ambrosial head,
Bright are his eyes, his sandals shine with gold;
Down his young form a golden vestment flows;
His golden harp with skill is aptly strung.
And now with musings deep his visage glows,
While all around in mute expectance hung;
But when the minstrel strikes the harmonic lyre,
What high-wrought raptures seize that sacred sister choir!
A power descend, that nine fair virgins led:
A glory beams from his ambrosial head,
Bright are his eyes, his sandals shine with gold;
Down his young form a golden vestment flows;
His golden harp with skill is aptly strung.
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While all around in mute expectance hung;
But when the minstrel strikes the harmonic lyre,
What high-wrought raptures seize that sacred sister choir!
What pencil may describe those virgins fair,
Their mystic forms, their eyes ethereal light?
When poesy's and music's powers unite,
Who may their many-mingling charms declare?
These damsels now by turns responsive sing,
Then wake in chorus, harp, and pipe, and lute,
Sound the gay timbrels, shrill the cymbals ring,
As different sounds their different genius suit.
Thus Nature ever various loves to please,
Thus from mixt forms calls forth her wond'rous harmonies.
Their mystic forms, their eyes ethereal light?
When poesy's and music's powers unite,
Who may their many-mingling charms declare?
These damsels now by turns responsive sing,
Then wake in chorus, harp, and pipe, and lute,
Sound the gay timbrels, shrill the cymbals ring,
As different sounds their different genius suit.
Thus Nature ever various loves to please,
Thus from mixt forms calls forth her wond'rous harmonies.
Their song was proud—of gods, and heroes brave;
Of Jove loud-thundering, and his awful queen;
And her that virgin rare, of sylvan mien;
And beauty's goddess, sprung from ocean's wave;
Nor less of her, the warrior, from whose eye
Beams wisdom, gorgon-terrors from whose breast,
Nor less of him, that God, the tempest high
Who lifts, or calms at will, its rage to rest;
Of all who fill the empyreal plain,
Or thro' the skies, earth, fire, and water, boundless reign.
Of Jove loud-thundering, and his awful queen;
And her that virgin rare, of sylvan mien;
And beauty's goddess, sprung from ocean's wave;
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Beams wisdom, gorgon-terrors from whose breast,
Nor less of him, that God, the tempest high
Who lifts, or calms at will, its rage to rest;
Of all who fill the empyreal plain,
Or thro' the skies, earth, fire, and water, boundless reign.
Beside a beech, list'ning with his rude throng,
Hung Orpheus, master of the melting lyre;
And near old Hesiod, and the vagrant sire,
Blind Homer, who so rous'd th'heroic song,
The glory of great Greece: others were there,
Bards, fam'd thro' Greece, still of illustrious names,
Some Roman, who those muses smiles wont share,
(Some now ingulph'd in time, unknown to fame)
Foremost of whom, Ennius, of distant age,
With Maro, polished bard, and with Lucretius sage.
Hung Orpheus, master of the melting lyre;
And near old Hesiod, and the vagrant sire,
Blind Homer, who so rous'd th'heroic song,
The glory of great Greece: others were there,
Bards, fam'd thro' Greece, still of illustrious names,
Some Roman, who those muses smiles wont share,
(Some now ingulph'd in time, unknown to fame)
Foremost of whom, Ennius, of distant age,
With Maro, polished bard, and with Lucretius sage.
But quickly now successive to my view,
Far different forms, and different scenes unfold,
Suns empyrean-bright, and skies of gold,
Hills ever green, and fields of heavenly hue;
And far away, two wide extended streams,
Sacred the names, and dear to eastern lore;
(More stately move not in the poet's dreams)
Roll their proud waves beside the silent shore,
And hark! a thousand songs to Mithra rise,
Luxuriant as the fields, and glowing as the skies.
Far different forms, and different scenes unfold,
Suns empyrean-bright, and skies of gold,
Hills ever green, and fields of heavenly hue;
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Sacred the names, and dear to eastern lore;
(More stately move not in the poet's dreams)
Roll their proud waves beside the silent shore,
And hark! a thousand songs to Mithra rise,
Luxuriant as the fields, and glowing as the skies.
The rapturous notes fill every sacred bower,
Till now, as slumbering, clos'd the eye of day:
Then pour'd the nightingale his liquid lay,
Perch'd on a branch beside his favourite flower.
And near that flower his eyes are glittering bright;
And near that flower his notes so wildly rove,
As tho' his little breast with fond delight
Would break, for blooming Rosa was his love.
Thou sweetest flower, oh! still thy stay prolong,
Oh! sweetest bird, still pour that soothing, melting song.
Till now, as slumbering, clos'd the eye of day:
Then pour'd the nightingale his liquid lay,
Perch'd on a branch beside his favourite flower.
And near that flower his eyes are glittering bright;
And near that flower his notes so wildly rove,
As tho' his little breast with fond delight
Would break, for blooming Rosa was his love.
Thou sweetest flower, oh! still thy stay prolong,
Oh! sweetest bird, still pour that soothing, melting song.
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Here gay, o'er wine, with each a dainty dame,
Hafez and Sadi sat; nor far away
Rose Cassem, far renown'd for classic lay;
And Abilola, bard of loftier name;
And he, that shepherd, who gave Israel law,
And he who glorious rul'd, their tuneful king;
And such as taught in prophets schools, and saw
Visions, and wak'd inspired the mystic string,
The first of whom, Isaiah, nor less he
Who moraliz'd in song, thro' the blest Araby.
Hafez and Sadi sat; nor far away
Rose Cassem, far renown'd for classic lay;
And Abilola, bard of loftier name;
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And he who glorious rul'd, their tuneful king;
And such as taught in prophets schools, and saw
Visions, and wak'd inspired the mystic string,
The first of whom, Isaiah, nor less he
Who moraliz'd in song, thro' the blest Araby.
Now, as just rais'd from fiery surge, behold
Beings, monstrous gods, by God and man accurs'd,
Satan, arch-fiend, and Moloch, mad with thirst
Of human blood, and Mammon gorg'd with gold;
And other forms, huge, hideous, hateful, base;
Gods once of Egypt, or Phœnicia's coast,
Or Syrias, with Belial's beastly race,
Mail'd with dark panoply, a dreadful host!
Furious as fiery storms from Etna rise,
Which deluge all the land, and purple all the skies.
Beings, monstrous gods, by God and man accurs'd,
Satan, arch-fiend, and Moloch, mad with thirst
Of human blood, and Mammon gorg'd with gold;
And other forms, huge, hideous, hateful, base;
Gods once of Egypt, or Phœnicia's coast,
Or Syrias, with Belial's beastly race,
Mail'd with dark panoply, a dreadful host!
Furious as fiery storms from Etna rise,
Which deluge all the land, and purple all the skies.
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'Gainst Heaven's high King, I saw them waging war;
I saw them plung'd headlong to deepest hell;
I saw them plotting machinations fell,
Plotting, tho' fall'n, in Pandæmonium far:
And against whom those machinations vile?
'Gainst man, and his long feeble progeny.
I saw the tempter give—with baleful smile;
I saw the tempted take the gift and die.
Ah! splendid horrors all; but short their stay;
How like a thunder-storm, that growls, and dies away!
I saw them plung'd headlong to deepest hell;
I saw them plotting machinations fell,
Plotting, tho' fall'n, in Pandæmonium far:
And against whom those machinations vile?
'Gainst man, and his long feeble progeny.
I saw the tempter give—with baleful smile;
I saw the tempted take the gift and die.
Ah! splendid horrors all; but short their stay;
How like a thunder-storm, that growls, and dies away!
Chang'd is the scene.—Now towering forms I view,
With limbs of giant size, they march along;
Loud they pour forth the hoarse prophetic song;
Bold is their front; their eyes of sullen blue.
Louder and louder bursts their martial strain,
(Clash their rude shields responsive to the sound)
As now embattling fierce, they scour the plain,
Where grisly foemen groaning bite the ground.
“Joy to the brave”—I hear the bardie cry;
“Shout, shout (the day is won) the song of victory.”
With limbs of giant size, they march along;
Loud they pour forth the hoarse prophetic song;
Bold is their front; their eyes of sullen blue.
Louder and louder bursts their martial strain,
(Clash their rude shields responsive to the sound)
As now embattling fierce, they scour the plain,
Where grisly foemen groaning bite the ground.
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“Shout, shout (the day is won) the song of victory.”
And now the rites begin, dark groves among,
Long consecrate in wood-crown'd isle most fair;
Tuisto and Mannus all due honours share;
(The Gods of nations claim the warriors song)
But her in hymns accordant long and loud,
Hertha, the all-prolific source of life,
Her most they celebrate in vestments proud,
High-thron'd in chariot bright: hush'd is all strife;
And war has dropp'd his lance; for all around
The goddess fills the groves, and terrors rock the ground.
Long consecrate in wood-crown'd isle most fair;
Tuisto and Mannus all due honours share;
(The Gods of nations claim the warriors song)
But her in hymns accordant long and loud,
Hertha, the all-prolific source of life,
Her most they celebrate in vestments proud,
High-thron'd in chariot bright: hush'd is all strife;
And war has dropp'd his lance; for all around
The goddess fills the groves, and terrors rock the ground.
Now flutter forms fantastic, dimly seen,
Fays, Genii, Monsters, Spirits, a motley band,
And he, who whilom rul'd through fairy-land,
That merry, pranking king, and elfin queen.
“Oh! stay thee, Oberon—lo! a gentle knight
“Implores thy aid, on val'rous deeds intent;
“True to his love, and panting for the fight,
“On great emprize to lands far-distant bent.”
Oberon is stay'd; and “take that horn,” he cries,
And “take that sacred ring and every danger flies.”
Fays, Genii, Monsters, Spirits, a motley band,
And he, who whilom rul'd through fairy-land,
That merry, pranking king, and elfin queen.
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“Implores thy aid, on val'rous deeds intent;
“True to his love, and panting for the fight,
“On great emprize to lands far-distant bent.”
Oberon is stay'd; and “take that horn,” he cries,
And “take that sacred ring and every danger flies.”
And lo! a castle rears its stupendous wall,
And fiery dragons guard the building round;
Ah! who would dare to tread infernal ground?
The knight has dar'd: no terrors may appal:
Though hell were in that place, he must advance:
Deep foams his fiery steed, and prances high,
Till by the terror of his flaming lance,
Close lock'd in death those raving monsters lie.
Loud sounds his horn: wide the gates open spread;
And proud he enters thro', and towers his crested head.
And fiery dragons guard the building round;
Ah! who would dare to tread infernal ground?
The knight has dar'd: no terrors may appal:
Though hell were in that place, he must advance:
Deep foams his fiery steed, and prances high,
Till by the terror of his flaming lance,
Close lock'd in death those raving monsters lie.
Loud sounds his horn: wide the gates open spread;
And proud he enters thro', and towers his crested head.
And, oh! what freezing scenes to view unfold!
How stare, with horror wild, his stony eyes!
What piteous howlings, what heart-rending cries!
Stound are his ears; his blood runs shivering cold!
Here deep enthrall'd lies many a lady bright,
Ah! doom'd by giant curs'd to writhe in pain,
Or yield, vile service, to his damn'd delight,
Who deep-retir'd here holds his dev'lish reign:
But by the knight's stout arm the monster fell,
Has felt the stroke of death and hastens down to hell.
How stare, with horror wild, his stony eyes!
What piteous howlings, what heart-rending cries!
Stound are his ears; his blood runs shivering cold!
Here deep enthrall'd lies many a lady bright,
Ah! doom'd by giant curs'd to writhe in pain,
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Who deep-retir'd here holds his dev'lish reign:
But by the knight's stout arm the monster fell,
Has felt the stroke of death and hastens down to hell.
“Now, ladies, take heaven's ever-blessed boon,
“Freedom is yours: God speed you on your way:”
And now the knight shall hail th'all-glorious day:
High his desert, and he shall triumph soon:
A princess bright (such honours crown the brave)
In pride of youth awaits thy wish'd return;
Full many a fair, Sir Knight, 'twas thine to save;
Nor vainly did that breast with glory burn.
But lo! the fairy scene eludes my sight,
Fled is the princess fair, and fled the valorous knight.
“Freedom is yours: God speed you on your way:”
And now the knight shall hail th'all-glorious day:
High his desert, and he shall triumph soon:
A princess bright (such honours crown the brave)
In pride of youth awaits thy wish'd return;
Full many a fair, Sir Knight, 'twas thine to save;
Nor vainly did that breast with glory burn.
But lo! the fairy scene eludes my sight,
Fled is the princess fair, and fled the valorous knight.
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But hark! the master of the Runic rhyme
Strikes the rude shell and wakes the mystic lay:
And see! the King of Men pursues his way.
To try Varthrudnis' art in things sublime.
Now Gothic lore is beaming on my sight;
Now sacred truth enchains my wond'ring mind;
Whence earth, and heav'n, and all those worlds of light;
The mighty gods and heroes of mankind;
Who drives morn's rising car, and evening's low;
Whence all the flowers that bloom, and all the herbs that grow:
Strikes the rude shell and wakes the mystic lay:
And see! the King of Men pursues his way.
To try Varthrudnis' art in things sublime.
Now Gothic lore is beaming on my sight;
Now sacred truth enchains my wond'ring mind;
Whence earth, and heav'n, and all those worlds of light;
The mighty gods and heroes of mankind;
Who drives morn's rising car, and evening's low;
Whence all the flowers that bloom, and all the herbs that grow:
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And what that stream, which gods divides from earth;
And whose that arm, which durst with Odin war;
Whence Godhead's source, and Niflhil thence how far;
And whence that old Bergelmer owes his birth;
And where Valhalla, seat of noble men,
Who bravely fought, and durst in youth to bleed;
And where that nameless winter holds its reign,
Which must some new created world precede;
And where yon sun shall hide, when mighty Thor
Shall, midst a world in flames, extinguish ruthless War.
And whose that arm, which durst with Odin war;
Whence Godhead's source, and Niflhil thence how far;
And whence that old Bergelmer owes his birth;
And where Valhalla, seat of noble men,
Who bravely fought, and durst in youth to bleed;
And where that nameless winter holds its reign,
Which must some new created world precede;
And where yon sun shall hide, when mighty Thor
Shall, midst a world in flames, extinguish ruthless War.
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But lo! now glimmers thro' the thicken'd air,
Helmets, and shields, and many a sparkling lance;
And see those sisters grim! quick they advance!
Orkney for woe! Erin for woe prepare!
Lo! north and south those dragon-sisters fly!
Grim-visag'd terror scowls on all the plain—
And hark! those ponderous groans, that lengthening cry!
The cry, the groan of many a warrior slain!
Oh! scene of horrors, close upon my eyes!
Sped are those grisly dames: and lo! that vision flies.
Helmets, and shields, and many a sparkling lance;
And see those sisters grim! quick they advance!
Orkney for woe! Erin for woe prepare!
Lo! north and south those dragon-sisters fly!
Grim-visag'd terror scowls on all the plain—
And hark! those ponderous groans, that lengthening cry!
The cry, the groan of many a warrior slain!
Oh! scene of horrors, close upon my eyes!
Sped are those grisly dames: and lo! that vision flies.
Dark now the scene, and lengthening still the land!
'Tis Caledonia.—How her forests frown!
Picts, like bees swarming thick, see rushing down
Southward, and now in hosts embattled stand!
Soon Fingal's spirit stalks, while Ossian's song
Rouses, such power have sounds, the martial flame;
Here Bruce's, Baliol's, rival armies throng;
There pensive Wallace with his faithful Graham:
Now border-chiefs, and Danish now arise:
And dauntless, tho' in pangs, hear how great Ragnar dies.
'Tis Caledonia.—How her forests frown!
Picts, like bees swarming thick, see rushing down
Southward, and now in hosts embattled stand!
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Rouses, such power have sounds, the martial flame;
Here Bruce's, Baliol's, rival armies throng;
There pensive Wallace with his faithful Graham:
Now border-chiefs, and Danish now arise:
And dauntless, tho' in pangs, hear how great Ragnar dies.
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But ruffian squadrons still embattle round,
And guilty conquest has distain'd the field:
Heralds of peace—must they to fury yield?
Shall unarm'd victims feel the dastard's wound?
Yes! they have fall'n, the bards, fair Cambria's pride,
Truth's tuneful priests—with heaven they left the prayer;
And not unmourn'd the blameless victims died;
See beck'ning spirits hover in the air;
While brave Aneurin mourns his Hoel slain;
And pity droops the head at soft Llewellyn's strain.
And guilty conquest has distain'd the field:
Heralds of peace—must they to fury yield?
Shall unarm'd victims feel the dastard's wound?
Yes! they have fall'n, the bards, fair Cambria's pride,
Truth's tuneful priests—with heaven they left the prayer;
And not unmourn'd the blameless victims died;
See beck'ning spirits hover in the air;
While brave Aneurin mourns his Hoel slain;
And pity droops the head at soft Llewellyn's strain.
Thus do these visionary pageants gleam;
Some quick retire, others as quick arise,
(As those bright forms to Jacob from the skies,
Past, and repast, gilding his midnight dream.)
Ah! scenes that do but live in fiction's eye,
Yet can, like charms, beguile a life of woe.
Too true to truth, who would each day-dream fly,
Who, rob'd in wisdom, fancy's worlds forego?
Return, ye fabled forms, if ye can please,
Oh! still, ye visions, rise, and wrap my soul in ease.
Some quick retire, others as quick arise,
(As those bright forms to Jacob from the skies,
Past, and repast, gilding his midnight dream.)
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Yet can, like charms, beguile a life of woe.
Too true to truth, who would each day-dream fly,
Who, rob'd in wisdom, fancy's worlds forego?
Return, ye fabled forms, if ye can please,
Oh! still, ye visions, rise, and wrap my soul in ease.
Now all is past; and not a being seen;
While silence reigns (as when in spring, a shower
Sheds on the meadows round, its fruitful store,
And leaves the grateful landscape all serene)
But soon—thus changeful is the life of man—
My genius leads me to a secret cave,
Form'd by proportion's nicest, truest plan,
And ocean rolls beside the placid wave.
Straight as I enter, oh! what sweet surprise
Has seiz'd my raptur'd heart, and fill'd my ravish'd eyes!
While silence reigns (as when in spring, a shower
Sheds on the meadows round, its fruitful store,
And leaves the grateful landscape all serene)
But soon—thus changeful is the life of man—
My genius leads me to a secret cave,
Form'd by proportion's nicest, truest plan,
And ocean rolls beside the placid wave.
Straight as I enter, oh! what sweet surprise
Has seiz'd my raptur'd heart, and fill'd my ravish'd eyes!
There art had cull'd from nature's stores divine;
There plac'd in brilliant rows with studious care,
Whatever boasts the sea, of treasures rare;
Whate'er of sparkling ore conceals the mine;
The branching coral, red, and white, and blue,
The silvery pearl, the crystal bright and clear,
Em'ralds of green, the ruby's scarlet hue,
The pride of climes, and blossoms of the year;
All that could please and charm a gazer's eyes:
For here, though small the spot, did seem a paradise.
There plac'd in brilliant rows with studious care,
Whatever boasts the sea, of treasures rare;
Whate'er of sparkling ore conceals the mine;
The branching coral, red, and white, and blue,
The silvery pearl, the crystal bright and clear,
Em'ralds of green, the ruby's scarlet hue,
The pride of climes, and blossoms of the year;
All that could please and charm a gazer's eyes:
For here, though small the spot, did seem a paradise.
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By nymphs attended, here a sylvan maid,
(Cities she fled, and spurn'd the chain of love;
Her love, to range the mountain, stream, and grove)
Finds rest and coolness in the quiet shade;
And near, an aged dame of power supreme,
Prolific parent she, the sov'reign high
Of the world's boundless realms, yet fond did seem
Of simplest chaplet, cull'd from meadows nigh.
How mild her eye!—Thus beams the morning light—
But all the goddess-form swells full upon my sight!
(Cities she fled, and spurn'd the chain of love;
Her love, to range the mountain, stream, and grove)
Finds rest and coolness in the quiet shade;
And near, an aged dame of power supreme,
Prolific parent she, the sov'reign high
Of the world's boundless realms, yet fond did seem
Of simplest chaplet, cull'd from meadows nigh.
How mild her eye!—Thus beams the morning light—
But all the goddess-form swells full upon my sight!
“Be thine,” she said, and gaz'd upon the flowers,
With looks which wisdom mixt with love express'd,
“With many a dazzling scene thy mind to feast;
“To follow fiction through her magic bowers;
“To trip with Fancy in her airy dance,
“With tiptoe revelries, and wild surprise;
“To mark each pageant in its proud advance
“From shadowy deeps, and visionary skies:
“Sweet are the haunts, wherever genius roves,
“Through fields of vision'd bliss, or academic groves.
With looks which wisdom mixt with love express'd,
“With many a dazzling scene thy mind to feast;
“To follow fiction through her magic bowers;
“To trip with Fancy in her airy dance,
“With tiptoe revelries, and wild surprise;
“To mark each pageant in its proud advance
“From shadowy deeps, and visionary skies:
“Sweet are the haunts, wherever genius roves,
“Through fields of vision'd bliss, or academic groves.
21
“Sooth'd into softness by the melting song,
“Charm'd into reverence by the mighty theme,
“Be thine to kindle at each muse's dream,
“To hail with reverence all the tuneful throng.
“Theirs be the praise—nor slender be the praise—
“To make new worlds—to burst the bounds of time—
“Their stately monument of fame to raise—
“And on the heart to bind the mystic rhyme—
“Bold their design, each daring charm to seize,
“And rouse to wonder, where they mean to please.
“Charm'd into reverence by the mighty theme,
“Be thine to kindle at each muse's dream,
“To hail with reverence all the tuneful throng.
“Theirs be the praise—nor slender be the praise—
“To make new worlds—to burst the bounds of time—
“Their stately monument of fame to raise—
“And on the heart to bind the mystic rhyme—
“Bold their design, each daring charm to seize,
“And rouse to wonder, where they mean to please.
“Thine be the warblings of the peaceful lyre,
“Peaceful, but not inglorious; thine to sing,
“The morning's glittering eye—the virgin spring—
“—The power of beauty—freedom's holy fire;
“To guide the youthful poet on his way;
“—To rouse the virtues—soothe the soul of pain.”—
Enough—if Genius may but feel the lay;
Enough, if friendship but approve the strain:
And if, for life's short day-dream soon shall fly,
The muse may charm a pang, or check a rising sigh.
“Peaceful, but not inglorious; thine to sing,
“The morning's glittering eye—the virgin spring—
“—The power of beauty—freedom's holy fire;
“To guide the youthful poet on his way;
“—To rouse the virtues—soothe the soul of pain.”—
Enough—if Genius may but feel the lay;
Enough, if friendship but approve the strain:
And if, for life's short day-dream soon shall fly,
The muse may charm a pang, or check a rising sigh.
22
ODE III. ON REVISITING THE SCENES OF EARLIER LIFE.
TO WILLIAM FREND, A. M.
[The scenes lie in and near Cambridge.]
Frend, whom I met in earlier day,
Following, where science led the way;
And warmly hail'd, a generous name,
Glowing with Freedom's hallow'd flame;
What time by Granta's classic stream,
I tried some idle, fitful theme;
Or, as in Zion's sacred grove,
Where bards ecstatic wont to rove,
I wak'd, as friendship deign'd to call my lyre,
And felt, or seem'd to feel, some prophet's holy fire.
Following, where science led the way;
And warmly hail'd, a generous name,
Glowing with Freedom's hallow'd flame;
24
I tried some idle, fitful theme;
Or, as in Zion's sacred grove,
Where bards ecstatic wont to rove,
I wak'd, as friendship deign'd to call my lyre,
And felt, or seem'd to feel, some prophet's holy fire.
We saw no Alps in grandeur climb;
Nor ocean rous'd to thought sublime;
No mountain-torrent roll'd around;
No rock gave out the mystic sound:
Yet clear was morning's trembling light,
Purpling the heav'ns with colours bright;
And lofty on his mid-day throne,
The sun in beauty glorious shone;
Even Gogmagog could smile, and sacred seem,
Tho' but with sedges crown'd, old Camus'ling'ring stream.
Nor ocean rous'd to thought sublime;
No mountain-torrent roll'd around;
No rock gave out the mystic sound:
Yet clear was morning's trembling light,
Purpling the heav'ns with colours bright;
And lofty on his mid-day throne,
The sun in beauty glorious shone;
Even Gogmagog could smile, and sacred seem,
Tho' but with sedges crown'd, old Camus'ling'ring stream.
You mark'd along th'æthereal plain,
When Hesper led the starry train;
How glitter'd in his southern sphere
Sirius; how shone the northern bear;
How mov'd the hosts round either pole;
By what sure rule the comets roll;
And by the moon's reflected ray
Mark'd out each planet's shining way;
With Newton all the heav'nly orbs would trace,
Point out their wondrous laws, and fix their certain place.
When Hesper led the starry train;
How glitter'd in his southern sphere
Sirius; how shone the northern bear;
How mov'd the hosts round either pole;
By what sure rule the comets roll;
And by the moon's reflected ray
Mark'd out each planet's shining way;
With Newton all the heav'nly orbs would trace,
Point out their wondrous laws, and fix their certain place.
25
For me, like fond enthusiast blest,
I worshipp'd earth: yet did my breast
Soon learn to burn with Milton's rage,
I look'd with pride on Nature's page:
“Minds should be free,” in scorn I cried;
“Who shall the boundless ocean guide?
“An honest mind, unaw'd by schools,
“Is to itself the best of rules.
“I may be poor, but free shall be my mind;
“For he who freedom knows, in that shall riches find.”
I worshipp'd earth: yet did my breast
Soon learn to burn with Milton's rage,
I look'd with pride on Nature's page:
“Minds should be free,” in scorn I cried;
“Who shall the boundless ocean guide?
“An honest mind, unaw'd by schools,
“Is to itself the best of rules.
“I may be poor, but free shall be my mind;
“For he who freedom knows, in that shall riches find.”
Yet mov'd one humble willow tree,
Which did not speak some charm to me?
I hail'd each swallow twittering by,
And blest the redbreast trilling nigh:
These simple fields to me were gay;
In these lorn groves I lov'd to stray;
And Cam, all silent, soft, and slow,
Suiting the scene, appear'd to flow:
Friendship's sweet magic thro' my bosom stole:
Hence towards these fields I felt with Cowley's softer soul.
Which did not speak some charm to me?
I hail'd each swallow twittering by,
And blest the redbreast trilling nigh:
These simple fields to me were gay;
In these lorn groves I lov'd to stray;
And Cam, all silent, soft, and slow,
Suiting the scene, appear'd to flow:
Friendship's sweet magic thro' my bosom stole:
Hence towards these fields I felt with Cowley's softer soul.
But now no more—Lo! time has sped;
And many a golden day-dream fled;
While backward, as my eyes I turn,
For friends who lov'd these fields I mourn;
For ah! as swift the rivers glide,
To lose themselves in ocean's tide;
And as the birds forget to sing,
And trees put off the dress of spring;
So have they left this transitory scene,
Tho' fond remembrance oft reminds us, they have been.
And many a golden day-dream fled;
While backward, as my eyes I turn,
For friends who lov'd these fields I mourn;
26
To lose themselves in ocean's tide;
And as the birds forget to sing,
And trees put off the dress of spring;
So have they left this transitory scene,
Tho' fond remembrance oft reminds us, they have been.
But rise some scenes of new delight!
Still let some vision daze my sight!
Yes—long as ought of life shall last,
Let some new day-dream chace the past:
And fire me, Freedom's ardent throng!
And fill my soul, enchanting song!
Still Friendship, love with me to rest,
And raise your altar in my breast!
But when the nobler virtues cease to fire,
Ah! then ye visions, close; each charm of life expire.
Still let some vision daze my sight!
Yes—long as ought of life shall last,
Let some new day-dream chace the past:
And fire me, Freedom's ardent throng!
And fill my soul, enchanting song!
Still Friendship, love with me to rest,
And raise your altar in my breast!
But when the nobler virtues cease to fire,
Ah! then ye visions, close; each charm of life expire.
27
ODE IV. ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
Meditated on the Banks of the Cam.
Lo! where the virgin spring is seen,
Dancing forth in bright array,
Blithe as an eastern bridal Queen,
To wed the Lord of Day.
And see! where rising nature homage yields,
And all her breathing incense pours along,
O'er dewy meads, and the wide open fields,
The stream's soft murmur, and the poet's song,
All, all, her smile attend; earth, water, sky,
All wake to thee, fair Spring, their sweetest minstrelsy.
Dancing forth in bright array,
Blithe as an eastern bridal Queen,
To wed the Lord of Day.
And see! where rising nature homage yields,
And all her breathing incense pours along,
O'er dewy meads, and the wide open fields,
The stream's soft murmur, and the poet's song,
All, all, her smile attend; earth, water, sky,
All wake to thee, fair Spring, their sweetest minstrelsy.
I, too, the genial spirit feel,
Ranging gay the meadows wide,
Or muse smooth numbers as I steal,
Fair Camus' banks beside.
Tho' on these banks no myrtle breathes perfume,
No rose unfolds its blushing beauties near,
Tho' here no gaudy tulip spreads its bloom,
Nor decks the towering lily the parterre:
Inclos'd within the garden's fair domain,
These all in sultan pride shall hold their flaunting reign.
Ranging gay the meadows wide,
Or muse smooth numbers as I steal,
Fair Camus' banks beside.
Tho' on these banks no myrtle breathes perfume,
No rose unfolds its blushing beauties near,
Tho' here no gaudy tulip spreads its bloom,
Nor decks the towering lily the parterre:
Inclos'd within the garden's fair domain,
These all in sultan pride shall hold their flaunting reign.
28
Yet wild-flowers o'er the pregnant scene,
Quicken'd by the touch of May,
Shall spring obedient to their queen,
In simple beauty gay.
To me the violet shall yield its sweet;
Its hue of gold to me the kingcup shew;
From primrose pale, like modest virtue neat,
From meek-eyed daisy shall instruction flow.
Yes, field-flower and the lowly willow-tree,
Crowning yon fav'rite bank—these shall have charms for me.
Quicken'd by the touch of May,
Shall spring obedient to their queen,
In simple beauty gay.
To me the violet shall yield its sweet;
Its hue of gold to me the kingcup shew;
From primrose pale, like modest virtue neat,
From meek-eyed daisy shall instruction flow.
Yes, field-flower and the lowly willow-tree,
Crowning yon fav'rite bank—these shall have charms for me.
What tho', at times, the drizzling shower
Spread a transient gloom around?
Soon shall burst forth the vernal power,
Amid the sweets of sound.
Upward shall spring the lark at early dawn,
And its clear matin carol thro' the sky,
The mellow blackbird hail the settled morn,
The linnet softly trill on hawthorn nigh:
The gloom shall vanish soon, and every spray
With wildest music ring, and all be holiday.
Spread a transient gloom around?
Soon shall burst forth the vernal power,
Amid the sweets of sound.
Upward shall spring the lark at early dawn,
And its clear matin carol thro' the sky,
The mellow blackbird hail the settled morn,
The linnet softly trill on hawthorn nigh:
The gloom shall vanish soon, and every spray
With wildest music ring, and all be holiday.
Even now the sunbeam glittering bright
Dances on the crisped stream;
The waters with a clearer light,
Now more pellucid gleam.
Nor does in vain the swan majestic sail,
Nor bee buzz roving near the flowery brink,
Nor the fish sportive down the current steal,
Nor the plum'd songster on the margin dank:
All, as tho' some great bounty did inspire,
Put on their happiest looks, and wear their best attire.
Dances on the crisped stream;
The waters with a clearer light,
Now more pellucid gleam.
Nor does in vain the swan majestic sail,
Nor bee buzz roving near the flowery brink,
29
Nor the plum'd songster on the margin dank:
All, as tho' some great bounty did inspire,
Put on their happiest looks, and wear their best attire.
For me, as here thy votary strays,
How past pleasures rise to view!
And thee, oh! Spring, I well may praise,
Where praise so well is due.
Sweet was thy gale in youth, when smil'd the hours;
How soothing soft, when sorrow heav'd my breast!
Thy morning gale could quicken fancy's powers;
And friendship ow'd to thee its sweetest zest.
So reign, oh! Spring, while memory shall last,
Pregnant with new delights, and redolent of past.
How past pleasures rise to view!
And thee, oh! Spring, I well may praise,
Where praise so well is due.
Sweet was thy gale in youth, when smil'd the hours;
How soothing soft, when sorrow heav'd my breast!
Thy morning gale could quicken fancy's powers;
And friendship ow'd to thee its sweetest zest.
So reign, oh! Spring, while memory shall last,
Pregnant with new delights, and redolent of past.
Yet I, who hail thy gentle reign,
Soon must leave thee, gentle Spring,
What time fate's high decrees ordain,
Or wills the Sovereign King.
Yes! all which charms at morn, of orient light,
And all which soothes of eve's soft-setting ray,
Thy gales, and songs, and rills, and flowers so bright,
All that can warm the heart, or gild the day;
All must be follow'd by funereal gloom,
And man, frail man, at length, sink silent to the tomb.
Soon must leave thee, gentle Spring,
What time fate's high decrees ordain,
Or wills the Sovereign King.
Yes! all which charms at morn, of orient light,
And all which soothes of eve's soft-setting ray,
Thy gales, and songs, and rills, and flowers so bright,
All that can warm the heart, or gild the day;
All must be follow'd by funereal gloom,
And man, frail man, at length, sink silent to the tomb.
But tho' I love thee, Spring so fair,
If there's one more fair above,
Where smiles the sun the live-long year,
And all is light and love;
There shall immortal gales breathe sweets around;
There rise seraphic songs, and golden flowers,
Cherish'd luxuriant on the laughing ground,
From heav'ns own dews, and pure ambrosial showers;
And happy beings rest, their conquests won,
Spring never cease to smile, nor time its course to run.
If there's one more fair above,
Where smiles the sun the live-long year,
And all is light and love;
30
There rise seraphic songs, and golden flowers,
Cherish'd luxuriant on the laughing ground,
From heav'ns own dews, and pure ambrosial showers;
And happy beings rest, their conquests won,
Spring never cease to smile, nor time its course to run.
ODE V. INDEPENDENCE.
Written on some public occasion.
Mark the sun that climbs on high,
Scattering round a golden ray!
It shines amidst the desert sky,
Unrivall'd ruler of the day.
So where Independence reigns,
Wide it spreads a living light,
And soon majestic heights it gains;
While slavery slinks away from sight.
Scattering round a golden ray!
It shines amidst the desert sky,
Unrivall'd ruler of the day.
So where Independence reigns,
Wide it spreads a living light,
And soon majestic heights it gains;
While slavery slinks away from sight.
What tho' sinks awhile the sun?
Long it gilds the western skies;
And soon again its course will run;
Again, with double splendor, rise.
Thus, a light in feeble times,
Independence here shall reign;
Or, soon, if circling distant climes,
With new-born glory rise again.
Long it gilds the western skies;
And soon again its course will run;
Again, with double splendor, rise.
31
Independence here shall reign;
Or, soon, if circling distant climes,
With new-born glory rise again.
What tho' Isr'el's tribes so long
Bow'd the knee at Baal's shrine?
A thousand thousand hearts were strong,
Nor durst from honour's course decline:
Well they knew the patriot's part,
Look'd with scorn on idol powers;
Their country's love inspir'd each heart;
And that sweet love shall glow in ours.
Bow'd the knee at Baal's shrine?
A thousand thousand hearts were strong,
Nor durst from honour's course decline:
Well they knew the patriot's part,
Look'd with scorn on idol powers;
Their country's love inspir'd each heart;
And that sweet love shall glow in ours.
What, tho' Grecians now no more
Shine a nation brave and free?
Yet some, while they the loss deplore,
Still love the song, of liberty.
They who have but heard of day,
Freedom's day, revolt at night;
And we—shall Britons basely stray
In darkness, born in glorious light?
Shine a nation brave and free?
Yet some, while they the loss deplore,
Still love the song, of liberty.
They who have but heard of day,
Freedom's day, revolt at night;
And we—shall Britons basely stray
In darkness, born in glorious light?
Did Columbia strive in vain?
Long in vain oppose our will?
No—great the fight, nor small the gain,
And Britons love Columbia still.
She for Independence bled,
Glorious death, and glorious prize!
Muse, patriots, muse on heroes dead,
And bid a proud ambition rise.
Long in vain oppose our will?
No—great the fight, nor small the gain,
And Britons love Columbia still.
She for Independence bled,
Glorious death, and glorious prize!
Muse, patriots, muse on heroes dead,
And bid a proud ambition rise.
32
Once to Rome did Albion bow?
Still some gallant souls retire,
And high from Cambria's mountain-brow,
In lofty scorn they struck the lyre:
Independence was their theme;
Freedom, purest, noblest cause!
And never may we lightly deem,
Of freedom's claims, of honour's laws!
Still some gallant souls retire,
And high from Cambria's mountain-brow,
In lofty scorn they struck the lyre:
Independence was their theme;
Freedom, purest, noblest cause!
And never may we lightly deem,
Of freedom's claims, of honour's laws!
No—by Alfred's generous name,
No—by Edward's warriors brave;
By lofty Hampden's love of fame,
And noble Sidney's sacred grave;
By those heroes' pains and wrongs,
Who have struggled, fought, and died;
Shall Independence rule our songs;
Shall only freedom be our guide.
No—by Edward's warriors brave;
By lofty Hampden's love of fame,
And noble Sidney's sacred grave;
By those heroes' pains and wrongs,
Who have struggled, fought, and died;
Shall Independence rule our songs;
Shall only freedom be our guide.
Is there who his rights betrays?
Whom not Independence charms?
For him may poet wreathe no lays,
Nor beauty hail him to her arms!
Gold, and state, and splendid name,
Meanly take, nor envy we;
No—yours be pow'r, and pomp, and shame,
And ours all-glorious liberty!
Whom not Independence charms?
For him may poet wreathe no lays,
Nor beauty hail him to her arms!
Gold, and state, and splendid name,
Meanly take, nor envy we;
No—yours be pow'r, and pomp, and shame,
And ours all-glorious liberty!
Whilst we view yon lamp of fire,
Whilst we feel its genial ray,
May freedom British hearts inspire,
May honour rule with sovereign sway!
Independence, reign supreme,
By thy more than charter'd plan!
And never may we Briton deem,
Who spurns the noblest right of man!
Whilst we feel its genial ray,
May freedom British hearts inspire,
May honour rule with sovereign sway!
33
By thy more than charter'd plan!
And never may we Briton deem,
Who spurns the noblest right of man!
ODE VI. TO JOHN HAMMOND, A. M. OF FENSTANTON, HUNTINGDONSHIRE.
[_]
Written in a garden where many improvements had been made, and designed to censure some moderns, in their extravagant imitations of the Greek and Roman Poets, who, however, themselves, cannot be too much admired.
Tho' still I love th'Æolian lyre,
Whose varying sounds beguil'd my youthful day;
And still, as fancy leads, I love to stray,
In fabled groves among th'Aonian choir;
Yet more 'mid native scenes, thro' milder skies,
Nature's mysterious harmonies delight;
There rests my heart; for let the sun but rise,
What is the moon's pale orb, that cheer'd the lonesome night?
Whose varying sounds beguil'd my youthful day;
And still, as fancy leads, I love to stray,
In fabled groves among th'Aonian choir;
Yet more 'mid native scenes, thro' milder skies,
Nature's mysterious harmonies delight;
There rests my heart; for let the sun but rise,
What is the moon's pale orb, that cheer'd the lonesome night?
34
I cannot quite leave classic ground,
Nor bid their labyrinths of song adieu;
Yet scenes to me more dear unfold to view,
And my ear drinks-in notes of clearer sound.
No lyre of Phœbus in my Hammond's bower,
No purple Venus song and love diffuse;
The king of gods here rains no golden shower;
Nor have these lips e'er sipt Castalian dews.
Nor bid their labyrinths of song adieu;
Yet scenes to me more dear unfold to view,
And my ear drinks-in notes of clearer sound.
No lyre of Phœbus in my Hammond's bower,
No purple Venus song and love diffuse;
The king of gods here rains no golden shower;
Nor have these lips e'er sipt Castalian dews.
Yet oh! bright rose, fair child of May,
Tho' Bacchus ne'er with thee his brow may wreathe;
Ye fragrant myrtles, tho' ye ne'er shall breathe
On the soft couch that wak'd to am'rous play;
Yet will I steal from you the richest sweet;
Yet shall your beauties wake no vulgar strain:
Each wild note shall some kindred feeling greet,
And not a gale that sighs, shall sigh to me in vain.
Tho' Bacchus ne'er with thee his brow may wreathe;
Ye fragrant myrtles, tho' ye ne'er shall breathe
On the soft couch that wak'd to am'rous play;
Yet will I steal from you the richest sweet;
Yet shall your beauties wake no vulgar strain:
Each wild note shall some kindred feeling greet,
And not a gale that sighs, shall sigh to me in vain.
Say, polish'd friend, each motley flower
That fable streaks, to daze our youthful sight,
Say, can they breathe so soft, or shine so bright,
As those which nature paints in sober hour?
And if, thy books exchang'd for rural ease,
You teach the garden in new grace to shine,
Ah! what may please, if this hath nought to please,
What, if beguiles not this, the studious hour beguile?
That fable streaks, to daze our youthful sight,
35
As those which nature paints in sober hour?
And if, thy books exchang'd for rural ease,
You teach the garden in new grace to shine,
Ah! what may please, if this hath nought to please,
What, if beguiles not this, the studious hour beguile?
Why should I envy Pindar's lyre,
Deep-ton'd and various? why the melting flow
Of Sappho, and Anacreon's feverish glow?
Or why the warrior-poet's nobler fire?
Or, should Albunea's sacred grove resound,
While headlong Anio roll'd his tide along,
Why Horace envy, tho' gods listen'd round,
To hear him strike the lyre, and wake the soul of song?
Deep-ton'd and various? why the melting flow
Of Sappho, and Anacreon's feverish glow?
Or why the warrior-poet's nobler fire?
Or, should Albunea's sacred grove resound,
While headlong Anio roll'd his tide along,
Why Horace envy, tho' gods listen'd round,
To hear him strike the lyre, and wake the soul of song?
Or why, where suns more fervid glow,
Where flowers like gems, and springs as crystal bright,
Where fruits like opals fire the ravish'd sight,
And silver streams o'er beds of amber flow,
Where to the rose the nightingale complains,
In love-notes tuneful from her myrtle grove,
Why envy Abi'lolas' loftier strains,
Or Cassem's splendid notes, or Hafez' song of love.
Where flowers like gems, and springs as crystal bright,
Where fruits like opals fire the ravish'd sight,
And silver streams o'er beds of amber flow,
36
In love-notes tuneful from her myrtle grove,
Why envy Abi'lolas' loftier strains,
Or Cassem's splendid notes, or Hafez' song of love.
Place me beneath the arctic skies,
Still verse and friendship shall inspire!
Still shall this bosom glow with genial fire!
Still nature's simple forms delight these eyes!
Nor shall my soul, tho' fate has fix'd my lot,
To temperate climes, not feel the rapt'rous muse;
Nor shall my verse, tho' humble, be forgot,
Breath'd in my Hammond's bower, beside the banks of Ouse.
Still verse and friendship shall inspire!
Still shall this bosom glow with genial fire!
Still nature's simple forms delight these eyes!
Nor shall my soul, tho' fate has fix'd my lot,
To temperate climes, not feel the rapt'rous muse;
Nor shall my verse, tho' humble, be forgot,
Breath'd in my Hammond's bower, beside the banks of Ouse.
37
ODE VII. THE RECONCILIATION.
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD REASON TO BE OFFENDED WITH THE AUTHOR; INVITING HER INTO THE COUNTRY.
Narcissa, why that look severe?
Smiles best become the youthful face,
And kindest thoughts, and maiden grace,
And language gentle, and sincere.
And these, sweet girl, are all your own;
Why look then awkward in a frown?
Smiles best become the youthful face,
And kindest thoughts, and maiden grace,
And language gentle, and sincere.
And these, sweet girl, are all your own;
Why look then awkward in a frown?
See you where winter hastes away?
The melted snows no more are seen;
Lo! nature shews her robe of green;
The redbreast trills its cheerful lay;
And soon the snow-drop shall appear,
Fair herald of the rising year.
The melted snows no more are seen;
Lo! nature shews her robe of green;
The redbreast trills its cheerful lay;
And soon the snow-drop shall appear,
Fair herald of the rising year.
Cease then to frown, and haste along,
To rural scenes, and bring with thee,
The roguish look, the flirt, and glee,
Music, and dance, and sprightly song:
For only then do mortals live,
When pleasure they receive or give.
To rural scenes, and bring with thee,
The roguish look, the flirt, and glee,
Music, and dance, and sprightly song:
For only then do mortals live,
When pleasure they receive or give.
38
Oh! come, and mark each early flower,
Come and together we will rove,
And in your favorite poplar grove,
Hear its first notes the blackbird pour;
Beside the fleecy ewes shall stray,
And new-fall'n lambkins frisk and play.
Come and together we will rove,
And in your favorite poplar grove,
Hear its first notes the blackbird pour;
Beside the fleecy ewes shall stray,
And new-fall'n lambkins frisk and play.
What tho' nor blooms the flowery thorn,
Nor silvery blossoms gem the trees,
Nor fragrant breathes the gentle breeze,
Nor gaudy flowers our walks adorn?
Yet like the morning's dawning light,
The year's first buddings shall delight.
Nor silvery blossoms gem the trees,
Nor fragrant breathes the gentle breeze,
Nor gaudy flowers our walks adorn?
Yet like the morning's dawning light,
The year's first buddings shall delight.
But should the snows again arise,
The heav'ns grow thick, and wild winds roar,
Our pleasures yield not to their power,
We will not heed the fickle skies:
At home we'll read, and dance, and sing,
And thus enjoy a constant spring.
The heav'ns grow thick, and wild winds roar,
Our pleasures yield not to their power,
We will not heed the fickle skies:
At home we'll read, and dance, and sing,
And thus enjoy a constant spring.
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ODE VIII. INVOCATION TO MAY.
ON A YOUNG COUPLE MARRIED ON MAY-DAY.
Let April go, capricious Thing,
With many a smile, yet many a frown;
Why should we call her child of spring?
Why deck her locks with flowery crown?
With many a smile, yet many a frown;
Why should we call her child of spring?
Why deck her locks with flowery crown?
Yes go inconstant as the wind,
And chilling midst her amorous play;
A nymph more constant I would find;
And therefore call on lovely May.
And chilling midst her amorous play;
A nymph more constant I would find;
And therefore call on lovely May.
Wake all thy flow'rs, and bid them wear,
Oh! queen of sweets, their brightest dyes;
Spread the full blossom of the year;
And let us view no fickle skies.
Oh! queen of sweets, their brightest dyes;
Spread the full blossom of the year;
And let us view no fickle skies.
And tell thy minstrel of the grove,
Her amorous descant to prolong;
Dear is this day to wedded love,
And I must have her softest song.
Her amorous descant to prolong;
Dear is this day to wedded love,
And I must have her softest song.
For lovers tried, O May so sweet,
Thou hear'st me claim these honours due,
Oh! then, this day as sacred treat,
And I will consecrate it too.
Thou hear'st me claim these honours due,
40
And I will consecrate it too.
But shouldst e'en thou, oh! May, be found,
As thou, alas! art sometimes seen,
To strew thy blossoms on the ground,
With froward look and frolic mien;
As thou, alas! art sometimes seen,
To strew thy blossoms on the ground,
With froward look and frolic mien;
Yet spare, oh! spare, this genial day;
Let no rude blight disturb its bliss:
But, if thou must the wanton play,
Choose any other day than this.
Let no rude blight disturb its bliss:
But, if thou must the wanton play,
Choose any other day than this.
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BOOK THE SECOND.
ODE I. THE RACE OF HEROES.
[_]
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
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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;
43
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
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“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!
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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,
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“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;
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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.
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“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.”
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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.
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!
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?
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?
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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!
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!
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.
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.
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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?
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.
Is led thine easy prey along:
And those, who can resist thy face,
Feel the keen arrows of thy song.
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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?
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?
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?
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?
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
Of wealth th'insatiable lust,
Should have a heart of steel,
And be unjust.
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The heart of flesh is virtue's meed;
The thrilling joys which thence arise,
These are, 'tis so decreed,
It's pride and prize.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In all the pomp of kings to rise,
To bid their garden smile
'Midst kindest skies.
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Let wood and vale, and hill and plain,
With art's improvement meet,
To spread their parks domain,
And grace their seat!
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!
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.
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!
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!
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.
If blest, thus let them live and shine;
And, Justice for thy guest,
A cottage thine.
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
Nor sun, nor star, nor silver beam
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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.
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.
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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.
“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.”
“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.
Like a sly archer, take my stand,
Wide thro' the world my shafts are sent,
And every creature owns my hand.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ne'er from his mark the arrows stray;
And I shall drop my arrows keen,
And leave to Death his feeble prey.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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
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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.
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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.
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.
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.
“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.
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“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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 do but hail the flaunting spring,
“And gaudy summer's golden hours:
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“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!”
“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;
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.
Such chambers no shelter afford,
But to him who looks spruce as a beau,
But to him who can strut like a lord.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Her friends she would help to the best;
For, tho' she maintain'd friends are rare,
She soon made a friend of her guest.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
Who waited and work'd at her will;
And a spinning wheel always was nigh,
That Molly might never stand still.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
To her tho' more virtues belong:
But Gaia ne'er ask'd for my praise;
And therefore I give her a song.
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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.
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.”
“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.
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.
In grim wild state before him go;
And in his hand he couch'd a spear,
As towards some foe.
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“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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?
“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.
“I rouse the passions, urge the deed;
“And there I feast, where thousands fought,
“And thousands bleed.
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“'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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“And call myself the friend of man—
“'Tis mine—and see! the work proceeds—
“'Tis Nature's plan.
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“On Man what crowding ills attend!
“See how creation pants for room!
“Ah! wretch—I haste, that wretch's friend,
“To build his tomb.
“See how creation pants for room!
“Ah! wretch—I haste, that wretch's friend,
“To build his tomb.
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
While I heave the frequent sigh,
Do thy rippling waters gleam
Sympathetic murm'ring by?
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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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:
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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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!
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.
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.
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;
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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.
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.
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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.
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.
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!
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!
98
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.
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.
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.
99
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.
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.
101
BOOK THE THIRD.
ODE II. ON THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN, AFTER AN EXCURSION THROUGH HERTFORDSHIRE AND ESSEX.
I
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!
105
III
Yet still in Autumn's fading formThe 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,
106
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 tearI 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!
107
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.
108
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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!
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.
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?
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;
Midst a gathering host of spears,
Dauntless I can brave the storm.
Where blood flows in torrents warm;
112
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.
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.
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—!
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.
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.
Caus'd in Eric half this smart,
I had struggled to his throne,
Pierc'd the tiger thro' his heart.
113
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.
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.
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.
'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.
Live, oh! bard, to raise my name:
Mine be conquest's proud increase;
Thine to spread the conq'ror's fame.
114
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.
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:
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.
Where no propitious gales attend;
And, hark! the note of woe from far,
The frantic scream, the din of war:
115
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.
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.
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.
116
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.
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.
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,
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.
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,
117
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!”
“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.
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:
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;
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.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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?
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!
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!
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.
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.
“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;
“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.
“(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;
126
“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.
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.
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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.
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!
“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.
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!
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“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.
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.
“For still, ah! still the lovely vagrant flies,
“And keeps her steady seat, in clear unclouded skies.
“To meet this tenant of the sky?
“For long a vagrant hath she been,
“From all the busy haunts of men.
“In vain I seek the wrangling schools;
“In vain the domes of wealthy fools;
“Or on the restless ocean rove,
“Or wander in the silent grove.
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“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.”
“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.
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,
Whose forming hands shall bring to view
That heav'n and earth serene and new,
When mad Ambition's rage shall cease,
And clam'rous War shall yield to Peace,
Oppression drop her vengeful ire,
And vile Hypocrisy expire:
Fair golden years! when Truth's unmingled ray,
Shall, wide as Tyrwhitt's wish, extend immortal day.
With ravish'd eyes, a free-born race,
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That heav'n and earth serene and new,
When mad Ambition's rage shall cease,
And clam'rous War shall yield to Peace,
Oppression drop her vengeful ire,
And vile Hypocrisy expire:
Fair golden years! when Truth's unmingled ray,
Shall, wide as Tyrwhitt's wish, extend immortal day.
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?
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.
After short transports, gaily wild,
Seems he to languish o'er a sigh,
Like Sorrow's feverish child?
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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.
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.
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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.
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.
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?
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.
Studious to raise our sinking land?
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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, heWho 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?
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.
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.
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.
So melting-soft thou wont to sing,
I deem thee not a bird of night,
But hail thee Poet of the Spring.
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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.
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.
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?
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
With care, but more with love opprest;
And paint their fondest hopes, their infant boy,
Close-clinging to its mother's beating breast.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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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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.
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BOOK THE FOURTH.
ODE II. AN ENGLISH SAPPHIC, IN PRAISE OF SNUFF AND TOBACCO.
I've gŏt th'hēad-āche: gīve mĕ thĕn, bōy thĕ snūff-box,
Fīll'd wĭth Hōare's bēst snūff, ă rĕvīvĭng mīxture,
Bēst ŏf āll snūffs: thāt wĭll rĕlīeve mĕ mōre than
Strāsbŭrgh ōr Hārdham's.
Fīll'd wĭth Hōare's bēst snūff, ă rĕvīvĭng mīxture,
Bēst ŏf āll snūffs: thāt wĭll rĕlīeve mĕ mōre than
Strāsbŭrgh ōr Hārdham's.
That relieves much more than the Irish Blackguard,
That relieves much more than Bureau or Scotch snuff,
More than herbs all British, and tickles noses
Better than any.
That relieves much more than Bureau or Scotch snuff,
More than herbs all British, and tickles noses
Better than any.
Snuff relieves th'head, more than do rum or brandy,
More than Old Port, more than Champaigne, tho' sparkling;
They can make th'head, like a November fog-day,
Muddy or madsome.
More than Old Port, more than Champaigne, tho' sparkling;
They can make th'head, like a November fog-day,
Muddy or madsome.
Ladies fair, know all, it will cure the hippo,
(I have tried this often) believe me, ladies,
More than all teas, be they the Bohea, Souchong,
Gunpowder, Hyson.
(I have tried this often) believe me, ladies,
More than all teas, be they the Bohea, Souchong,
Gunpowder, Hyson.
Hear me, pray now, poets, and try it freely,
Snuff inspires me, makes even me a poet:
Mark, too, oh! sage critics; I chant my sapphics,
Gay as a robin.
Snuff inspires me, makes even me a poet:
Mark, too, oh! sage critics; I chant my sapphics,
Gay as a robin.
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Take away that whisky-cup, tipp'd with silver,
Tho', perchance, that makes us a little frisky;
Yet, if made too free with, the stoutest Scotchman
That can lay sprawling.
Tho', perchance, that makes us a little frisky;
Yet, if made too free with, the stoutest Scotchman
That can lay sprawling.
Move then round this box, let it go round briskly,
What was mead, what nectar, to gods and heroes,
That may all snuff find in the nose and head-piece,
Full of electric.
What was mead, what nectar, to gods and heroes,
That may all snuff find in the nose and head-piece,
Full of electric.
Yet not snuff, Hoare's mixture, alone inspires me:
Sweet is Hoare's snuff, sweeter is Hoare's tobacco,
Leaf of gold most precious, more than op'um,
Giving me visions.
Sweet is Hoare's snuff, sweeter is Hoare's tobacco,
Leaf of gold most precious, more than op'um,
Giving me visions.
Bring me, boy, bring tube, than the lily whiter,
Made of pure clay, tapering, long, and wax'd well,
Now I drink most merrily, gay as th'Hindoo,
Proud as a Turkman.
Made of pure clay, tapering, long, and wax'd well,
Now I drink most merrily, gay as th'Hindoo,
Proud as a Turkman.
Now the fire bright kindles in tube resplendent,
Now the smoke see rise to the ceiling curling!
Does not my verse sparkle too? See! the sapphics
Soar up as freely.
Now the smoke see rise to the ceiling curling!
Does not my verse sparkle too? See! the sapphics
Soar up as freely.
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Let who will snarl, saying, my verse is smoky;
Where there's smoke, there's fire, as in mighty Milton:
Did the grave heroics not scorn tobacco?
Why should the sapphics?
Where there's smoke, there's fire, as in mighty Milton:
Did the grave heroics not scorn tobacco?
Why should the sapphics?
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ODE III. TO MUSIC.
STROPHE.
Cease, cease that trifling measure:—While generous passions burn,
Let the Vine, and let Music have their turn,
Music and Wine the poet's treasure.
Rise then, O Song, again,
Strike now a proud, yet a sprightlier strain,
From the Æolian string,
And sing and soar upon thy boldest wing;
As when of old,
Great Pindar caroll'd
Games, Gods, Conquerors bold.
Is there who treacherously old friends uses?
Or who wantonly new friends chooses?
May he muse, but out of time,
May he sing, and yet ne'er find rhime;
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His faint song—
Treacherous such lays,
His gossemeric feigning;
And may Beauty deceiv'd give as treacherous praise,
With a feeling of as proud disdaining.
But grant, kind Heav'n, howe'er may fade my numbers past,
Fresh may my friendships bloom, and long, long may my pleasures last.
ANTISTROPHE.
Hail, hail, supreme magician!Thou dost o'errule yon spheres,
All harmonious, and months, and days, and years,
Rulest, to man the soul's physician;
Thou friend, who canst compose,
Heart-rankling tumults, and our bitterest woes;
And the base passions, tho' dire,
At thine all-conqu'ring influence retire.
I would thee hail,
Sweet Music! ne'er fail,
Still o'er me to prevail!
Bear me, Enthusiast Heav'nly, bear me,
Quick to some gothic temple, where me,
While the organ shakes the pile,
Rapture may inspire the while;
Or where on silver Thames the horn so clear,
May greet my ear;
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Has rous'd dread hosts to battle;
Or victory is shouting round,
Midst instruments' mixt rattle.
Or where the wondrous Handel rolls sublime along,
Mingling deep harmonies, the loud, majestic tide of song.
EPODE.
But most, enchantress sweet, be seen,In Cecilia's form and mien:
How can her voice and instrument combining,
How can she sooth and elevate the soul!
The heart consoling, and the sense refining,
How all that wants controlling, can control!
“Oh! had I Jubal's lyre,
“And Miriam's tuneful voice,
“To rouse the patriot's fire;
“His rapturous joys!
“Love should then obey my call,
“Hope sitting by;
“And Pity, kind and smiling still on all,
“Melt each eye!
“Song, too, should, like a charm,
“Drive out the demon, Pain;
“And the warrior fierce of his sword should disarm;
“Boisterous passions should conquer and tame:
“Till seeing life by slow degrees decay,
“I sweet melodious airs would softly sing.
“Thus would I lift the good spirit away,
“Rapturous, as borne on some blest seraph's wing
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“Thus sooth the secret soul, and smooth Life's roughest, rudest storm.
ODE IV. ON WINE.
STROPHE.
Thee, too, O! Wine—but not that rampant boy,Bull-fac'd, whom ivy-leaves adorn,
Of Jove and Proserpine in secret born;—
I rather hail thee, mother, Queen of Joy:
And hence th'Impostor with his lies,
And each lewd lubber's sleek disguise,
Who calls thee, foul himself within,
The harlot—mother of all sin.
Ere from his bride's embrace the warrior goes,
To roll his thunder on his country's foes,
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Drown his cares, and fire his soul;
And when return'd from toil and pain,
He greets domestic bliss again,
And talks o'er dangers, fears, and wand'rings past,
And hopes true love will ever, ever last;
Merry let the song abound,
Sparkling let the glass go round;
Nor let the bard of honest vein,
Who hopes to feel the secret fire
Of old Anacreon's tuneful lyre,
The soul-enlivening juice disdain.
He shall draw enraptur'd hence,
Mantling wit and racy sense.
This empyrean, warm and free,
Shall teach him the true minstrelsy:
When, too, hinds and village boys
Hawkee sound, and farmers' joys
Want assessors, who like thee,
Partner fit of jollity?
Nor less from thee the child of care and sorrow,
As from ambrosia new life shall borrow;
Let him thy sweet nectar quaff,
And he shall smile and he shall laugh.
But hence hypocrisy and sleek design,
Ne'er may they know thy joys, thou pure, all-conquering Wine.
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ANTISTROPHE.
Thee then I sing, thou power of open face;Fain would I hear thy voice, and go
Where thy purple juices flow,
Thy footsteps as my mystic Goddess trace.
“I will shew thee, then, my hoard:
“In no man's cellar can be stored,
“Or ampler casks, or nobler wine,
“Than what in Brown's and Mallet's shine.
“Ne'er was Falernian or Cæcubian juice,
“In mirths more gay, of flavours more profuse,
“Than theirs from Oporto brought,
“Or in Lisbon's vintage wrought;
“Or what from France's vine-clad hills,
“Soft, and clear, and bright distils;
“Or what, if suit thy taste, the German Rhine,
“A stout, stern, rough, unyielding, sparkling wine.
“Genuine they shall teach thee truth,
“Age's nurses, guides of youth;
“And learn thee more than sages grave,
“How to scorn the slave of wealth,
“And how to prize content and health,
“And how to cheat the greedy grave.
“Ye, who would then now be free,
“Free from care, come follow me.
“But heed the bard, and know the glass
“Reason's law must never pass.
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“Treachery, Gloom, domestic Strife,
“Fire, that sets the soul on flame,
“Dire Attempt, and lasting Shame.
“This of old the Centaurs shew'd,
“Driv'n from drunkenness to blood:
“Then wild they attack the blest abodes,
“As to o'erthrow the thrones of gods.
“And who are ye, that are my votaries true?
“Mark then each bottle's course, and heed my lessons too.
EPODE.
“For there's a bottle of strange powers;“'Twas brought from fairy-land;
“Never it stops, and it cannot stand,
“Restless and rapid as flit the light hours.
“'Twas blown in distant age
“From foul diseased breath,
“Of sorcerer base, called Archimage,
“And pregnant with disease and death.
“She too, whom men Acrasia call,
“Foul daughter of that foulest sire,
“And as foul mother, mad Desire,
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“Bitter-sweet berries, bright, of deadly gall:
“Then a wicked elfin took it;
“And thrice, and thrice, and thrice she shook it:
“Then thrice, thrice, thrice, tapping the ground,
“She turn'd the bottle round, round, round;
“And thrice she utter'd a charmed sound:
“Bottle, I give thee a power to fly,
“Quickly to empty and quickly to fill;
“Readily, constantly, I will supply
“Spirits and force, and so never stand still.
“She said: My vot'ries all, then hear my voice:
“Let moderation temper all your joys.
“For the vine in fairy-land first grew,
“And it thence some evil humours drew.
“In those regions I have been,
“And on the trees the fays have seen,
“Oft at eve and oft at morn,
“Like bees upon the flowery thorn.
“With mildews some the branches spread,
“Some above, and some below,
“Busy and mischievous all in a row:
“And some the fruit,
“And some the root,
“The venom'd creatures would have poisoned.
“And tho' to bless man's ailing progeny,
“Heav'n preserv'd the sacred tree
“From the mightier evil free;
“Still you, at times, can trace,
The mischief of the wicked elfin race,
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“So, my Votaries, all pray beware of the bottle that never stands still.”
ODE V. AFTER VISITING DRYBURGH ABBEY, IN BERWICKSHIRE.
While June, in rosy vestment gay,
Swells beauteous to the sight,
While yet the cuckoo cheers the day,
Whilst slowly comes the night;
How sweet, on shelter'd bank reclin'd,
To sing (for song can charm the mind)
When noon-tide's feverish heats prevail!
Or near some oak's thick branches laid,
To muse within the silent shade,
And taste meek evening's mellow gale!
Swells beauteous to the sight,
While yet the cuckoo cheers the day,
Whilst slowly comes the night;
How sweet, on shelter'd bank reclin'd,
To sing (for song can charm the mind)
When noon-tide's feverish heats prevail!
Or near some oak's thick branches laid,
To muse within the silent shade,
And taste meek evening's mellow gale!
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Ah! Pleasure, whither wouldst thou lead?
O'er hill or daisied dell?
Thro' woodland scene or flowery mead,
Or hermit's moss-grown cell?
To ruddy nymph, to tawny swain,
Go breathe thy soul in rapturous strain,
And ply thy feet in sprightly dance;
Or, if some hermit-haunt delight,
Assist some pious votary's sight,
And wrap him in seraphic trance.
O'er hill or daisied dell?
Thro' woodland scene or flowery mead,
Or hermit's moss-grown cell?
To ruddy nymph, to tawny swain,
Go breathe thy soul in rapturous strain,
And ply thy feet in sprightly dance;
Or, if some hermit-haunt delight,
Assist some pious votary's sight,
And wrap him in seraphic trance.
If Fancy, nymph of elfin race,
Thy rural walk attend,
Then hie thee to the circle's space,
Where sportive fairies bend;
And, when the night-winds slowly rise,
When moonlight slumbers thro' the skies,
Start shall their little forms to view;
And they shall sing and dance and play,
Till twinkles light the eye of day,
Then disappear like morning dew.
Thy rural walk attend,
Then hie thee to the circle's space,
Where sportive fairies bend;
And, when the night-winds slowly rise,
When moonlight slumbers thro' the skies,
Start shall their little forms to view;
And they shall sing and dance and play,
Till twinkles light the eye of day,
Then disappear like morning dew.
But, oh! if soul of earthly mould,
Not yet from error pure,
Nor yet for calm delights too cold,
May but thy smiles ensure;
Blest power, disdain not thou his prayer,
—For thou canst with a matron's care,
More sober joys around diffuse—
Give him to glow with soul of fire,
Teach him to strike the living lyre,
Tho' humblest votary of the Muse.
Not yet from error pure,
Nor yet for calm delights too cold,
May but thy smiles ensure;
Blest power, disdain not thou his prayer,
—For thou canst with a matron's care,
More sober joys around diffuse—
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Teach him to strike the living lyre,
Tho' humblest votary of the Muse.
His passions, when they restless grow,
Song, like some god, should chain;
And when his bosom melts with woe,
Song should endear the pain;
Where Tweed swift rolls his sounding tide,
Fair Dryburgh's holy walls beside,
Should such a pilgrim bend his feet,
Him would Ascanius bid to share,
Kind hermit host, his hermit fare,
And fair Emilia's smile should greet.
Song, like some god, should chain;
And when his bosom melts with woe,
Song should endear the pain;
Where Tweed swift rolls his sounding tide,
Fair Dryburgh's holy walls beside,
Should such a pilgrim bend his feet,
Him would Ascanius bid to share,
Kind hermit host, his hermit fare,
And fair Emilia's smile should greet.
And they should hail a pilgrim's song,
(They love the tuneful race)
And shew him where the bardie throng,
Each holds a hallow'd place.
And where amid the valley gay,
The silver Edon loves to stray,
Would shew the village pastor's cot,
Whence he, the bard of modest mien,
First peep'd to catch the living scene,
And he would bless the favour'd spot.
(They love the tuneful race)
And shew him where the bardie throng,
Each holds a hallow'd place.
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The silver Edon loves to stray,
Would shew the village pastor's cot,
Whence he, the bard of modest mien,
First peep'd to catch the living scene,
And he would bless the favour'd spot.
But thou, hoar pile, where bigot Zeal
Was wont to fix her seat,
And Sloth her hideous form conceal
Within the saint's retreat;
Here Wisdom still shall find her cell,
And Love, with her associate, dwell,
The Muse shall raise her temple here;
And while Ascanius gazes round,
Still may he call it holy ground,
Still all his bards as saints revere.
Was wont to fix her seat,
And Sloth her hideous form conceal
Within the saint's retreat;
Here Wisdom still shall find her cell,
And Love, with her associate, dwell,
The Muse shall raise her temple here;
And while Ascanius gazes round,
Still may he call it holy ground,
Still all his bards as saints revere.
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ODE VI. THE CHARM OF MUSIC.
WRITTEN IN WORCESTERSHIRE.
To two Ladies playing on a Forte Piano, and singing by turns, to sooth their friend in pain, the author going to pay a last visit to an esteemed friend before her death.
Yes, Ladies, Handel's notes and Shakspeare's strains,
And Milton's magic song,
To voices gay, or soft, or strong,
Attun'd with powers,
So sweetly varied as yours,
Might hold Attention mute, and charm the demon, Pain.
And Milton's magic song,
To voices gay, or soft, or strong,
Attun'd with powers,
So sweetly varied as yours,
Might hold Attention mute, and charm the demon, Pain.
For oft, 'tis said, the Passions flock around,
Joy, Hope, and Love, and Fear,
With Beings of some other sphere,
In airy mien;
Unheard they hear, and see unseen,
Captiv'd, tho' not of earth, with airs of earthly sound.
Joy, Hope, and Love, and Fear,
With Beings of some other sphere,
In airy mien;
Unheard they hear, and see unseen,
Captiv'd, tho' not of earth, with airs of earthly sound.
But I must go where music could not please,
Unless I sometimes steal
To where Echo, to conceal
Herself, may love;
In winding vale or vocal grove,
Talking like Dian chaste, to rocks and hills and trees.
Unless I sometimes steal
To where Echo, to conceal
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In winding vale or vocal grove,
Talking like Dian chaste, to rocks and hills and trees.
And should she, Ladies kind, e'er bring to me,
As probably she may,
For I have woo'd her many a day,
One note of yours,
I'll bless her fairy-winged powers:
And I will cease to sigh, and think awhile of you.
As probably she may,
For I have woo'd her many a day,
One note of yours,
I'll bless her fairy-winged powers:
And I will cease to sigh, and think awhile of you.
And when at still of eve you sooth your friend,
Striking by turns the keys,
In rivalry, who most shall please;
Oh! then will I
The dove-like, meek ey'd sympathy,
My humble courier, to share your feelings send.
Striking by turns the keys,
In rivalry, who most shall please;
Oh! then will I
The dove-like, meek ey'd sympathy,
My humble courier, to share your feelings send.
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ODE VII. HYMN TO CHARITY.
Oh! Thou, whose eye of smiling love,
Outshines the light of early day,
Whose bosom no rude tempests move,
Whose face no pencil can portray:
So bright thine eye, thy face so fair,
Beauty itself seems station'd there.
Outshines the light of early day,
Whose bosom no rude tempests move,
Whose face no pencil can portray:
So bright thine eye, thy face so fair,
Beauty itself seems station'd there.
Hail, Charity! so prompt of aid,
Adorn'd with Virtue's modest crown;
And wont, in simplest garb array'd,
To beam with lustre all thine own;—
Still let thy breast with rapture glow;
But spare a sigh for human woe.
Adorn'd with Virtue's modest crown;
And wont, in simplest garb array'd,
To beam with lustre all thine own;—
Still let thy breast with rapture glow;
But spare a sigh for human woe.
Softer thy breath, than gales that play,
Where summer-flowers their odours fling;
Nor is so clear the voice of May,
With all her choir of tuneful spring.
The smile that on thy cheek is seen,
Bespeaks a paradise within.
Where summer-flowers their odours fling;
Nor is so clear the voice of May,
With all her choir of tuneful spring.
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Bespeaks a paradise within.
Oh! still thy fostering wing outspread;
—Distress near thee shall shelter find—
And, like yon sun, thine influence shed
Thro' the vast race of human kind;
And let thine open hand impart
Rich emblems of a generous heart.
—Distress near thee shall shelter find—
And, like yon sun, thine influence shed
Thro' the vast race of human kind;
And let thine open hand impart
Rich emblems of a generous heart.
And not so warm in Mithra's praise,
The Persian, crown'd with conquest, glows,
When call'd the choral song to raise,
For sabres sheath'd and vanquish'd foes,
As nations kindling with thy ray,
Shall upward spring to new-born day.
The Persian, crown'd with conquest, glows,
When call'd the choral song to raise,
For sabres sheath'd and vanquish'd foes,
As nations kindling with thy ray,
Shall upward spring to new-born day.
Then shall the Fury-Passions sleep;
Then Conquest quench her flaming sword;
No captive fair in silence weep,
Nor laurels grace her tyrant-lord;
No face shall wear the form of woe:
Nor wreath be worn but th'olive bough.
Then Conquest quench her flaming sword;
No captive fair in silence weep,
Nor laurels grace her tyrant-lord;
No face shall wear the form of woe:
Nor wreath be worn but th'olive bough.
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ODE VIII. THE SAILOR.
[_]
The author expresses grateful feelings to an honest landlady and her daughter, for kind attentions during his short stay with them near Hamilton, in Argyleshire; but pleads against their solicitations for his longer continuance. He wore the dress of a Sailor at this time, and writes under that character.
My dame, you view a sailor brave,
Hastening far hence to plough the seas,
To quit for the rude boisterous wave,
The babbling bourn, the whispering trees:
The mavis calls; the laverocks ring
Their music thro' the heav'ns so clear;
Nature's full chorus seems to sing,
Still, happy loiterer, linger here.
But, dame, you view a sailor brave,
And he must plough the ocean wave.
Hastening far hence to plough the seas,
To quit for the rude boisterous wave,
The babbling bourn, the whispering trees:
The mavis calls; the laverocks ring
Their music thro' the heav'ns so clear;
Nature's full chorus seems to sing,
Still, happy loiterer, linger here.
But, dame, you view a sailor brave,
And he must plough the ocean wave.
Yon dainty palace charms his eye,
Where Avon's waters gaily glide,
Fair Bircleugh's flowery terrace nigh,
Hastening to meet the bonny Clyde:
Ah! pleasing scene! in musing mood,
How near those braes he still could stray!
How range yon wild romantic wood!
How linger there the live-long day!
But, dame, you view a sailor brave,
Hastening to plough the ocean wave.
Where Avon's waters gaily glide,
Fair Bircleugh's flowery terrace nigh,
Hastening to meet the bonny Clyde:
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How near those braes he still could stray!
How range yon wild romantic wood!
How linger there the live-long day!
But, dame, you view a sailor brave,
Hastening to plough the ocean wave.
Your Peggy's eye is dew-drop bright;
Her smiling cheek as lily fair;
Her feet as hare's move soft and light;
Her voice as blackbird's loud and clear:
Oh! she goes near to wound my heart,
As oft she sings her “Highland Laddie:”
So quickly, dame, must I depart,
And keep my heart still tight and steady:
For, dame, you view a sailor brave;
Quick he must plough the ocean wave.
Her smiling cheek as lily fair;
Her feet as hare's move soft and light;
Her voice as blackbird's loud and clear:
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As oft she sings her “Highland Laddie:”
So quickly, dame, must I depart,
And keep my heart still tight and steady:
For, dame, you view a sailor brave;
Quick he must plough the ocean wave.
But, when on ocean's restless bed,
The ship rolls rocking to the wind,
When shores, and clifts, and hills are fled,
Thy kindness will I call to mind.
When dowie droops this head with grief,
When from my eyelid steals a tear,
In grateful thoughts I'll find relief,
And Peggy's song my breast shall cheer.
But, dame, farewell! a sailor brave
Hastens to plough the ocean wave.
The ship rolls rocking to the wind,
When shores, and clifts, and hills are fled,
Thy kindness will I call to mind.
When dowie droops this head with grief,
When from my eyelid steals a tear,
In grateful thoughts I'll find relief,
And Peggy's song my breast shall cheer.
But, dame, farewell! a sailor brave
Hastens to plough the ocean wave.
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ODE IX. THE TRIUMPH OF POETRY.
[_]
The Author, after various excursions through the finest parts of Scotland, is reminded of several Scottish poets, to whom the scenes which he visited, were once familiar: and while contemplating the shortness of life, he proclaims the triumph of Poetry.
Where is the King of Songs? He sleeps in death:
No more around him press the mail-clad throng;
He rolls no more the death-denouncing song:
Calm'd is the storm of war, and hush'd the poet's breath.
Ossian now sleeps: but still near Caron-stream
Resounds in Fancy's ear, his mournful lyre;
And oft where Clytha's crystal waters gleam,
Shall pilgrim poets burn with kindred fire:
The poet's eye rolls not;—but still his fame
Spreads wide, as, 'midst a cloud, shines forth the solar flame.
No more around him press the mail-clad throng;
He rolls no more the death-denouncing song:
Calm'd is the storm of war, and hush'd the poet's breath.
Ossian now sleeps: but still near Caron-stream
Resounds in Fancy's ear, his mournful lyre;
And oft where Clytha's crystal waters gleam,
Shall pilgrim poets burn with kindred fire:
The poet's eye rolls not;—but still his fame
Spreads wide, as, 'midst a cloud, shines forth the solar flame.
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Lermont, too, sleeps, tho' still at Melrose tower,
(By Scott so sweetly sung) methought I heard
The old minstrel's voice:—and he, who whilom cheer'd
The banks of Dee, shall cheer those banks no more;
(Nor there in friendly converse may I stray
With Dawnie, nor more weigh the sage remark
Of Ogilvie:) nor chanting on his way
Of Wallace, Henry wander poor and dark;
No more, tho' still his hero's name shall rise,
Suppliant the bard shall stroll, waking fond minstrelsies.
(By Scott so sweetly sung) methought I heard
The old minstrel's voice:—and he, who whilom cheer'd
The banks of Dee, shall cheer those banks no more;
(Nor there in friendly converse may I stray
With Dawnie, nor more weigh the sage remark
Of Ogilvie:) nor chanting on his way
Of Wallace, Henry wander poor and dark;
No more, tho' still his hero's name shall rise,
Suppliant the bard shall stroll, waking fond minstrelsies.
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And where's old Scotland's chronicler? He's sped.
Some trace of ancient days still Leven shews:
Still frowns St. Rules, and near it ebbs and flows
Ocean; but Scotland's chronicler is dead.—
—And may not death spare kings? No: kings must fall;
Death scales alike the cot and regal seat;
Else James, as wont, had still grac'd bower and hall,
And charm'd his native fields with numbers sweet.
But still his Peblis lives, and Scotland pays,
Proud of one royal bard, the meed of rapturous praise.
Some trace of ancient days still Leven shews:
Still frowns St. Rules, and near it ebbs and flows
Ocean; but Scotland's chronicler is dead.—
—And may not death spare kings? No: kings must fall;
Death scales alike the cot and regal seat;
Else James, as wont, had still grac'd bower and hall,
And charm'd his native fields with numbers sweet.
But still his Peblis lives, and Scotland pays,
Proud of one royal bard, the meed of rapturous praise.
Where now Dunbar? He too has run his race;
But glitters still The Golden Terge on high;
Nor shall the thunder-storm which sweeps the sky,
Nor lightning's flash, the glorious orb deface.
Dunkeld! no more the heaven-directed chant
Within thy sainted walls may sound again;
But thou, as once the poet's favorite haunt,
Shalt shine in Douglas's Virgilian strain;
While Time the crumbling castle undermines,
Tottering to its fall, and, lo! the roofless abbey pines.
But glitters still The Golden Terge on high;
Nor shall the thunder-storm which sweeps the sky,
Nor lightning's flash, the glorious orb deface.
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Within thy sainted walls may sound again;
But thou, as once the poet's favorite haunt,
Shalt shine in Douglas's Virgilian strain;
While Time the crumbling castle undermines,
Tottering to its fall, and, lo! the roofless abbey pines.
Oh! Tweed, say do thy busy waters glide,
With patriot ardour, or with bigot rage?
In union dost thou distant friends engage?
Or flow, a boundary river to divide?
If love direct, flow on, thou generous stream;
Thy banks, oh! Tweed, I bless, and hail thee friend:
But, while thy waters serpent-winding gleam,
Should serpent treacheries on thy course attend,
Thy banks, disdainful, would I rove along,
Tho' every bard that sings should raise thee in his song.
With patriot ardour, or with bigot rage?
In union dost thou distant friends engage?
Or flow, a boundary river to divide?
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Thy banks, oh! Tweed, I bless, and hail thee friend:
But, while thy waters serpent-winding gleam,
Should serpent treacheries on thy course attend,
Thy banks, disdainful, would I rove along,
Tho' every bard that sings should raise thee in his song.
But no—be mine, the critic's page to muse,
And trace the footsteps of a generous mind;
Be mine, to bind with chaplets Scotia's brows,
While England's bards shall Scotland's thoughts engage.
The Highland nymph shall melt with England's lays,
And English ears be charm'd with Scotland's song;
For, tho' near Hawthornden Esk sweetly strays,
More sweetly Drummond's numbers flow along.
Still, Ramsay, shall thy Gentle Shepherd please,
Still, Burns, thy rustic mirths, and amorous minstrelsies.
And trace the footsteps of a generous mind;
Be mine, to bind with chaplets Scotia's brows,
While England's bards shall Scotland's thoughts engage.
The Highland nymph shall melt with England's lays,
And English ears be charm'd with Scotland's song;
For, tho' near Hawthornden Esk sweetly strays,
More sweetly Drummond's numbers flow along.
Still, Ramsay, shall thy Gentle Shepherd please,
Still, Burns, thy rustic mirths, and amorous minstrelsies.
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Oh! might I view again, with ravish'd sight,
As when with candid Anderson I stray'd,
And all the wonder-varying scene survey'd,
Sea, hills, and city fair, from Calton's height;
And hear, (for Scotland's rhimes, ah! soon may fail)
Some Ednam bard awake the trembling string;
Some tuneful youth of charming Tiviotdale;
Some Kelso songstress love's dear raptures sing.
Language may fail, but love shall never die,
Till beauty fails to charm, till love forgets to sigh.
As when with candid Anderson I stray'd,
And all the wonder-varying scene survey'd,
Sea, hills, and city fair, from Calton's height;
And hear, (for Scotland's rhimes, ah! soon may fail)
Some Ednam bard awake the trembling string;
Some tuneful youth of charming Tiviotdale;
Some Kelso songstress love's dear raptures sing.
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Till beauty fails to charm, till love forgets to sigh.
221
ODE X. A SONG.
They say, my hopes have fruitless prov'd,
And all my schemes of life miscarried;
And all, because I never lov'd;
And all, because I never married.
And all my schemes of life miscarried;
And all, because I never lov'd;
And all, because I never married.
I penn'd a song to please the fair;
—To sing of love I never tarried,—
But ladies ask'd with taunting air,
How should he love, who ne'er was married?
—To sing of love I never tarried,—
But ladies ask'd with taunting air,
How should he love, who ne'er was married?
And oft I sit, and sigh alone,
Like ring-dove from its mate far-carried;
Yet few there are who heed my moan:
For why, they ask, is he not married?
Like ring-dove from its mate far-carried;
Yet few there are who heed my moan:
For why, they ask, is he not married?
Yet there are those I sometimes see,
Who say, because I have miscarried
In all my loves, they pity me;
And much they wish that I was married.
Who say, because I have miscarried
In all my loves, they pity me;
And much they wish that I was married.
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When sick and sad, and sometimes poor,
Their kindness never, never tarried;
They pitied me, as being sure,
Few pity those who are not married.
Their kindness never, never tarried;
They pitied me, as being sure,
Few pity those who are not married.
And when beneath that dart I lie,
That barbed dart, which ne'er miscarried,
I know for one they'll heave a sigh,
Who much has lov'd, tho' never married.
That barbed dart, which ne'er miscarried,
I know for one they'll heave a sigh,
Who much has lov'd, tho' never married.
ODE XI. ON THE DEATH OF FRIENDS, AND THE HAVOC OF WAR.
Let others, sons of wisdom, hold their way,
Boastful that sunshine always fills their sight;
View near the flowery field, the meadow gay,
And, in the distance, the whole landscape bright.
Boastful that sunshine always fills their sight;
View near the flowery field, the meadow gay,
And, in the distance, the whole landscape bright.
Joy to those sages—let me humbly go,
A wayward wand'rer, as my fortunes guide,
Tho' oft to me the fields no brightness shew,
And doubt and darkness all the prospect hide.
A wayward wand'rer, as my fortunes guide,
Tho' oft to me the fields no brightness shew,
And doubt and darkness all the prospect hide.
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For them let Spring its earliest sweets unfold,
While I stand marking how those sweets decay;
For them let Autumn streak each leaf with gold,
While one by one I see them fall away.
While I stand marking how those sweets decay;
For them let Autumn streak each leaf with gold,
While one by one I see them fall away.
Ye flowery tribes—(How each to each gives place!)
Gradual ye bloom, and silently ye fade:
Such are the tribes of man, a short-liv'd race!
Quick in succession thus they sink in shade!
Gradual ye bloom, and silently ye fade:
Such are the tribes of man, a short-liv'd race!
Quick in succession thus they sink in shade!
Quick in succession thus;—yet sometimes death
With his rude scythe spreads havoc all around;
Differing in years, while men resign their breath,
As flowers of different hues bestrew the ground:
With his rude scythe spreads havoc all around;
Differing in years, while men resign their breath,
As flowers of different hues bestrew the ground:
They fall—and in a course perpetual made—
'Tis Nature's stroke, and not at random hurl'd;
'Tis Heaven's own law, and was in wisdom laid,
Which still by death regenerates the world.
'Tis Nature's stroke, and not at random hurl'd;
'Tis Heaven's own law, and was in wisdom laid,
Which still by death regenerates the world.
Man, one by one, drops off, and still the race
Springs up, as from a secret germ of life:
Man to the grave drives man in ceaseless chace;
War follows peace, and peace prepares for strife.
Springs up, as from a secret germ of life:
Man to the grave drives man in ceaseless chace;
War follows peace, and peace prepares for strife.
Yet, is the world grown wiser by the change?
Is man less prompt to plunder and devour?
Is Death?—Ah! see him still extend his range;
While gorging millions, still he calls for more!
Is man less prompt to plunder and devour?
Is Death?—Ah! see him still extend his range;
While gorging millions, still he calls for more!
224
Go then, ye wise, and Nature's council be;
Yet 'midst your light how little do ye know!
Ye see how little seeing! but for me,
Who nothing know, I to th'Almighty bow.
Yet 'midst your light how little do ye know!
Ye see how little seeing! but for me,
Who nothing know, I to th'Almighty bow.
ODE XII. HYMN TO HEALTH.
ON REACHING THE FIRST HEIGHT OF HELVELLYN.
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Noontide now reigns, mysterious Power!
Sacred shall be this tranquil hour,
As tho' some God were near.
Be mine, while lingering heats prevail,
And silent sleeps the vagrant gale,
To fix a temple here.
Sacred shall be this tranquil hour,
As tho' some God were near.
Be mine, while lingering heats prevail,
And silent sleeps the vagrant gale,
To fix a temple here.
Yon heavens, high-arching o'er my head,
This verdant turf, by Nature spread,
These wild sweets, flowering round,
The rites prescrib'd, O Health, proclaim;—
Here be thy altar, heav'nly dame;—
This be thy holy ground!
This verdant turf, by Nature spread,
These wild sweets, flowering round,
The rites prescrib'd, O Health, proclaim;—
Here be thy altar, heav'nly dame;—
This be thy holy ground!
'Twas thus at noon, as sings the swain,
Who tun'd the simple Doric strain,
Shepherds retiring lay:
And, while in awe they dropt the reed,
And careless left their flocks to feed,
To Pan would reverence pay.
Who tun'd the simple Doric strain,
Shepherds retiring lay:
And, while in awe they dropt the reed,
And careless left their flocks to feed,
To Pan would reverence pay.
Thus too, on Mona's secret heights,
The Druid paid his mystic rites,
And vervain duly strow'd;
And thus, while Silence listen'd round,
Encircling wide the sacred ground,
In meek devotion bow'd.
The Druid paid his mystic rites,
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And thus, while Silence listen'd round,
Encircling wide the sacred ground,
In meek devotion bow'd.
I too—with wearied steps and slow,
—For I have gain'd this mountain's brow,—
Now rest, at ease reclin'd,
Feasting, while round I turn my eyes,
And view the various landscape rise,
With solemn thoughts my mind.
—For I have gain'd this mountain's brow,—
Now rest, at ease reclin'd,
Feasting, while round I turn my eyes,
And view the various landscape rise,
With solemn thoughts my mind.
Oh! parent blest of young Delight,
Fair Health, now glide before my sight,
In more than mortal grace;
With roses, blushing on thy cheek,
With radiant smile, and dimple sleek,
And harmony of face.
Fair Health, now glide before my sight,
In more than mortal grace;
With roses, blushing on thy cheek,
With radiant smile, and dimple sleek,
And harmony of face.
Let Love still move thy matron-breast;
And let thy flowery-cinctured vest
In folds majestic flow;—
Bright as the sun-beams be thy hair,
In braids light-waving in the air,
And white thy neck as snow.
And let thy flowery-cinctured vest
In folds majestic flow;—
Bright as the sun-beams be thy hair,
In braids light-waving in the air,
And white thy neck as snow.
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Oh! thus in all thy pride appear,
In garland of the fragrant year,
In garland rich and free:—
The bloom of Spring, the Summer's flower,
And sober Autumn's milder store,
Each yields a sweet for thee.
In garland of the fragrant year,
In garland rich and free:—
The bloom of Spring, the Summer's flower,
And sober Autumn's milder store,
Each yields a sweet for thee.
And let me drink th'ambrosial gales,
Which by thy springs, and hills, and vales,
Their balmy influence shed;
Where halest herbs luxurious grow,
And flowers with magic colours glow,
And daintiest odours spread.
Which by thy springs, and hills, and vales,
Their balmy influence shed;
Where halest herbs luxurious grow,
And flowers with magic colours glow,
And daintiest odours spread.
Then shall the lakes, and hills, and skies,
With double splendors feast my eyes,
My breast with ardour fill;
And I will bid my grateful lyre
Pour forth to thee its purest fire,
And be thy Poet still.
With double splendors feast my eyes,
My breast with ardour fill;
And I will bid my grateful lyre
Pour forth to thee its purest fire,
And be thy Poet still.
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ODE XIII.
[Yes! many a year circling has fled]
Yes! many a year circling has fled;
—Hours, and days, months, years, how quickly are past!
And man, frail man, lies feverish down at last,
And earth becomes his latest bed.—
Yes! many a year has sped away,
Since, friend, thine hospitable dome,
—Lightly as pass'd the social day,—
Was made thy fickle minstrel's peaceful home.
—Hours, and days, months, years, how quickly are past!
And man, frail man, lies feverish down at last,
And earth becomes his latest bed.—
Yes! many a year has sped away,
Since, friend, thine hospitable dome,
—Lightly as pass'd the social day,—
Was made thy fickle minstrel's peaceful home.
Time has swift wings—but Memory lives;
As the fair moon succeeds the golden sun,
Silvering with borrow'd light the mountain dun,
And thro' the night meek lustre sheds.
So memory by the reflex light
Of gentle deeds, that friendship rears,
Keeps the fair prospect long in sight,
Tho' veil'd behind the tints of mellowing years.
As the fair moon succeeds the golden sun,
Silvering with borrow'd light the mountain dun,
And thro' the night meek lustre sheds.
So memory by the reflex light
Of gentle deeds, that friendship rears,
Keeps the fair prospect long in sight,
Tho' veil'd behind the tints of mellowing years.
She now recalls thy partner's name,
In worth as spotless, as of wisdom rare,
Whose friendship soften'd many a secret care,
And rais'd to health my sickly frame.
Thy little ones still laughing round,
I seem to share the playful day,
Lightly now trip the fairy ground,
Now for Dione crop the flowery May.
In worth as spotless, as of wisdom rare,
Whose friendship soften'd many a secret care,
And rais'd to health my sickly frame.
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I seem to share the playful day,
Lightly now trip the fairy ground,
Now for Dione crop the flowery May.
Yet I, nor Bergholt-park nor grove,
Yet I, nor on the banks of gentle Stour,
May wander more,—nor wait the lingering hour,
With Dedham's frolic tribes to rove.
My friend, as up life's steep we go,
Be ours to gaze th'horizon round;
And, if the present ills abound,
To muse on bliss we left too far below.
Yet I, nor on the banks of gentle Stour,
May wander more,—nor wait the lingering hour,
With Dedham's frolic tribes to rove.
My friend, as up life's steep we go,
Be ours to gaze th'horizon round;
And, if the present ills abound,
To muse on bliss we left too far below.
231
ODE XIV.
[Thou Genius of this awful place!]
[_]
After making the tour of the lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland, on a visit to Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Southey, the poets, in company with Mr. Basil Montagu. The spot more particularly alluded to, is that described by Gray; and the lines are little more than a translation of his Latin Ode, written at the Grande Chartreuse, avoiding, however, the long parenthesis.
Thou Genius of this awful place!
—Whate'er, unknown to me, thy name—
Thee 'mid thy native streams I trace;
Thee do these ancient wilds proclaim!
Ah! more I feel thy influence round,
'Mid falling water's solemn sound,
'Mid pathless rocks, and mountains rude,
And all yon deep opaque of wood,
Than if, enshrin'd aloft I saw thee stand,
Glittering in robes of gold, and shap'd by Phidias' hand.
—Whate'er, unknown to me, thy name—
Thee 'mid thy native streams I trace;
Thee do these ancient wilds proclaim!
Ah! more I feel thy influence round,
'Mid falling water's solemn sound,
'Mid pathless rocks, and mountains rude,
And all yon deep opaque of wood,
Than if, enshrin'd aloft I saw thee stand,
Glittering in robes of gold, and shap'd by Phidias' hand.
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Oh! might my prayer be heard! might I,
Faint e'en in youth, here fix my seat!
But, if too cruel Fate deny
In scenes so blest, a still retreat;
If yet, ingulph'd in life's rude wave,
Its boisterings I must feebly brave,
Oh! might I find in peaceful age
Some corner, for a hermitage;
There steal from human cares and vulgar strife;
There still in freedom pass the waning hour of life!
Faint e'en in youth, here fix my seat!
But, if too cruel Fate deny
In scenes so blest, a still retreat;
If yet, ingulph'd in life's rude wave,
Its boisterings I must feebly brave,
Oh! might I find in peaceful age
Some corner, for a hermitage;
There steal from human cares and vulgar strife;
There still in freedom pass the waning hour of life!
END OF VOL. II.
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