 | Poems |  |
67
II. PART II.
Pindarum quisquis studet æmulari &c.
Who pretends with rival might
Milton's golden harp to smite,
Strives o'er pathless crags to go
To the white mountain's crown of snow;
Doom'd, or ere the top he hold,
To bewail th' adventure bold,
Dash'd from the pointed precipice,
Or whelm'd beneath the yawning ice.
Milton's golden harp to smite,
Strives o'er pathless crags to go
To the white mountain's crown of snow;
Doom'd, or ere the top he hold,
To bewail th' adventure bold,
Dash'd from the pointed precipice,
Or whelm'd beneath the yawning ice.
I more safely, like the bee,
Who in pleasant Chamouny
Roams the piny wood, or skims
Near her hive the liquid streams,
Studious of the scented thyme;
Weave with care my simple rhime,
Simple but sweet withal to these,
Whom most I love, and most would please.
Who in pleasant Chamouny
Roams the piny wood, or skims
Near her hive the liquid streams,
Studious of the scented thyme;
Weave with care my simple rhime,
Simple but sweet withal to these,
Whom most I love, and most would please.
69
TO THE REV. EDWARD COPLESTON, M. A. FELLOW OF ORIEL COLLEGE, AND PROFESSOR OF POETRY.
Think not, my Friend, I trivial deem
The meed of high renown;
Or muse with light regard on them,
For whom th' ennobling hand of fame
Hath wove of Delphic bays an ever-verdant crown.
The meed of high renown;
Or muse with light regard on them,
For whom th' ennobling hand of fame
Hath wove of Delphic bays an ever-verdant crown.
On a tall mountain's craggy height
Fame's tow'ring portals shine;
There to my visionary sight
High bards, array'd in robes of light,
Their laurell'd temples wave, and gird the golden shrine.
Fame's tow'ring portals shine;
There to my visionary sight
High bards, array'd in robes of light,
Their laurell'd temples wave, and gird the golden shrine.
70
There, Avon stream, thy Muse of fire,
And, Mulla, thine is there;
And he, who wak'd th' Æolian lyre;
And he, who durst from earth aspire
Into the heav'n of heav'ns, and draw empyreal air.
And, Mulla, thine is there;
And he, who wak'd th' Æolian lyre;
And he, who durst from earth aspire
Into the heav'n of heav'ns, and draw empyreal air.
Fir'd by the sight, with zeal I glow
To spurn the grov'ling throng;
Upward on eagle wings to go,
To seat me mid the high-soul'd few,
And smite the golden chord, and swell the echoing song.
To spurn the grov'ling throng;
Upward on eagle wings to go,
To seat me mid the high-soul'd few,
And smite the golden chord, and swell the echoing song.
But not to me the soul divine,
And sounding voice are given;
Nor mine with plastic hand to join
In one harmonious grand design
Wild Fancy's forms and paint with colours dipt in heaven.
And sounding voice are given;
Nor mine with plastic hand to join
In one harmonious grand design
Wild Fancy's forms and paint with colours dipt in heaven.
71
While Oxford then with eager voice
Thy bright career pursues;
Be mine, my Friend, th' inglorious choice
In lowly valleys to rejoice,
And meditate the calm but not ungrateful Muse.
Thy bright career pursues;
Be mine, my Friend, th' inglorious choice
In lowly valleys to rejoice,
And meditate the calm but not ungrateful Muse.
Be mine the less ambitious care,
Nor vain that care shall prove,
To win fond friendship's partial ear,
And in the lonely hour to cheer
With many a simple strain the heart of her I love.
Nor vain that care shall prove,
To win fond friendship's partial ear,
And in the lonely hour to cheer
With many a simple strain the heart of her I love.
72
THE VILLAGE CURATE.
(SPRING, 1804.)
TO THOMAS A. TROLLOPE, Esq. FELLOW OF NEW COLLEGE.
Ask you, my Friend, how flows away
The village Curate's spring-tide day?
Now to the blackbird's pipe I rove,
That whistles thro' the beechen grove;
Now thro' the tangled coppice stray,
And mark the black thorn's budding spray;
With many a primrose pale beset,
And many a purple violet.
The village Curate's spring-tide day?
Now to the blackbird's pipe I rove,
That whistles thro' the beechen grove;
Now thro' the tangled coppice stray,
And mark the black thorn's budding spray;
With many a primrose pale beset,
And many a purple violet.
73
And now I climb the breezy height,
Whose sides with hanging flocks are white,
And view below the cultur'd vale;
The winding road; the distant sail;
Here Harting's humble cots appear,
To thee, O plaintive Collins, dear:
And there thy blue cliffs, Vecta, heave
Their summits from the misty wave.
Whose sides with hanging flocks are white,
And view below the cultur'd vale;
The winding road; the distant sail;
Here Harting's humble cots appear,
To thee, O plaintive Collins, dear:
And there thy blue cliffs, Vecta, heave
Their summits from the misty wave.
And now the garden's turf I tread,
And watch the lilac's bursting head,
And every bud and blossom count:
And now on yonder gentle mount
The woodbine plant and jessamine;
Which soon in playful wreaths shall twine,
And hang my pleasant summer bower
With verdant leaf and fragrant flower.
And watch the lilac's bursting head,
And every bud and blossom count:
And now on yonder gentle mount
The woodbine plant and jessamine;
Which soon in playful wreaths shall twine,
And hang my pleasant summer bower
With verdant leaf and fragrant flower.
74
But not alone in thoughtless play
My precious moments steal away.
At home, my daily task assign'd
To open on the youthful mind
The brightest wits of Roman name;
And those more bright, who soar'd to fame
By old Ilissus' Attic tide,
Sicilia's charms; Ionia's pride.
My precious moments steal away.
At home, my daily task assign'd
To open on the youthful mind
The brightest wits of Roman name;
And those more bright, who soar'd to fame
By old Ilissus' Attic tide,
Sicilia's charms; Ionia's pride.
Abroad a holier care I prove:
The herald of my Saviour's love,
'Tis mine to throw a cheering ray
Of hope around the poor man's way;
To train his children's helpless age
With lessons from the sacred page;
The wand'ring earth-born wish controul,
And lift to heav'n the humble soul.
The herald of my Saviour's love,
'Tis mine to throw a cheering ray
Of hope around the poor man's way;
To train his children's helpless age
With lessons from the sacred page;
The wand'ring earth-born wish controul,
And lift to heav'n the humble soul.
75
Such cares my hours of toil employ,
And such my springs of blameless joy.
With pray'r for more I tempt not heaven,
But praise him for his mercies given:
Contented with my lowly lot;
By all, but by my friends, forgot,
Where peace of heart and quiet dwell
In Buriton's sequester'd dell.
And such my springs of blameless joy.
With pray'r for more I tempt not heaven,
But praise him for his mercies given:
Contented with my lowly lot;
By all, but by my friends, forgot,
Where peace of heart and quiet dwell
In Buriton's sequester'd dell.
76
AUTUMN.
From the old village tow'r the fleet swallows their flight
Have sped on the wings of the morn;
And the plant , that the traveller sees with delight,
Hangs its globes on the red-berried thorn.
Have sped on the wings of the morn;
And the plant , that the traveller sees with delight,
Hangs its globes on the red-berried thorn.
'Tis pleasant to gaze, while the sun, breaking slow
Thro' the vapours his glories that veil,
Clothes in mantle of gold the hill's many-ting'd brow,
And flings a broad shade o'er the dale:—
Thro' the vapours his glories that veil,
Clothes in mantle of gold the hill's many-ting'd brow,
And flings a broad shade o'er the dale:—
'Tis pleasant amid the deep beech-wood to stray,
To the sound of the quick-rustling leaves;
Where gemm'd with the dew-drops of morn, on the spray
The nice spider his gossamer weaves:—
To the sound of the quick-rustling leaves;
77
The nice spider his gossamer weaves:—
And 'tis pleasant to wander abroad, while no spot
Stains the robe of the light-streaming air,
Nor a sound breaks its rest, save the robin's brisk note,
Or the sheep-bell that tinkles from far.
Stains the robe of the light-streaming air,
Nor a sound breaks its rest, save the robin's brisk note,
Or the sheep-bell that tinkles from far.
Yet I love thee not, Autumn: tho' clear be thy sky,
And gorgeous thy forests appear,
They sadly hold out to the provident eye
The death of the swift-waning year.
And gorgeous thy forests appear,
They sadly hold out to the provident eye
The death of the swift-waning year.
O return thou best season; return, lovely time;
When each green bud and blossom, that swells,
Fills the heart with delight at the soft-smiling prime,
And the glories of summer foretells.
When each green bud and blossom, that swells,
Fills the heart with delight at the soft-smiling prime,
And the glories of summer foretells.
78
TO THE REV. GEORGE RICHARDS, M. A.
LATE FELLOW OF ORIEL COLLEGE.
Of late I sang in artless lay
The sweets of Nuptial love,
While Autumn gilt with mellowing ray
The many-gleaming grove.
Dun Winter comes: yet once again
I woo thee, O my Muse;
Friendship once more demands the strain,
Nor thou the strain refuse.
The sweets of Nuptial love,
While Autumn gilt with mellowing ray
The many-gleaming grove.
Dun Winter comes: yet once again
I woo thee, O my Muse;
Friendship once more demands the strain,
Nor thou the strain refuse.
Then rise, and wing thy welcome flight
To Bampton's ozier'd vale,
Hard by the village steeple white,
And bid my Richards hail:
For lur'd by Highland Shepherd's reed,
No more his footsteps stray
By foaming Clyde or pleasant Tweed,
Or wildly-wand'ring Tay.
To Bampton's ozier'd vale,
Hard by the village steeple white,
And bid my Richards hail:
79
No more his footsteps stray
By foaming Clyde or pleasant Tweed,
Or wildly-wand'ring Tay.
Say, that beneath my humble shed
Content and Quiet dwell;
My task the beams of truth to spread,
My joy thy tuneful shell;
Mine the blithe day, the peaceful night,
By chaste affection blest,
While hope forestalls the keen delight,
That thrills a Father's breast.
Content and Quiet dwell;
My task the beams of truth to spread,
My joy thy tuneful shell;
Mine the blithe day, the peaceful night,
By chaste affection blest,
While hope forestalls the keen delight,
That thrills a Father's breast.
What tho' he muse on mystic themes
In holy visions high;
Or Fancy wave her fairy dreams
Before his tranced eye;
He'll not disdain an ear to lend
To lift thy simple lays,
And think upon his absent friend
Beside the social blaze.
In holy visions high;
Or Fancy wave her fairy dreams
Before his tranced eye;
80
To lift thy simple lays,
And think upon his absent friend
Beside the social blaze.
Oft by that social blaze l've sat
In harmless converse gay;
Nor heard the storm, that round us beat,
Nor mark'd the closing day.
And still I turn with fond delight,
Scenes of past bliss to hail,
Hard by the village steeple white
In Bampton's ozier'd vale.
In harmless converse gay;
Nor heard the storm, that round us beat,
Nor mark'd the closing day.
And still I turn with fond delight,
Scenes of past bliss to hail,
Hard by the village steeple white
In Bampton's ozier'd vale.
81
THE FAREWELL.
The morning dawns; and thou must go
From Buriton's romantic vale,
To where Medina's waters flow,
And Vecta greets the entering sail.
From Buriton's romantic vale,
To where Medina's waters flow,
And Vecta greets the entering sail.
Thou goest hence, to bear thy part
In tasks of dear domestic care,
To soothe a brother's wounded heart,
An aged parent's grief to share.
In tasks of dear domestic care,
To soothe a brother's wounded heart,
An aged parent's grief to share.
Perhaps to meet some gentle youth,
Who, fond of sweet simplicity,
Shall seek one worthy of his truth,
And find the maid he seeks, in thee.
Who, fond of sweet simplicity,
Shall seek one worthy of his truth,
And find the maid he seeks, in thee.
82
Farewell! but O! when far away
Forget not thou this simple scene,
Our hills with hanging beeches gay,
Our upland lawns, and copses green:
Forget not thou this simple scene,
Our hills with hanging beeches gay,
Our upland lawns, and copses green:
And chief forget not thou the pair,
Who dwell in this sequester'd spot,
And mid the nuptial bliss they share,
Implore for thee as blest a lot.
Who dwell in this sequester'd spot,
And mid the nuptial bliss they share,
Implore for thee as blest a lot.
They oft, as oft from yonder height
Their eyes o'er all the prospect roam,
Shall fix them on the hills of Wight,
And say with smiles, 'Tis Sarah's home.
Their eyes o'er all the prospect roam,
Shall fix them on the hills of Wight,
And say with smiles, 'Tis Sarah's home.
83
ON LEAVING OXFORD.
From the bosom of comfort and love,
From Buriton's coppice-crown'd dell,
In a dream of past joys to thee, Oxford, I rove,
To bid thee and thy pleasures farewell.
From Buriton's coppice-crown'd dell,
In a dream of past joys to thee, Oxford, I rove,
To bid thee and thy pleasures farewell.
Farewell to the elm-skirted mead,
To the hill, where health breathes in the gale;
To the oar-sparkling stream; and the willow's green head,
That waves o'er the white-swelling sail:—
To the hill, where health breathes in the gale;
To the oar-sparkling stream; and the willow's green head,
That waves o'er the white-swelling sail:—
And farewell to the high-vaulted roof;
And the pane, that with portraiture glows;
And the peals of the organ, which swelling aloof
To the clear-chaunting choristry blows:—
And the pane, that with portraiture glows;
And the peals of the organ, which swelling aloof
To the clear-chaunting choristry blows:—
84
And farewell to the gay social scene,
Which wont my light bosom to cheer;
But chiefly, O chiefly farewell to the men,
Who thy joys to my bosom endear.
Which wont my light bosom to cheer;
But chiefly, O chiefly farewell to the men,
Who thy joys to my bosom endear.
For this heart they will never condemn
The pang of lost friendship to prove;
Nor forget him, who now muses fondly on them
In the bosom of comfort and love.
The pang of lost friendship to prove;
Nor forget him, who now muses fondly on them
In the bosom of comfort and love.
85
TO THE REV. WILLIAM BISHOP, M. A.
FELLOW OF ORIEL COLLEGE.
Friend of my Youth! when late I led
To holy rites my dearest maid,
Thy voice pronounc'd her mine:
Another wish hath fill'd my breast;
To lull that other wish to rest,
Friend of my Youth, is thine.
To holy rites my dearest maid,
Thy voice pronounc'd her mine:
Another wish hath fill'd my breast;
To lull that other wish to rest,
Friend of my Youth, is thine.
Thy gift my life with gladness crowns;
Thy promis'd aid shall make the frowns
Of death appear more mild:
While pleas'd I think, that tho' on me
The grave may close, I leave in thee
A father to my child.
Thy promis'd aid shall make the frowns
Of death appear more mild:
While pleas'd I think, that tho' on me
The grave may close, I leave in thee
A father to my child.
86
For thou, as dawning reason beams,
Wilt lift his soul to heav'nly themes;
And thou his infant tongue
Wilt form to lisp his Saviour's praise,
In holy hymns, on elder days
By Sion's children sung:
Wilt lift his soul to heav'nly themes;
And thou his infant tongue
Wilt form to lisp his Saviour's praise,
In holy hymns, on elder days
By Sion's children sung:
And thou wilt train his rising age,
Throughout this earthly pilgrimage
With awful step to move;
With tender and contented heart
In human scenes to bear his part,
But fix his hopes above.
Throughout this earthly pilgrimage
With awful step to move;
With tender and contented heart
In human scenes to bear his part,
But fix his hopes above.
As wash'd by many a dewy rill,
Mid Carmel's wood or Hermon's hill
Some pleasant palm-tree springs;
And downward strikes his grasping root;
And upward, charg'd with purple fruit,
His goodly branches flings:
Mid Carmel's wood or Hermon's hill
Some pleasant palm-tree springs;
And downward strikes his grasping root;
87
His goodly branches flings:
So may thy care (if heav'n deny
The blessing to a father's eye)
The tender nursling raise;
While love, around his path, and faith,
With glist'ning eye that smiles on death,
Diffuse their mildest rays.
The blessing to a father's eye)
The tender nursling raise;
While love, around his path, and faith,
With glist'ning eye that smiles on death,
Diffuse their mildest rays.
The sight shall soothe his mother's woe;
With joy her widow'd heart shall glow,
Whene'er her child appears;
Amid her praise of heav'n, shall see
Heav'n's gracious instrument in thee,
And thank thee with her tears.
With joy her widow'd heart shall glow,
Whene'er her child appears;
Amid her praise of heav'n, shall see
Heav'n's gracious instrument in thee,
And thank thee with her tears.
Nor shall the debt be then forgot
By me, if mine the blessed lot,
This day of trial o'er,
In that serene and peaceful clime
To meet thee, O my friend, where time
And death shall be no more.
By me, if mine the blessed lot,
88
In that serene and peaceful clime
To meet thee, O my friend, where time
And death shall be no more.
For not in vain the pious trust,
That thou, awaking from the dust,
Shalt hear thy Lord's decree;
“Where'er to this my little one
“A deed of mercy thou hast done,
“Thou'st done it unto me.”
That thou, awaking from the dust,
Shalt hear thy Lord's decree;
“Where'er to this my little one
“A deed of mercy thou hast done,
“Thou'st done it unto me.”
89
THE LOVER.
O Betsey, wilt thou hear me tell
The thoughts, that in my bosom dwell?
Whence sprang the wish with thee to share
My every joy, my every care;
And tread with thee my lowly way,
Till evening close our peaceful day?
The thoughts, that in my bosom dwell?
Whence sprang the wish with thee to share
My every joy, my every care;
And tread with thee my lowly way,
Till evening close our peaceful day?
'Tis that thou canst wander o'er
Sequester'd nature's simple store;
And trace with ever new delight
The wood, the lawn, the breezy height;
Or crop the flow'r, that's gayly seen
Peeping mid the hedge-row green,
Or gaze upon the water clear,
And list the song-thrush warbling near.
Sequester'd nature's simple store;
And trace with ever new delight
The wood, the lawn, the breezy height;
Or crop the flow'r, that's gayly seen
Peeping mid the hedge-row green,
90
And list the song-thrush warbling near.
'Tis that, not eager still to roam,
Thou find'st content and joy at home:
Canst soothe the hour of lonely care
With some sweet and artless air,
While delightful Poesy
Spreads not in vain her charms for thee.
Thou find'st content and joy at home:
Canst soothe the hour of lonely care
With some sweet and artless air,
While delightful Poesy
Spreads not in vain her charms for thee.
'Tis that the heart, which warms thy breast,
Is most in blessing others blest;
That Pity soft, which melts to know
The poor man's simple tale of woe,
And, beaming in the trembling tear,
Fond Affection harbour there.
Is most in blessing others blest;
That Pity soft, which melts to know
The poor man's simple tale of woe,
And, beaming in the trembling tear,
Fond Affection harbour there.
O! in that heart's most sacred cell
May I enshrin'd for ever dwell!
Pleas'd with what heav'n is pleas'd to grant,
Nor much I have, nor much I want:
Unenvious of the rich and great,
Contented with my humble state,
If, Betsey, thou contented be
To share that humble state with me.
May I enshrin'd for ever dwell!
91
Nor much I have, nor much I want:
Unenvious of the rich and great,
Contented with my humble state,
If, Betsey, thou contented be
To share that humble state with me.
92
TO THE SAME.
Ah! why, my Betsey, does the sigh
Heave that beloved heart?
Ah! why from that beloved eye
Do tears unbidden start?
Heave that beloved heart?
Ah! why from that beloved eye
Do tears unbidden start?
And dost thou dread (should heav'n's decree
To that eternal bourn
Of peaceful slumber summon thee,
And leave me here to mourn;)
To that eternal bourn
Of peaceful slumber summon thee,
And leave me here to mourn;)
Say, dost thou dread, that I should e'er
Of thee unmindful prove,
Or fail to tend with fost'ring care
The offspring of thy love?
Of thee unmindful prove,
Or fail to tend with fost'ring care
The offspring of thy love?
93
Nay, deem not so! tho' hard the task
To fill a mother's part;
And many a tender toil it ask
Beyond a father's art;
To fill a mother's part;
And many a tender toil it ask
Beyond a father's art;
Yet God forbid but I should take
The care, thou would'st have done;
And love thy babe for thy dear sake
No less than for his own.
The care, thou would'st have done;
And love thy babe for thy dear sake
No less than for his own.
If God impose the pious care,
And deal the aweful blow,
He'll teach me, what he wills, to bear;
And what he bids, to do.
And deal the aweful blow,
He'll teach me, what he wills, to bear;
And what he bids, to do.
But tho' prepar'd, whate'er it be,
To bless the righteous doom,
My cheerful fancy speaks to me
Of blissful days to come.
To bless the righteous doom,
My cheerful fancy speaks to me
Of blissful days to come.
94
She bids me hope with tender joy
Still, still to press thy cheek;
She bids me hope to see my boy
Hang on thy matron neck;
Still, still to press thy cheek;
She bids me hope to see my boy
Hang on thy matron neck;
With thee to watch from year to year
His blooming virtues rise,
On pure religion's base to rear,
And form him for the skies.
His blooming virtues rise,
On pure religion's base to rear,
And form him for the skies.
Then let me kiss the tear away,
That stands prepar'd to start;
And let me whisper peace, and stay
The sigh, that heaves thy heart;
That stands prepar'd to start;
And let me whisper peace, and stay
The sigh, that heaves thy heart;
For, O my Betsey, why alarm
With fears thy boding breast?—
'Tis wise, against the worst to arm,
But still to hope the best.
With fears thy boding breast?—
'Tis wise, against the worst to arm,
But still to hope the best.
95
THE STORM.
TO THE SAME.
'Tis night; the hail beats loud around,
And winds tumultuous sweep;
But not the tempest's mingled sound
Disturbs thy gentle sleep.
Sleep on, my love: His mighty arm,
By whom the blast is sped,
The fury of the blast can charm,
Or send his angel, and from harm
Protect the guiltless head.
And winds tumultuous sweep;
But not the tempest's mingled sound
Disturbs thy gentle sleep.
Sleep on, my love: His mighty arm,
By whom the blast is sped,
The fury of the blast can charm,
Or send his angel, and from harm
Protect the guiltless head.
'Tis for the wretch, whose hand the tears
Of injur'd orphans stain;
'Tis for the wretch, whose spirit dares
His Saviour's love profane;
O 'tis for him to feel dismay
And tremble at the storm,
Whose bosom like the troubled sea,
When far the peaceful halcyons flee,
The gusts of guilt deform.
Of injur'd orphans stain;
96
His Saviour's love profane;
O 'tis for him to feel dismay
And tremble at the storm,
Whose bosom like the troubled sea,
When far the peaceful halcyons flee,
The gusts of guilt deform.
Meanwhile tho' clouds around her break,
And winds around her howl,
They mar not virtue's constant cheek,
Nor shake her placid soul:
As some unruffled lake serene,
Ting'd by the purple even
And crown'd with hills and forests green,
Reflected in whose breast is seen
The loveliness of heaven.
And winds around her howl,
They mar not virtue's constant cheek,
Nor shake her placid soul:
As some unruffled lake serene,
Ting'd by the purple even
And crown'd with hills and forests green,
Reflected in whose breast is seen
The loveliness of heaven.
97
EPITAPH. S. M.
DIED JUNE 17, 1804. AGED 24 YEARS.
Here, within this hallow'd earth,
Near the spot which gave thee birth,
So thy parting voice desir'd,
Sleep, from public haunt retir'd.
Near the spot which gave thee birth,
So thy parting voice desir'd,
Sleep, from public haunt retir'd.
Sleep, beloved! footstep rude
Never on thy rest intrude!
But we thy friends will softly tread,
And bless the ground where thou art laid.
Never on thy rest intrude!
But we thy friends will softly tread,
And bless the ground where thou art laid.
O! then the stealing tear shall tell
The worth of thee we lov'd so well:
And holier thoughts shall soothe our care,
As thus we breathe the humble pray'r:
The worth of thee we lov'd so well:
98
As thus we breathe the humble pray'r:
Harmless as was thy life's brief day,
So pass my peaceful hours away!
And when my evening shall decline,
May my last end be calm as thine!
So pass my peaceful hours away!
And when my evening shall decline,
May my last end be calm as thine!
99
VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF JOSEPH WARTON, D. D.
LATE HEAD MASTER OF WINCHESTER COLLEGE.
(WRITTEN IN 1800.)
Εινεκεν ευμαθιης πινυτοφρονος, ην ο μελιχρους
Ησκησεν Μουσων αμμιγα και Χαριτων
Anthol.
Ησκησεν Μουσων αμμιγα και Χαριτων
Anthol.
There is a tender charm in melancholy
Surpassing vulgar joys: 'tis sweet to rove
At evening, when the lonely nightingale
Sings mournful her thick-warbled song: 'tis sweet
To catch by fits the solemn-breathing sound,
When thro' the ruins of th' autumnal wood
Sighs the sad gale, or the loud wintry wind
Blows hollow o'er the bleak and blasted heath:
But sweeter still the meek and plaintive tones
Of heav'nly poetry; which lull the heart
With grateful sorrow, while she speaks of friends
Gone to the still abode of sleep; then tunes
Her hallow'd notes to sing th' eternal rest,
The blissful mansions of unfading heav'n.
Surpassing vulgar joys: 'tis sweet to rove
At evening, when the lonely nightingale
Sings mournful her thick-warbled song: 'tis sweet
To catch by fits the solemn-breathing sound,
When thro' the ruins of th' autumnal wood
Sighs the sad gale, or the loud wintry wind
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But sweeter still the meek and plaintive tones
Of heav'nly poetry; which lull the heart
With grateful sorrow, while she speaks of friends
Gone to the still abode of sleep; then tunes
Her hallow'd notes to sing th' eternal rest,
The blissful mansions of unfading heav'n.
And such delightful pleasure innocent,
Delightful to the sense, and to the mind
Minist'ring calm and holy pensiveness,
Who shall forbid to seize? Who shall forbid,
If I, unus'd to woo th' Aonian choir
And all unskilful, yet aspire to seek
Their sacred temple; and with pious zeal
And grateful duty weave an humble crown,
To deck the laureate tomb where Warton lies.
Delightful to the sense, and to the mind
Minist'ring calm and holy pensiveness,
Who shall forbid to seize? Who shall forbid,
If I, unus'd to woo th' Aonian choir
And all unskilful, yet aspire to seek
Their sacred temple; and with pious zeal
And grateful duty weave an humble crown,
To deck the laureate tomb where Warton lies.
O tow'rs of Venta, and thou gentle stream
Itchin, ye bending vales, and breezy downs,
Ye best his praise may witness. Oft he climb'd
In morn of life your fir-crown'd hill, and roam'd
Your osier'd meads, and pac'd your cloisters dim;
You to meridian fame beheld him rise,
Circled with Wykeham's sons; and you beheld
How Wykeham's grateful sons the tribute paid
Of filial love, and cheer'd his closing day.
Itchin, ye bending vales, and breezy downs,
101
In morn of life your fir-crown'd hill, and roam'd
Your osier'd meads, and pac'd your cloisters dim;
You to meridian fame beheld him rise,
Circled with Wykeham's sons; and you beheld
How Wykeham's grateful sons the tribute paid
Of filial love, and cheer'd his closing day.
For well was Warton lov'd, and well deserv'd!
“His tongue dropt manna,” and his ardent eye
Sparkled with temper'd rage, or beam'd with joy
Boundless: nor wonder; for within his heart
Dwelt pure affection, and the liberal glow
Of charity; join'd to each native grace,
Which the sweet Muse imparts to those she loves.
His was the tear of pity, soft as show'rs
That fall on April meadows: his the rapt
Impassion'd thought, quick as the lightning's glance,
And warm as summer suns: and every flow'r
Of poesy, which by the laurell'd spring
Of Aganippe, or that Roman stream
Tiber, or Tuscan Arno, breath'd of old
Its fragrance sweet; and every flow'r, which since
Hath drunk the dew beside the banks of Thames,
Met in his genial breast, and blossom'd there.
“His tongue dropt manna,” and his ardent eye
Sparkled with temper'd rage, or beam'd with joy
Boundless: nor wonder; for within his heart
Dwelt pure affection, and the liberal glow
Of charity; join'd to each native grace,
Which the sweet Muse imparts to those she loves.
His was the tear of pity, soft as show'rs
That fall on April meadows: his the rapt
Impassion'd thought, quick as the lightning's glance,
And warm as summer suns: and every flow'r
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Of Aganippe, or that Roman stream
Tiber, or Tuscan Arno, breath'd of old
Its fragrance sweet; and every flow'r, which since
Hath drunk the dew beside the banks of Thames,
Met in his genial breast, and blossom'd there.
Happy old man! for therefore didst thou seek
Ecstatic vision by the haunted stream,
Or grove of faery; then thy nightly ear
(As from the wild notes of some airy harp)
Thrill'd with strange music: if the tragic plaints
And sounding lyre of those Athenians old,
Rich-minded poets, fathers of the stage,
Rous'd thee enraptur'd; or the pastoral reed
Of Mantuan Tityrus charm'd; or Dante fierce,
Or more majestic Homer swell'd thy soul,
Or Milton's Muse of fire. Nor seldom came
Wild Fancy's priests, with masked pageantry
And harpings more than mortal: He, whose praise
Is heard by Mulla; and that untaught bard
Of Avon, child of Nature: nor less lov'd,
Though later, he, who rais'd with mystic hand
The fancy-hallow'd pile of Chivalry,
Throng'd with bold knights; while Chaucer smil'd to see
From his rich mine of English, undefil'd,
Tho' all by time obscur'd, a gorgeous dome
On marble pillars rear'd, and golden valves
Majestic, fashion'd by his genuine son.
Ecstatic vision by the haunted stream,
Or grove of faery; then thy nightly ear
(As from the wild notes of some airy harp)
Thrill'd with strange music: if the tragic plaints
And sounding lyre of those Athenians old,
Rich-minded poets, fathers of the stage,
Rous'd thee enraptur'd; or the pastoral reed
Of Mantuan Tityrus charm'd; or Dante fierce,
Or more majestic Homer swell'd thy soul,
Or Milton's Muse of fire. Nor seldom came
Wild Fancy's priests, with masked pageantry
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Is heard by Mulla; and that untaught bard
Of Avon, child of Nature: nor less lov'd,
Though later, he, who rais'd with mystic hand
The fancy-hallow'd pile of Chivalry,
Throng'd with bold knights; while Chaucer smil'd to see
From his rich mine of English, undefil'd,
Tho' all by time obscur'd, a gorgeous dome
On marble pillars rear'd, and golden valves
Majestic, fashion'd by his genuine son.
And O! hadst thou to our fond vows appear'd
Assistant, whilst unrivall'd Dryden sang
Ammon's high pomp, and Sigismonda's tears
For lost Guiscardo; how on coal-black steed
“The horseman ghost came thund'ring for his prey;”
Or how amid the waste of nature stood
Thy temple, God of slaughter!—O! hadst thou
With kindred flame, and such a flame was thine,
Call'd up that elder bard, who left half-sung
The wondrous tale of Tartar Càmbuscàn ;
So had the Muse a brighter chaplet twin'd
To grace thy brow; nor tuneful Dryden hung
A statelier trophy on the shrine of fame.
Assistant, whilst unrivall'd Dryden sang
Ammon's high pomp, and Sigismonda's tears
For lost Guiscardo; how on coal-black steed
“The horseman ghost came thund'ring for his prey;”
Or how amid the waste of nature stood
Thy temple, God of slaughter!—O! hadst thou
104
Call'd up that elder bard, who left half-sung
The wondrous tale of Tartar Càmbuscàn ;
So had the Muse a brighter chaplet twin'd
To grace thy brow; nor tuneful Dryden hung
A statelier trophy on the shrine of fame.
Happy old man! Yet not in vain to thee
Was Fancy's wand committed; not in vain
Did science fill thee with her sacred lore:—
But if of fair and lovely aught, if aught
Of good and virtuous in her hallow'd walls,
Thro' the long space of thrice twelve glorious years,
Thy Venta nurtur'd; if transplanted thence
To the fair banks of Isis and of Cam,
It brighter shone, and haply thence again,
Thence haply spread its influence thro' the land,
That be thy praise. Be it thy praise, that thou
Didst bathe the youthful lip in the fresh spring,
“The pure well-head of Poesy;” didst point,
Like thine own lov'd Longinus, to the steep
Parnassian crag, and led'st thyself the way:—
Be it thy praise, that thou didst clear the path,
Which leads to Virtue's fane; not her of stern
And Stoic aspect dark, till Virtue wears
The gloom of Vice; but such as warm'd thy heart
To acts of love, and peace, and gentleness,
And sweet compassion; while with soothing smile
She led thee on rejoicing, and around
Thy earthly path a cheerful radiance threw.
Was Fancy's wand committed; not in vain
Did science fill thee with her sacred lore:—
But if of fair and lovely aught, if aught
Of good and virtuous in her hallow'd walls,
Thro' the long space of thrice twelve glorious years,
Thy Venta nurtur'd; if transplanted thence
To the fair banks of Isis and of Cam,
It brighter shone, and haply thence again,
Thence haply spread its influence thro' the land,
105
Didst bathe the youthful lip in the fresh spring,
“The pure well-head of Poesy;” didst point,
Like thine own lov'd Longinus, to the steep
Parnassian crag, and led'st thyself the way:—
Be it thy praise, that thou didst clear the path,
Which leads to Virtue's fane; not her of stern
And Stoic aspect dark, till Virtue wears
The gloom of Vice; but such as warm'd thy heart
To acts of love, and peace, and gentleness,
And sweet compassion; while with soothing smile
She led thee on rejoicing, and around
Thy earthly path a cheerful radiance threw.
So thine allotted station didst thou fill;
And now art passed to thy peaceful grave,
In age and honours ripe. Then not for thee
Pour we the tear of sorrow; not with strains
Like those despondent, which the Doric bard
Wept for his Bion, do we tend on thee:
For other hopes are ours, and other views
Brighter, and happier scenes! No earthly chains
Shall in this dreary prison-house confine
Spirits of light; nor shall the heav'n-born soul
Oblivious linger in the silent cave
Of endless hopeless sleep. But as the Sun,
Who drove his fierce and fiery-tressed steeds
Glorious along the vault of heav'n, at length
Sinks in the bosom of the western wave;
Anon from forth the chambers of the east
To run his joyous course; so didst thou set,
So mayst thou rise to glory!
And now art passed to thy peaceful grave,
In age and honours ripe. Then not for thee
Pour we the tear of sorrow; not with strains
Like those despondent, which the Doric bard
106
For other hopes are ours, and other views
Brighter, and happier scenes! No earthly chains
Shall in this dreary prison-house confine
Spirits of light; nor shall the heav'n-born soul
Oblivious linger in the silent cave
Of endless hopeless sleep. But as the Sun,
Who drove his fierce and fiery-tressed steeds
Glorious along the vault of heav'n, at length
Sinks in the bosom of the western wave;
Anon from forth the chambers of the east
To run his joyous course; so didst thou set,
So mayst thou rise to glory!
But the high
And secret counsels of th' Eternal Name
Who may presume to scan?
And secret counsels of th' Eternal Name
Who may presume to scan?
Enough for me,
That thus with pious zeal I pour the verse
Of love to Warton, from that seat
which nurst
His youth in classic lore. Here blest with all,
Which social worth can yield, and minds refin'd
By Attic taste, and gentlest manners bland,
My duteous homage chief to thee I pay,
O dome of Edward! nor meanwhile forget
The earlier hopes that charm'd, the earlier friends
Who still, entwin'd around my heart, endear
My hours of childhood; whilst I sojourn'd blithe
In those lov'd walls, which Wykeham nobly plann'd,
And Warton, favourite of the Muses, grac'd.
That thus with pious zeal I pour the verse
107
His youth in classic lore. Here blest with all,
Which social worth can yield, and minds refin'd
By Attic taste, and gentlest manners bland,
My duteous homage chief to thee I pay,
O dome of Edward! nor meanwhile forget
The earlier hopes that charm'd, the earlier friends
Who still, entwin'd around my heart, endear
My hours of childhood; whilst I sojourn'd blithe
In those lov'd walls, which Wykeham nobly plann'd,
And Warton, favourite of the Muses, grac'd.
108
TO MY FATHER.
“At tibi, chare pater, postquam non æqua merenti
Posse referre datur, nec dona rependere factis,
Sit memorâsse satis, repetitaque munera grato
Percensere animo, fidæque reponere menti.”
Milton ad Patrem.
Posse referre datur, nec dona rependere factis,
Sit memorâsse satis, repetitaque munera grato
Percensere animo, fidæque reponere menti.”
Milton ad Patrem.
As pensive o'er my tuneful page I bend,
Grac'd with the name of many a valued friend,
Can I behold, nor blush with filial shame,
No verse that bears my Father's honour'd name?
Grac'd with the name of many a valued friend,
Can I behold, nor blush with filial shame,
No verse that bears my Father's honour'd name?
Yet, O my Father, I can ne'er forget,
Nor e'er, rememb'ring, cease to feel the debt,
To thee I owe; nor e'er that debt repay,
To the late evening of my mortal day.
Nor e'er, rememb'ring, cease to feel the debt,
To thee I owe; nor e'er that debt repay,
To the late evening of my mortal day.
Thou gav'st me being; sweeter far than this,
Thou gav'st me that, which makes my being bliss.
Thou didst to holy thoughts my bosom warm,
Thou didst my tongue to holy accents form,
And teach, in dawning reason's infant days,
To lisp the voice of pray'r and thanks and praise.
Thou gav'st me that, which makes my being bliss.
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Thou didst my tongue to holy accents form,
And teach, in dawning reason's infant days,
To lisp the voice of pray'r and thanks and praise.
Taught by thy care my childish lip to lave
In the clear stream of Cirrha's living cave,
With thee I tasted first the honey'd page
Of him, the chaste Athenian warrior-sage,
And caught the sound of Mincius' whispering reeds,
And gaz'd on Simois' bank heroic deeds.
In the clear stream of Cirrha's living cave,
With thee I tasted first the honey'd page
Of him, the chaste Athenian warrior-sage,
And caught the sound of Mincius' whispering reeds,
And gaz'd on Simois' bank heroic deeds.
To thee I owe, in Wykeham's fost'ring shade
That in life's morn with stripling step I stray'd:—
To thee I owe that youth's delightful hours
I pass'd in peaceful academic bow'rs,
And roaming gaz'd on fancy's airy dreams,
What time the orient sun on Cherwell beams,
Or o'er thy moonlight wave, O Isis, swells
The mellow music of the distant bells.
To thee I owe, in letter'd quiet laid
Mid lonely Buriton's romantic shade,
That now no vulgar care, no vulgar joy
My riper manhood's vigorous prime employ;
While pleas'd I turn the page of truth divine,
And serve with pious awe the hallow'd shrine;
Or roam o'er breezy hill, and lowly dell,
And touch the woodland Muse's simple shell.
That in life's morn with stripling step I stray'd:—
To thee I owe that youth's delightful hours
I pass'd in peaceful academic bow'rs,
And roaming gaz'd on fancy's airy dreams,
What time the orient sun on Cherwell beams,
Or o'er thy moonlight wave, O Isis, swells
The mellow music of the distant bells.
110
Mid lonely Buriton's romantic shade,
That now no vulgar care, no vulgar joy
My riper manhood's vigorous prime employ;
While pleas'd I turn the page of truth divine,
And serve with pious awe the hallow'd shrine;
Or roam o'er breezy hill, and lowly dell,
And touch the woodland Muse's simple shell.
And blame not thou, to soothe my pensive heart
If the dear Muse her gentle aid impart.
O, sweet as April fragrance to the sense
Her voice, attun'd to themes of innocence!
She flings a cheering ray on winter's gloom,
She heightens golden summer's roseate bloom;
And by the meed of her melodious rhime
Lifts the rapt soul to virtuous deeds sublime.
If the dear Muse her gentle aid impart.
O, sweet as April fragrance to the sense
Her voice, attun'd to themes of innocence!
She flings a cheering ray on winter's gloom,
She heightens golden summer's roseate bloom;
And by the meed of her melodious rhime
Lifts the rapt soul to virtuous deeds sublime.
The icy flood when dark December binds,
Or March unchains his equinoctial winds,
For brilliant scenes secluded females sigh;
But if the Muse her magic voice apply,
With lovelier transports and more pure they glow,
Than sport and feast and brilliant dance bestow:
As wing'd with sober joy the moments fly,
Their cheerful toil with nimbler hands they ply;
Nor heed how quickly wane the hours of even,
Nor hear the storm, that rends the face of heaven.
Or March unchains his equinoctial winds,
111
But if the Muse her magic voice apply,
With lovelier transports and more pure they glow,
Than sport and feast and brilliant dance bestow:
As wing'd with sober joy the moments fly,
Their cheerful toil with nimbler hands they ply;
Nor heed how quickly wane the hours of even,
Nor hear the storm, that rends the face of heaven.
Warm'd by the touch of her creative wand,
Behold, what charms invest the smiling land!
A richer gleam the wood-crown'd mountain gilds,
More soft the south-wind blows o'er greener fields;
In smoother waves the river glides along;
The mounting sky-lark trills a livelier song;
And as to view of charmed knight of old,
(So elfin bards in mystic rhimes have told)
O'er all the scene a fairy light is thrown,
And Nature smiles with beauty not her own.
Behold, what charms invest the smiling land!
A richer gleam the wood-crown'd mountain gilds,
More soft the south-wind blows o'er greener fields;
In smoother waves the river glides along;
The mounting sky-lark trills a livelier song;
And as to view of charmed knight of old,
(So elfin bards in mystic rhimes have told)
O'er all the scene a fairy light is thrown,
And Nature smiles with beauty not her own.
112
Meantime with nobler aims and wider views
Pants the high bosom of the generous Muse.
Pants the high bosom of the generous Muse.
Not pleas'd with conquest, yet if glorious war
Her country's arm for righteous vengeance bare,
She dares the loud and thrilling clarion blow,
And onward bid the patriot champion go:
But her glad voice with prompter zeal she rears,
In sounds, that match the music of the spheres,
To bid the clang of jarring nations cease,
And hymn the pæan of victorious peace.
Her country's arm for righteous vengeance bare,
She dares the loud and thrilling clarion blow,
And onward bid the patriot champion go:
But her glad voice with prompter zeal she rears,
In sounds, that match the music of the spheres,
To bid the clang of jarring nations cease,
And hymn the pæan of victorious peace.
To Nature's charms and Nature's feelings true,
'Tis her's to paint, with tints of softest hue,
How sweet to dwell with rural peace, and shed
The dew of comfort on the throbbing head;
How fair the eye, that melts with transport meek,
And smile, that plays o'er fond affection's cheek.
'Tis her's to point where honour's turrets shine;
'Tis her's the wreath for virtue's brow to twine;
And while her hymns of holy strain she sings,
And while she strikes her heav'n-attemper'd strings,
'Tis her's a soft and bright'ning gleam to throw
Around the drooping child of pain and woe,
To wing on high his visionary flight,
And lap his soul in day-dreams of delight;
And her's perchance, when time shall be no more,
Her's it may be to purer climes to soar,
To sweep with holy hand her echoing wires,
And swell the concert of cherubic lyres.
'Tis her's to paint, with tints of softest hue,
How sweet to dwell with rural peace, and shed
The dew of comfort on the throbbing head;
How fair the eye, that melts with transport meek,
And smile, that plays o'er fond affection's cheek.
'Tis her's to point where honour's turrets shine;
'Tis her's the wreath for virtue's brow to twine;
113
And while she strikes her heav'n-attemper'd strings,
'Tis her's a soft and bright'ning gleam to throw
Around the drooping child of pain and woe,
To wing on high his visionary flight,
And lap his soul in day-dreams of delight;
And her's perchance, when time shall be no more,
Her's it may be to purer climes to soar,
To sweep with holy hand her echoing wires,
And swell the concert of cherubic lyres.
Spirit of Milton! thou, whose arduous way
Awestruck at humble distance I survey,
I dare not hope thy eagle plume to try,
And drink the sun-beam with undazzled eye;
But if one ray from thy ethereal fire,
If one faint ray my glowing soul inspire,
No base alloy, no speck of earthly mould
Shall taint the temper of the heav'nly gold;
Pure as thy own, my blameless verse shall flow,
Pure as on Alpine rocks the virgin snow.
Awestruck at humble distance I survey,
I dare not hope thy eagle plume to try,
And drink the sun-beam with undazzled eye;
But if one ray from thy ethereal fire,
If one faint ray my glowing soul inspire,
No base alloy, no speck of earthly mould
Shall taint the temper of the heav'nly gold;
114
Pure as on Alpine rocks the virgin snow.
So tho' I fail 'mong glory's sons to shine,
The nobler praise of virtue shall be mine;
The moral boast, that ne'er I durst abuse
To rites profane the heav'n-descended Muse.
While, O my Father, thou, to whom I pay
With filial love this tributary lay,
Shalt hear with placid smile, nor blush to own
The tuneful off'ring of a grateful son.
The nobler praise of virtue shall be mine;
The moral boast, that ne'er I durst abuse
To rites profane the heav'n-descended Muse.
While, O my Father, thou, to whom I pay
With filial love this tributary lay,
Shalt hear with placid smile, nor blush to own
The tuneful off'ring of a grateful son.
| Poems | |