Poetics :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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?

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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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Still, still in ill-starr'd strains prolong
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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Or where the trumpet's sound,
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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“Oh! Music, thus assume thy heavenly form,
“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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Fill, fill the generous bowl;
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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“Hence the mingling storm of life,
“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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“Into it from baleful lips let fall,
“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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“Felt still by those, their glass too oft who fill:—
“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!

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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.

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.

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—

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Give him to glow with soul of fire,
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.

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.

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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.

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.

207

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.

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.

But I must go where music could not please,
Unless I sometimes steal
To where Echo, to conceal

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Herself, may love;
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.

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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The smile that on thy cheek is seen,
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.

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.

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.

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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.

Yon dainty palace charms his eye,
Where Avon's waters gaily glide,
Fair Bircleugh's flowery terrace nigh,
Hastening to meet the bonny Clyde:

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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.

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:

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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.

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.

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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.

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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.

216

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.

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.

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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.

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?

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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.

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.

219

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.

220

Language may fail, but love shall never die,
Till beauty fails to charm, till love forgets to sigh.

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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.

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?

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?

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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!

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:

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.

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.

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!

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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.

ODE XII. HYMN TO HEALTH.

ON REACHING THE FIRST HEIGHT OF HELVELLYN.

226

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.

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!

'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.

Thus too, on Mona's secret heights,
The Druid paid his mystic rites,

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And vervain duly strow'd;
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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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ODE XIII.

[Yes! many a year circling has fled]

[_]

On an occasional visit to a friend at Bath, whom the author had not seen for many years.

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.

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.

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.

230

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.

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.

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.

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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!