Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Unknown to fame; unus'd to state;
What patron shall the Muse
Cull from the good, and wise, and great?
What votive off'ring chuse?
To plume her trembling pinions weak,
She fain some noble name would seek
Of high and fair renown;
For him the fragrant rime would weave,
Which he might blush not to receive,
Nor she might blush to own.

Durham, while grateful mem'ry glows,
And prompts the trophied strain,
The Muse to thee her tribute vows:
Nor thou the Muse disdain!
With blameless hand she sweeps the string;
She dares no guilty numbers bring,
To wound thy hallow'd ear;
No sounds, to daunt her conscious heart,
Tho' death stood by with lifted dart,
And angels stoop'd to hear.

She loves mid lowly cots to stray,
That crown the woodland glade:
To cheer with unaspiring lay
The dear domestic shade:
And oft, in visions of delight,
To roam o'er Sion's dewy height,
By poet rarely trod;

To cull fresh flow'rs from Carmel's wood;
And bathe her lip in Siloa's flood,
That lav'd the shrine of God.

Careless of vulgar praise, the wreath,
Which virtue's hand bestows,
She deems far sweeter than the breath
Of Sharon's vernal rose:
Content, O Barrington, if thou
Attentive bend thy mitred brow,
And smile with fav'ring eyes
On her, of innocence the child,
Friend of sweet peace and pleasures mild,
And handmaid of the skies.

I. PART I.

Avia Pieridum peragro loca, &c.
Led by the Muse, o'er devious tracks I stray,
Where few poetic footsteps mark the way;
Of hallow'd boughs a spotless chaplet twine,
And drink from fountains pure of truth divine.

TO THE REV. HENRY PHILLPOTTS, M. A. AND LATE FELLOW OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE.

“O gracious God! how far have we
Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of Angels and for hymns of love!”
Dryden's Ode on Mrs. Anne Killigrew.

In eastern climes, when time was young,
'Twas Nature tun'd the poet's tongue
To piety and love:
Fair woman's matchless charms he told;
And those, whom fable feign'd to hold
On grey Olympus' top the scepter'd rule above.

But oft he made the Muses' shrine
With flames from unblest incense shine:
And oft his numbers flow'd,
Responsive to the golden chord,
In praise of idol-gods abhorr'd,
With lawless passion foul, and wet with crimson blood.

Alas, that weeds impure should mar,
O Arethuse, thy fountain fair;
And, clear Ilissus, thine;
Thine too, O Meles, nobler flood!
Whose bard could oft, in holier mood,
Touch the refulgent verse with fire almost divine.

Not such the themes, that wont to swell
Thy hymns, triumphant Israël,
To Virgin timbrels sung:
Or when thy tribes from Shinar's plain

To gladness tun'd their harps again,
Which many a silent year by Babel's waters hung:

But raptures heav'nly pure, to Him,
Who dwells between the Cherubim,
Thron'd on the viewless sky;
Of old who brought the mountains forth,
Girt with a wat'ry zone the earth,
And cloth'd the heav'n with light, The Holy One and High.

For who from Cedron's gushing wave
Would turn, his thirsty lip to lave
In Sodom's pool obscene?
Who mid Arabian deserts rove,
If his the sweets of Eden's grove,
Ambrosial nectarin fruits, fresh flow'rs, and arbours green?

Yet, ah! to bless our favour'd sky,
Tho' beams the day-spring from on high
With clear and cloudless light,
Whose rays might deck the brightest strain;
Yet many a spot of earthly stain
Fair fancy's cheek deforms, and blurs her vesture white.

Tho' Dryden move with stateliest pace;
In Pope's mellifluous song though grace
And polish'd softness smile;
I envy not their tainted praise;
I'd scorn to wear the freshest bays,
Which bind poetic brows, if guilt the wreath defile.

Be mine the nobler aim, to feel
And plead for outrag'd right, with zeal,
O Cowper, pure as thine;

With Gray to wake the pensive lyre;
Or sing with Milton's angel fire,
Connubial love how sweet! how charming truth divine!

So, as she lists the moral strain,
No generous blush, my Friend, shall stain
The virgin's kindling cheek;
And so perchance the melting eye
Of heav'n-descended Piety
Be turn'd with steadfast gaze her native courts to seek;

While, like the morning dew, that pours
From April clouds in grateful show'rs
To glad its parent earth;
I chaunt my pure and guiltless lay,
And strive the mercies to display
Of Him, who forms the tongue, and gives the fancy birth.

RELIGIOUS COMFORT.

LINES OCCASIONED BY ECCLESIASTICUS XLI. 1, 2, 3.

“Just heav'n, man's fortitude to prove,
Permits thro' life at large to rove
The tribes of hell-born woe;
But the same pow'r, that wisely sends
Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends
Religion's golden shield to break th' embattled foe.”
Warton's Suicide.

O varied ills of man's uncertain state,
A gloomy train, that round his dwelling wait,
Fear, Grief, Contempt, and Famine, and Disease;
In sleepless watch their trembling prey to seise,
Rack his weak frame, oppress his struggling breath,
And bend his spirit to despair and death.

O Death! how dreary sounds thy awful name
To the gay fool of fortune and of fame;
How cloth'd in horror and dismay appear
To him thy griesly front and threatening air;
Who, slumb'ring soft on pleasure's downy bed,
By music lull'd, by delicacy fed,
Unmov'd hath seen the precious hours steal by,
And heard th' appointed doom for man to die!

O Death! how pleasing sounds thy awful cry
To the heart-stricken child of misery;
Who in this world's drear prison-house confin'd,
Beat by the storms of want, the rushing wind
Of obloquy and scorn, full long hath cast
A wistful look around the cheerless waste;
Nor seen one answering look, one melting eye;
Nor heard in all his woes one pitying sigh!
To him thy ghastly front appears serene,
And mild the terrors of thy threatening mien;

No frown, no rugged sternness can he see;
He finds no loathsome hell-born fiend in thee;
As to a friend his eager arms he spreads,
No longing tear of fond remembrance sheds,
Smiles on his fellow man's unpitying race,
And meets with patient hope thy wish'd embrace.

O! may his meek enduring spirit have
Repose and quiet in the silent grave!
And, soaring thence, in heav'nly visions glow,
Repaid for every pang he felt below!

But, ah! what requiem can the pious Muse,
Her breast enlighten'd with celestial views,
What hymns of peace and holy hope prepare,
To soothe the bloodstain'd victims of despair?
She bids not violated nature bring
The roseate treasures of the opening spring;

She bids not hosts of hovering angels wave
Their silver wings about th' unhallow'd grave;
She dares not cause th' ennobling verse to flow,
And bind with virtue's wreath the guilty brow
Of those, who proudly spurn the chastening rod,
And rush presumptuous to the throne of God.

Else might she pour her most melodious meed,
And bless with fabling lays the frantic deed
Of him, the youthful bard; whose restless breast,
By doubts perplex'd, by penury distrest;
His trembling nerves by feeling finely strung,
By cold neglect his lofty spirit wrung;
No hope to cheer, no friend to calm, his woe,
Unbidden dar'd the self-destroying blow.
Now, while the dusky wing of Autumn broods
In gloomy darkness o'er the fading woods,
She seeks the lonely visionary shade,
Where dumb in death the hapless youth is laid.

Curst is the spot of his untimely grave,
Nor vernal blossom there is seen to wave.
Yet Pity, meek complainer, lingers there,
With tear-worn cheek and throbbing bosom bare;
And sweetly-plaining from the willow tree ,
A garland weaves, poor Chatterton, for thee!

O Poverty, by scowling insult wounded;
With thirst, with cold, with hunger sore confounded;
With deep-sunk eye, and cheek of sallow hue,
Too weak to labour, and too proud to sue;
The struggling tear by scorn forbid to start;
The galling iron rankling in thy heart;
Without one earthly hope, one earthly friend,
Whither, ah! whither do thy footsteps tend?
In bitterness of spirit thou dost sit,
While on thy naked breast rude tempests beat,

And distant in the glittering sunshine ride
The silken sons of luxury and pride.
Then sinks in blank despair thy pensive soul;
Then in wild gaze thy glassy eye-balls roll;
Then dost thou curse in thine afflicted heart
Of human woes thy more than equal part;
And fondly dar'st, poor earth-born worm! to blame
The justice of the all-sufficient name.

And is there then no comfort to dispense
A lenient balm, to lull the aching sense?
Or when of old the high and holy God
Pour'd the red drainings of his wrath abroad,
Did he not bid the stream of mercy flow,
In sweet compassion to the sons of woe?

For this Religion came, a heav'n-born guest,
To bathe in opiate dews the throbbing breast,
Girt with her choir of holy handmaids fair:
Bright Truth, with forehead like the morning star;

And Purity; and Patience wiping meek
The silent tear, that wets her smiling cheek;
And Hope, that warbles many a carol gay;
And Faith, with eye fix'd on the courts of day,
Where sainted spirits, who their race have run,
Sing unto Him that sitteth on the throne;
And orient palms, the meed of conquest, hold,
In robes of white array'd, and wreathe their locks with gold.

So have I seen the sun retiring shroud
His radiant glories in a wat'ry cloud;
And I have mark'd far off the sparkling stream,
Hills, groves, and meadows glow beneath his beam;
E'en so do clouds and darkness oft beset
Us, mortal pilgrims, in this earthly state;
And so, bright opening thro' the vale of tears,
To Faith's fix'd eye the distant scene appears,

Where gardens fair by living waters lie,
The blissful visions of eternity.

See Pope's Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady, ver. 63 & seqq.

See the Minstrel's Song in Ælla.

See Chaucer's Man of Lawe's Tale.

O Thou! of sov'reign mercy, sov'reign might;
Father of life, eternity, and light;
If ought of ill await my mortal course,
Soften its terrors, and abate its force!
But if my hours by righteous doom must flow
In one dark stream of wretchedness and woe;
If nought, but bitter, meet my loathing taste,
And nought my view, but a drear dismal waste;
Thy will be done! But grant, my only care,
Grant me resign'd thy will, O God, to bear.

For when the tumults of this world shall cease,
And nought shall reign but everlasting peace;
When thou shalt all in all exist, and we
(O, may my lot be such!) exist in thee;

Then shall the spirits of the just in heaven
Own the bright crown of glory rightly given,
Through Him, who died and lives for evermore,
To such as meek in heart, in spirit poor,
Have fought with patience faith's victorious fight,
Their aim thy blessing, and the Lamb their might.

CONNUBIAL LOVE.

TO THE REV. ------.

“Hail, wedded Love! mysterious law, true source
Of human offspring, sole propriety
In Paradise of all things common else.—”
Paradise Lost, IV.

Hence, to thy den beneath the sunless main!
Nor the holy lay profane,
Thou, whom Poets hail'd of old
Goddess of the cest of gold;
Star that gilds the orient morn;
Of the scepter'd Thunderer born;
And fondly feign'd, that at thy birth
Rapture smil'd on heav'n and earth.

False the tale: some Spirit fell
Bore thee in the depths of hell;
Mother thou of joys impure,
Which thy feeble votaries lure
By treach'rous paths to caves, where lie
Disease and death and infamy.
Hence, with thy distemper'd train,
Fev'rish Youth with madd'ning brain,
Thy zoneless nymphs, thy sightless boy
Charm'd with every tinkling toy;
Debauch, loud roaring o'er the venom'd bowl;
And Fraud; and Sloth that numbs with palsying touch the soul.

But come, thou Angel pure and bright,
Parent of sincere delight,
Daughter of heav'n, Connubial Love!
Thee th' Almighty Sire above

Of old, in mercy to mankind,
Created from his perfect mind,
While stars of morning hail'd the birth;
And Seraphs bore thee to the earth
In triumph from thy native skies,
To dwell with man in Paradise.

Come! with raiment snowy white;
And eyes, that beam with dewy light;
Thy thoughts, as clear as vernal rills,
That sparkling fall from Alpine hills;
Thy breath, as sweet as spicy gales
That blow o'er blest Arabian vales;
And soft, as balmy spring-tide breaks,
The smile that dimples on thy cheeks.

Come! nor leave thy train behind:
Content of heart; and Peace of mind;
Soft Sympathy's delightful tear;
And Sanctity, with brow severe,

Which lawless riot's sons confess;
And “wisdom join'd with simpleness ,”
Whom meek and modest joys can please,
Domestic sweets and rural ease.

Ten moons have wan'd, since thee I sought
To visit my sequester'd cot.
Thou cam'st; thou gav'st me ample store
Of bliss; thou bid'st me hope for more.
Behold, I woo thy smile again!
Behold, to thee I pour the strain
In favour of a generous youth!
Now by his soul of guileless truth;
By his gentle manners bland;
His liberal heart; his open hand;
By his ardent piety;
By the zeal he'll prove for thee,

Steadfast to the plighted vow;
Sweet Connubial Love, do thou
On --- cottag'd vale descend,
And bless the dwelling of my friend!

The charm's complete: the lay is done.
See, from realms beyond the sun,
An Angel spotless pure descend,
And seek the dwelling of my friend.
A nymph she leads of noble race,
Ennobled more by mental grace;
And hark, her accents softly flow,
Like dew-drops on the fleece below.

A line from Lord Surrey.

“Take, my Son, from realms above,
Take the gift of Nuptial Love.
Leaning on her gentle breast,
Her lip with kisses pure carest,

Soon thy heart with joys shall glow,
No unwedded bosoms know.
Fond Attachment, springing thence,
Shall with gentle violence
Forbid thy wayward step to roam,
And hold in golden chain at home.
While every sound, and smell, and sight,
And every source of past delight,
On thy ravish'd sense shall pour
Transport never felt before.

“Thou her willing step shalt bring
To the grove, where linnets sing,
Where the clearest fountains flow,
Where the sweetest violets blow.
Thou with her the hill shalt climb,
Fragrant with the creeping thyme;

And from the breezy summit trace
The valley's many-mingled grace,
Where mid elmy meadows green
Thy roof, my pleasant haunt, is seen.
Seated by her tender side,
Thou her docile hand shalt guide
With mimic pencil to pourtray
Simple nature's landscapes gay:
Or open to her charmed eye
The kindred stores of Poesy,
Dipt in Castalia's chastest dews:
Chief of him, whose saintly Muse
With a seraph's sweetness told
The raptures of that age of gold;
When Eve, my first-born daughter, stray'd
In blooming Eden's palmy shade;
And own'd not all the charms, that heaven
With large and lavish hand had given

To deck her happy rural seat,
Without her wedded partner sweet.

“She meanwhile with thee shall share
The duties of thy past'ral care;
(For well I know thou lov'st to tread,
No stranger guest, the straw-roof'd shed;)
And lend with thee a patient ear
The peasant's simple tale to hear.
She shall round his blazing hearth,
Echoing to the voice of mirth,
Unaccustom'd comforts pour:
Shall train his babes in sacred lore,
And teach their little hands to ply
The task of useful industry:
Shall feed the hungry, and shall spread
Warm fleeces o'er the sick man's bed;
And, when o'erspent and widow'd age
Draws nigh to close its pilgrimage,

With soothing voice and cherub smile
The hours of ling'ring life beguile.

“Nor will she shun with thee to trace
The triumphs of the chosen race,
When th' Egyptian's car-borne pride
O'er the Red sea welter'd wide,
And Gath's huge Champion press'd the field,
By a stripling Shepherd quell'd:
With thee shall bless the arm, that turn'd
Judah's woe, who captive mourn'd
For Sion's hallow'd courts profan'd
By an unbelieving hand;
(What time the stoled Prophet stood
By Chebar or Ulaï's flood,
And saw before his tranced gaze
Visions strange of unborn days:)
With thee shall hail from Beth'lem's sky
The day-spring, breaking from on high,

To lighten them that sat beneath
The shadows of the vale of death,
And guide the erring feet to press
The path of peace and holiness.

“Fill'd with the themes, her melting eye
Shall lift thy soul to virtues high:
Her heart, in sweet accord with thine,
Shall bow before the throne divine,
On winged prayers heav'nward borne,
Sweet as the incens'd breath of morn:
And oft her voice shall charm thine ear,
To strings symphonious chaunting clear
Such sounds of high and holy praise,
As the rapt soul to heaven raise;
And such perhaps as heav'nly quires
Hymn to the touch of golden wires.

“These, my Son, thy joys shall be!
These delights I promise thee!

I in health will bless thy bed;
I in sickness calm thine head;
I thy life's aspiring noon
With unreproved pleasures crown,
And with mildly-beaming ray
Gild the evening of thy day.”

THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

TO --- --- ESQ.

“O, friendly to the best pursuits of man,
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life in rural leisure pass'd!
Few know thy value—”
Cowper's Task, Book III.

As one, who long in joyless solitude
Hath roam'd mid Alpine deserts vast and rude,
Where Reuss impetuous hurls his dashing tide,
Or, Rhone, thy torrents cleave the mountain's side,
Where seas extend of everlasting ice,
And horror shaggs the unsunn'd precipice;
If chance he gain some still and shelter'd dale,
Fair Urseren, or Hasli's fairer vale,

What time the golden beams of eve are shed
On each fantastic mountain's snow-crown'd head;
Charm'd with the beauties of the varied scene,
White flocks, and herds, that stray thro' pastures green;
Pines, that high-waving shade the cottag'd steep;
And streams, that now the vale in silence sweep,
And now thro' hanging beeches glittering fall,
Responsive to the goat-herd's madrigal:
With livelier joy he eyes the landscape o'er,
Fresh from the dreary waste he trod before:—
Thus in those scenes of woe, where Vice hath sway'd,
And round, a moral desolation spread,
O'erjoy'd we turn, the good man's deeds to bless,
Fair deeds of love, of peace, and holiness.
For Virtue, tho', in native radiance bright,
Her form be beauty and her vesture light,
Can still a brighter lovelier shape assume,
And like the star of eve, shines fairest thro' the gloom.

In such a scene, (no venom'd shaft I aim
To wound the honour of a virtuous name;)
In such a scene (alas! the truth too well
Religion scorn'd and slighted Love can tell)
Thy lot is cast; and, oh! the praise be thine
By the pure light of virtuous deeds to shine!

Friend of domestic joys and rural ease,
Be these thy praise, and thy delight be these!
Nor thou to scenes of distant splendour roam;
Fashion may stray, but Pleasure dwells at home.
In peaceful solitude she loves to trace
The flow'rs of genius, that unfading grace
Tiber, and old Ilissus, classic streams;
And Tuscan Arno, and imperial Thames:
She loves around the hospitable hearth
To view the smile, and hear the voice, of mirth;
And, rapt in visions of delight, to prove
The soft endearments of connubial love.

And see, abroad thy devious step invite
All that can fill the heart, and charm the sight.
For thee the long and verdant lawn is spread;
For thee the forest waves his branching head;
For thee the meadows spring, the harvests shine;
And every joy the country yields, is thine.
Repay the debt, and let the country share
The present influence of thy soft'ring care!

Friend of the poor, be thine the praise to spread
Content and comfort thro' his lowly shed:
To help the fatherless and weak; to dry
The widow's tears; the unknown cause to try;
To check licentious riot's mad career;
The heart of meek and patient toil to cheer,
Teach him in health the path of right to tread,
And in the hour of sickness smooth his bed.

True to thy God, and steadfast in his cause,
Be thine the praise to guard his holy laws.

Lo! from yon plain the village steeple swells!
Hark! 'tis the music of the sabbath-bells!
To thee they speak; they call thee to repair,
Thee, and thy house, to bend in worship there.
See! where with mien devout and holy hands
The white-rob'd priest beside the altar stands!
To thee he speaks; he bids thee to the board,
Thee and thy house, in memory of thy Lord.
Ah! scorn not thou to tread the church-ward road;
Ah! scorn not thou the table of thy God;
Nor e'er forget, in pleasure's dazzling hour,
The pride of riches, and the pomp of pow'r,
To bow thy knee before th' Eternal throne;
Thy sins in lowliness of heart to own;
To bid thy pray'r, like morning incense, rise,
And praise him with thine evening sacrifice.

And see, to guide at once, and cheer thy way,
Celestial Truth the banner'd Cross display,
Where shines in characters divinely bright,
“My yoke is easy, and my burden light.”
And hark, her voice in accents strong and clear:
“Go on, my Son, pursue thy firm career;
“Thy heart shall feel it, and thy tongue confess,
“My ways are peace, my paths are pleasantness.
“Propt by thy hand, and nurtur'd by thy care,
“For thee the poor shall breathe his humble pray'r.
“The wedded mother, in her husband blest,
“Straining her lovely infant to her breast,
“No more afraid of lawless lust, shall see
“With joy the guardian of her babe in thee.
“The widow's heart shall sing for joy, and send
“Its suit to heav'n for thee her only friend.
“E'en he, whose heart was dead to heav'n before,
“Warn'd by thy voice, by thy example more,

“Shall shun the treach'rous path, which once he prest,
“Shall feel new virtue springing in his breast,
“On future scenes of purer rapture gaze,
“And speak the words of penitence and praise;
“While his heart's wish and servent pray'r shall be
“The blessing of eternal peace on thee.
“The eye, that sees thee, shall thy worth express;
“The ear, that hears thee, shall thy accents bless;
“And e'en the stranger, as he journeys by,
“Charm'd with thy fair and honest fame, shall cry,
‘Blest in the blessings he to others gives,
‘Behold the dwelling, where the good man lives.’

“The still small voice within shall bear its part,
“And whisper comfort to thy fainting heart
“(As down the vale of years thou mov'st along)
“With accents sweet as is an Angel's song.

“Angels themselves shall tend thy bed of death,
“And soothe thy sorrows, and receive thy breath,

“And bear thee to the mansions of the sky,
“With shouts of joy and heav'nly minstrelsy.

“There, from the bosom of an orient cloud,
“The Lord, the righteous Judge, shall speak aloud;
‘Servant of Christ, well done! well hast thou trod,
‘Just to thy brethren, faithful to thy God,
‘The path of life; thy day of trial o'er,
‘Enter thy Master's joy, and dwell for evermore.’

Thus speaks Celestial Truth: attend, behold
Her precepts in the book of life enroll'd.
And now farewell! receive in friendly part
The well-meant off'ring of a friendly heart;
Nor spurn the poet, tho' obscure his name:
Unknown to thee, nor less unknown to fame;
By nature fond of hills and lonely dells,
Remote from noise where rural Quiet dwells;

By duty zealous in the cause of heaven;
By feeling grateful for its mercies given;
Delighted most, when most diffus'd around
Religious truth and harmless joys are found;
A friend to Virtue; and, if Virtue be
Thy choice, (O grant it, heav'n!) a friend to thee.

RURAL HAPPINESS,

WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN .

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. JOHN WOOLLCOMBE, M. A. AND FELLOW OF ORIEL COLLEGE.

“O, blest seclusion from a jarring world,
Which he thus occupied enjoys!”
Cowper's Task, Book III.

O, blest beyond compare are they,
Who hold their calm contented way,
Where cots, mid fields and gardens green,
Mark some lone hamlet's peaceful scene:

Thrice blest, if heav'n withal bestow
A heart their happiness to know!

What tho' for them no portals proud
Pour forth at morn a courtier crowd;
For them no midnight dances shine,
Nor Gallia send her sparkling wine:
Yet their's, repose secure from strife;
And their's, the calm and guileless life;
For them the social blackbird sings;
For them the purple hare-bell springs;
White flocks for them with bleatings fill
The bending lawn or coppic'd hill;
While waving o'er some cavern'd bank,
Beset with snow-white lilies dank,
The beech his roots fantastic wreathes,
And fresh and cool the west-wind breathes.

Around the modest virtues dwell,
Nor scorn the peasant's peaceful cell.

Contented Age; laborious Youth;
Parental Honour; nuptial Truth;
And, fairest daughters of the sky,
Meek Faith and tender Charity,
If yet on earth their footsteps be,
Linger, O rural Peace, with thee.

Mine be the lot, thy scenes among,
“Smit with the love of sacred song,”
And rapt in high poetic dream,
To meditate some holy theme.
So may I strike perchance the string,
And hymns of solemn triumph sing!

Or if my laggart soul in vain
Would soar to reach the lofty strain,
Be mine to rove mid waving woods,
Mid rocks, and glens, and falling floods;
Or sit in some romantic dell,
And on the songs of Sion dwell,

Till visionary fancy flies
To elder days and holier skies.
O! for the palmy woods, that wave
O'er streams, which pleasant Carmel lave;
Or cedar's branching arms, that crown
Thy brows, majestic Lebanon!
O, who my pilgrim feet will guide
To Jordan's ancient-hallow'd tide;
To valleys, where in many a rill
Falls the rich dew from Hermon's hill;
Or Siloa's flowery brook, “that flow'd
“Fast by the Oracle of God!”

Blest was the sightless bard, who told
God's noble acts in days of old.
Who sang Creation's glorious morn,
When sea and earth and heav'n were born:
And how, or ere the birth of time,
The rebel host from heav'n's fair clime,

With hideous rout and ruin, fell
Thro' Chaos to the depths of hell;
Then tun'd to sweeter tones his song,
And hymn'd, as with an Angel's tongue,
In numbers, fit for harps above,
The wonders of Messiah's love.

And happy he, (tho' heav'n withhold
The sounding verse and genius bold,)
Happy the man whose humbler lot
Is cast in some sequester'd spot;
Whose life with innocence is spent,
In letter'd ease and calm content;
His task, the list'ning swains around
To spread salvation's joyful sound.

His board by temperance is spread;
Sweet peace reposes on his bed;
Nor envies he the rich and great;
Nor sighs to change his lowly state;

Blest, if that lowly state afford
Enough to trim the social board,
And still a cheering gleam to spread
Of comfort thro' the poor man's shed.

No wish has he abroad to roam,
Or seek for guilty joys at home.
But if his soul's far dearer part
Repay with her's his faithful heart;
If, sporting on its mother's breast,
His babe, with many a kiss carest,
Stretch forth its little arms the while,
And at its father sweetly smile;
While transport fills his swimming eyes,
He feels the bliss of Paradise.

Meantime with bards and sages old
His raptur'd thoughts high converse hold.
Nor want there, who in later time
Have sprung to grace our northern clime.

But most the holy men, who spread,
From Olivet and Horeb's head,
To earth and heav'n Jehovah's praise,
On themes divine employ his days.
And oft, in accents sweet and clear,
Such sounds salute his nightly ear,
As echoed from the tuneful shell
The pleasant hymns of Israël:
Or such as Bethlehem's shepherds heard,
What time the heav'nly host appear'd,
And angels told to all the earth
Glad tidings of the Saviour's birth.

But his no hermit's dull repose:
His breast with active virtue glows.
He forms the falt'ring infant tongue
To lisp in many a holy song;
He trains the wand'ring step of youth
To tread the path of heav'nly truth;

He loves around the hoary head
Comfort and peace and joy to shed,
To calm with hope the struggling breath,
And dress in smiles the cheek of death.

Chief on that day, which God hath blest
And hallow'd for his solemn rest,
To Sion's courts his steps repair,
To meet his Saviour's blessing there.
There, while his lips their tribute raise
Of pray'r and gratitude and praise,
“With meek and unaffected grace
His looks adorn the holy place;”
Warm from the altar of his heart,
His words a pious glow impart,
And seek, like fragrant fumes, the skies,
That from the golden censer rise.

With temper'd zeal his Master's cause
He pleads; explains, confirms his laws;

Nor fails before the sight to lay
The terrors of the judgment-day:
But more his tongue delights to dwell
On those pure joys, which (Prophets tell)
Nor ear hath heard, nor eye hath seen,
Nor dwell they in the hearts of men;
To fix the hopes on things above,
To warm the heart to deeds of love,
Point the bright path his Saviour trod,
And lift the grateful soul to God.

So on he fares with steadfast pace,
And runs with joy his earthly race.
While Faith forestalls in visions bright
The blessings of the courts of light;
And, gazing with uplifted eye
Where yon bright orbs in order lie,
Sees heav'n unfold, and Jesus stand
In glory upon God's right hand.

Such views immortal Hooker blest;
And him , who drew the Country Priest,
And in his life held forth to view
The portrait, which his pencil drew.
And such in this sequester'd dell,
Where hoary swains thy virtues tell,
Such views were thine, thou rev'rend Sage ,
Who here, to cheer thy pilgrimage,

Didst draw the mystic veils, that lie
O'er the bright form of Prophecy;
Nor yet didst scorn with tender care
To lead thy flock to pastures fair,
Where flow'rs, like those of Eden, blow,
And streams of heav'nly comfort flow.

Oft as I tread the sacred shrine,
Where in calm peace thy bones recline;

And see thy warning words, tho' dead,
Call those thy living precepts led,
To serve the Lord with holy fear,
In peace with men to sojourn here,
Then hope, arising from the dust,
To join th' assembly of the just;
I hear a voice, that speaks to me,
And burn with zeal to follow thee.

God of all goodness, pow'r, and might;
Father and source of life and light;
Thy Holy Spirit, Lord, impart;
Graft love of thee within my heart;
There true religion's fruits increase,
And give me innocence and peace!
So may no earthly cares molest
The holy calm, that stills my breast;
So may I serve thy courts with zeal,
And spread around the bliss I feel;

And when before thy throne I bend
With these, whom I thy servant tend,
May'st thou my willing heart approve,
And bless me with a smile of love.

Author of “Ecclesiastical Polity.” See his Life by Isaac Walton; especially his address to the Abp. of Canterbury, where speaking of his great work, he says; “But, my Lord, I shall never be able to finish what I have begun, unless I be removed into some quiet country parsonage, where I may see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, and eat mine own bread in peace and privacy. A place where I may, without disturbance, meditate my approaching mortality, and that great account, which all flesh must at the last great day give to the God of all spirits.” (p. 75. Oxford Edit.)

George Herbert, Author of “The Country Parson.”

Lowth, the Commentator on the Prophets, was rector of Buriton. His Epitaph, to which there is an allusion below, is inscribed on a plain tablet of black marble on the south side of the Communion table in Buriton Church. My readers will pardon me for inserting it.

“Near the outside of this Wall
Lyeth the body of Mr. William Lowth,
Late Rector of this Church,
Who died May the 17th, 1732.
And being dead, still desires to speak to his beloved Parishioners,
And earnestly to exhort them,
Constantly to attend upon the worship of God,
Frequently to receive the Holy Sacrament,
And diligently to observe the good Instructions given in this place;
To breed up their children in the fear of God,
And to follow peace with all men,
And Holiness,
Without which no man shall see the Lord.
God give us all an happy Meeting
At the Resurrection of the Just!”

The original idea of this poem was suggested by the conclusion of Virgil's second Georgic. The resemblance may be traced both in the general plan, and in some particular sentiments and expressions.

SUNDAY MORNING.

“For by th' Almighty this great holy-day
Was not ordain'd to daunce, and mask and play,
To slugg in sloath, and languish in delights,
And loose the rains to raging appetites.”
Sylvester's Du Bartas.

Welcome, thou peaceful dawn!
O'er field and wooded lawn
The wonted sound of busy toil is laid.
And hark, the village-bell!
Whose simple tinklings swell,
Sweet as soft music, on the straw-roof'd shed;
And bid the pious Cottager prepare,
To keep th' appointed rest, and seek the house of Pray'r.

How goodly 'tis to see
The rustic family
Duely along the church-way path repair:
The mother trim and plain,
Leading her ruddy train,
The father pacing slow with modest air.
With honest heart in humble guise they come,
To serve Almighty God, and bear his blessing home.

At home they gayly share
Their sweet and simple fare,
And thank the Giver of the festal board;
Around the blazing hearth
They sit in harmless mirth,
Or turn with awe the volume of the Lord:
Then full of heav'nly joy retiring pay
Their sacrifice of pray'r to him who blest the day.

O Sabbath bell, thy voice
Makes hearts like these rejoice;
Not so the child of vanity and pow'r:
He the blest pavement treads,
Perchance as custom bids,
Perchance to gaze away a listless hour;
Then crowns the bowl, or scours along the road,
Nor hides his shame from men, nor heeds the eye of God.

When the sev'nth morning's gleam
Purpled the lonely stream,
On its green bank of old the Christian bow'd;
The hand adoring spread;
And broke the mystic bread;
And, leagu'd in bonds of holy concord, vow'd,
From the cleans'd heart to wash each foul offence,
And give his days to peace and saintly innocence.

In vain the Roman Lord
Wav'd the relentless sword,
And spread the terrors of the circling flame;
In vain the Heathen sought,
If chance some lurking spot
Might mar the lustre of the Christian name:
Th' Eternal Spirit, by his fruits confest,
In life secur'd from stain, and steel'd in death the breast.

O, would his influence bless
With faith and holiness
The laggart people of our favour'd isle!
But if too deep and wide
Have spread corruption's tide,
O, might he deign on me and mine to smile!
So shall we ne'er with due devotion fail
The consecrated day of solemn rest to hail:

So shall we still resort
To Sion's hallow'd court,
And lift the heart to him who dwells above;
Thence home returning muse
On sweet and solemn views,
Or fill the void with acts of holy love;
Then lay us down in peace to think we've given
Another precious day to fit our souls for heaven!

PRAYER.

“How much more, if we pray him, will his ear
Be open, and his heart to pity incline!”
Par. Lost, X. 1060.

Ere the morning's busy ray
Call you to your work away;
Ere the silent evening close
Your wearied eyes in sweet repose;
To lift your heart and voice in pray'r,
Be your first and latest care.

He, to whom the pray'r is due,
From heav'n his throne shall smile on you;

Angels, sent by him, shall tend,
Your daily labours to befriend;
And their nightly vigils keep,
To guard you in the hour of sleep.

When thro' the peaceful parish swells
The music of the sabbath bells,
Duely tread the sacred road
Which leads you to the house of God:
The blessing of the Lamb is there,
And “God is in the midst of her.”

Is the holy Altar spread?
True to him, for you who bled,
Cleanse from your heart each foul offence,
And “wash your hands in innocence,”
And draw near the mystic board,
In remembrance of your Lord.

On th' appointed sacrifice
He shall look with fav'ring eyes,
With holy strength your breast inform,
And with holy rapture warm,
And whisper to your wounded soul,
“I will heal thee, be thou whole.”

And O! where'er your days be past,
And O! howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on him, whose eye surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways.

Does darkness veil your deeds in night?
Darkness to him is clear as light.
In secret he your deeds can see,
And shall reward them openly.

About your path are comforts spread?
Does peace repose upon your bed?

Lift up your soul in praise to heaven,
Whence every precious gift is given;
And, thankful for the mercy, show
Love to your fellow men below.

Do woes afflict? Lift up your soul
To him, who bids the thunder roll;
And fearless brave the stormy hour,
Secure in his protecting pow'r,
Who sends distress your faith to try,
And your heart to purify.

Abroad, at home; in weal, in woe;
That service, which to heav'n you owe,
That bounden service duely pay,
And God shall be your strength alway.

He only to the heart can give
Peace and true pleasure, while you live;

He only, when you yield your breath,
Can guide you thro' the vale of death:
He can, he will, from out the dust
Raise the blest spirits of the just;
Heal every wound; hush every fear;
From every eye wipe every tear;
And place them, where distress is o'er,
And pleasures dwell for evermore.

A WINTER SCENE.

WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

'Tis sad to gaze, when winter shrouds
The sun's reluctant ray,
And veils in deep embattled clouds
The glories of the day;
When sighing to the gale, the wood
His wither'd honours yields;
And dark is now the mountain flood,
With storms deform'd, and foul with mud;
And dimm'd the pleasant fields.

For who, that has an eye, to view,
And who that has a breast,

To feel the charms, that round him glow
In summer splendour drest,
O'er all the scene a glance can dart,
And see without a sigh,
Not all the scene can now impart
A charm, to glad his drooping heart,
And fix his roving eye?

O, then 'tis sweet to think, the hour
Of gloom shall pass away;
And dark December's stormy pow'r
Soon yield to gentle May;
That soon the sun his laughing beam
From azure skies shall shed,
Soon on the tufted forest gleam,
And touch with gold the lucid stream,
And robe the verdant mead.

E'en so it is with them, who trace
The monuments of death,
And mourn for man's devoted race;
Till to the eye of faith,
The winter of the grave to cheer,
Look forth the smiling spring;
And leading heav'n's eternal year
The Sun of Righteousness appear
With healing in his wing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Shakspere, Spenser, Gray, Milton.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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:—

'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:—

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.

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.

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.

Clematis Vitalba, Traveller's joy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Farewell! but O! when far away
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.

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.

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.

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:—

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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:

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 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.

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.

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.”

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?

'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.

'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.

'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.

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.

TO THE SAME.

Ah! why, my Betsey, does the sigh
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;)

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?

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;

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.

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.

But tho' prepar'd, whate'er it be,
To bless the righteous doom,
My cheerful fancy speaks to me
Of blissful days to come.

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;

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.

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;

For, O my Betsey, why alarm
With fears thy boding breast?—
'Tis wise, against the worst to arm,
But still to hope the best.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

Sleep, beloved! footstep rude
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:

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!

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.

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

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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.

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.

O tow'rs of Venta, and thou gentle stream
Itchin, ye bending vales, and breezy downs,

101

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.

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

102

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.

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

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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.

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

104

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.

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,

105

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.

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

106

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!

But the high
And secret counsels of th' Eternal Name
Who may presume to scan?

Enough for me,
That thus with pious zeal I pour the verse

107

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.

See Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, ver. 10343.

“This noble king, this Tartre Cambuscan.”

Oriel College, founded by King Edward II.

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.

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?

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.

Thou gav'st me being; sweeter far than this,
Thou gav'st me that, which makes my being bliss.

109

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.

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.

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.

110

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.

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.

The icy flood when dark December binds,
Or March unchains his equinoctial winds,

111

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.

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.

112

Meantime with nobler aims and wider views
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.

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;

113

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.

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;

114

Pure as thy own, my blameless verse shall flow,
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.

115

III. PART III.

“Gens Druides antiqua, sacris operata Deorum,
Heroum laudes imitandaque gesta canebant.”
Milt. Mansus, ver. 42. When foes o'erhung Britannia's isle of yore,
His harp high-sounding, on the rocky shore,
Priest of the Gods, the hoary Druid strung,
And loud the praise of freedom's warriors sung.
O could I pour with rival force along
The rapid torrent of the patriot song!
So might my numbers aid the righteous cause,
For which her sword my injur'd country draws,
More wide the zeal of Albion's champions spread,
Inspire them living, and embalm them dead.

117

WAR-SONG,

WRITTEN IN MAY 1803, ON THE PUBLICATION OF THE NEGOTIATION PAPERS .

“What? shall they seek the lion in his den,
And fright him there, and make him tremble there?
O, let it not be said. ------
------ Nought can make us rue,
If England to herself shall rest but true.”
Shakspere, King John.

“Bow, Britons, bow the haughty head;
“Bend, Britons, bend the stubborn knee;
“Own your ancient virtue fled,
“And know not that ye once were free.

118

“Think not, as your fathers thought;
“Speak no more, as Britons ought;
“Act no more the Briton's part
“With valiant hand and honest heart;
“What indignation bids you feel,
“Dare not, dare not to reveal,
“Tho' Justice sharpen, dare not grasp the lance,
“Nor single-handed tempt the might of France.

“Me Holland, Italy obey:
“Her breast with many a war-wound gor'd,

119

“And crush'd beneath my iron sway,
“Me Helvetia owns her Lord.
“Boast not then your fleets, that sweep
“The eastern and the western deep;
“Boast not then your sea-wash'd land
“Rampart-girt by Nature's hand;
“Fleets and billows stay not me—
“Then bow the head, and bend the knee,
“Britons, no more your rival ranks advance,
“Nor single-handed dare to cope with France.”

Yes! as our Albion's root-bound oak
Stoops to the tempest, we will bow.
Yes! we will bend, as the tall rock,
Mocking the wave that chafes below.
Now by the sable prince imbrued
Once and again in Gallic blood;

120

By the laurels, that intwine,
Harry, thy helm; and, Marlb'rough, thine;
By our chiefs on Nilus' tide,
Him, who triumph'd; him, who died;
By him, whom Acon's turrets raise
To lion-hearted Richard's praise;
Yes! we will still our rival ranks advance,
And single-handed brave the might of France.

Come then; come, thou Consul-King,
Launch thy navies, arm thine host;
And beneath night's fav'ring wing,
Thy banners plant on England's coast.
Come! but hope not to return;
Here other thoughts thou soon shalt learn;
Shalt feel, that Britons still may claim
The honours of the British name;

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Can fearless still maintain their stand
On British as on Syrian land;
Still rise superior to the sons of Chance,
Still single-handed crush the pride of France.

“Another indignity was offered to this country in the communication of the First Consul of France to the Legislative body. In this communication he presumes to affirm, in the character of chief Magistrate of that country, That Great Britain can not singly contend against the power of France: an assertion as unfounded as it is indecent, disproved by the events of many wars, and by none more than by those of the war which has recently been concluded. Such an assertion, advanced in the most solemn official act of a government, and thereby meant to be avowed to all the powers of Europe, can be considered in no other light than as a defiance publicly offered to his Majesty, and to a brave and powerful people, who are both willing and able to defend his just rights, and those of their country, against every insult and aggression.” His Majesty's Declaration, 1803.

122

THE FATE OF SWITZERLAND.

“------ Firm they might have stood,
Yet fell:—remember ------.”
Milton, Par. Lost, VI.

Flush'd with Hesperia's golden prey,
When Gallia northward bent her way,
Eager to stretch her desolating brand
O'er the rich vales of happy Switzerland;
From beneath the piny steep,
Where he lay in slumber deep,
Lull'd by the water's tuneful fall,
And the goatherd's madrigal,

123

Sudden Helvetia's guardian Genius sprang:
High on Adula's rock he fix'd his stand,
And clash'd his shield, and wav'd his banner'd hand,
And thus his war-song sang.

“Rise, my warriors! see, advance
“The legions of perfidious France!
“Onward she bids the gathering tempest roll,
“Peace on her brow, but rancour in her soul.
“She envies us the pastur'd mead,
“The rock with mantling vineyards spread,
“The beechen grove, the vale, the hill,
“Fresh with many a vernal rill,
“With many a simple spire and cottage grac'd;
“Fain would she scatter with her venom'd breath
“Over this pleasant land the seeds of death,
“And blast our Eden's bloom, and leave a hideous waste.

124

“And shall she?—no, my warriors, no!
“Though the proud insulting foe
“Full wide her conquering banners have unfurl'd
“O'er half the nations of the prostrate world;
“Hath she yet storm'd the mountain-rock,
“And stemm'd the mountain-torrent's shock,
“And scal'd the beetling precipice,
“Barrier'd with eternal ice?
“Warriors, hath she yet essay'd
“The fury of the freeman's blade,
“Of souls resolv'd to conquer or to die?—
“Then, Switzers, rise! each his stout breastplate gird,
“And each unsheath his blood-incrusted sword,
“And rear his nervous arm, and strike for liberty!”

He spake: obedient to the sound
Helvetia's warriors throng'd around.

125

Rous'd by the cry of long-forgotten war,
From the swift Limmat, and majestic Ar;
From where to the morning shine
The torrents of the infant Rhine;
And wintry Rhone's tumultuous tide
Cleaves the Forked-mountain's side;
Hasli, from thy lovely dell;
From thy green hills, O Appenzell;
From the forest-crowned mere ,
Where the hardy mountaineer
Chaunts the high feats of his compatriot Tell;

They hear the spirit-stirring call:
They burn to meet th' invading Gaul:

126

“Give us the foe,” they shout amain.
“'Tis well:” the guardian Genius cries again:
“Such the port in days of yore,
“Warriors, your forefathers bore;
“Thus 'gainst many a giant foe
“They whirl'd the ax, and bent the bow.
“Then the bull and sable bear
“Together swept the ranks of war,
“And Union led the way to victory:
“This quench'd the fury of the Austrian sword;
“This crush'd the might of bold Burgundia's Lord;
“This chas'd proud Gallia's kings; this made our country free.

“Switzers, in virtue as in name,
“Emulate your fathers' fame;

127

“Hark to your common country's sacred call,
“And on your common foe united fall.
“So may the songs of future days
“You to your fathers' glory raise!
“Again may conquest crown your ranks
“On rapid Birsa's

Note referred to, in the body of the poem.

The hospital of St. James, near Basle, not far from the confluence of the Birse with the Rhine, is celebrated for the stand made by the Swiss in 1444 against the Dauphin of France, afterwards Louis XI. Naefels and Morgarten, respectively in the cantons of Glarus and Schwitz, are no less famous as scenes of the Austrian defeats in 1388 and 1315. At Granson, towards the lower extremity of the lake of Neuchâtel, and at Morat, on the lake of Morat, were fought two battles, which effectually quelled the invasion of Switzerland by Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, in 1476. Near the latter place was erected

129

a chapel or charnel-house, said to contain the bones of the Burgundians, who fell in that decisive engagement.

This building contained several inscriptions, commemorative of the event which occasioned its erection. Amongst these was one in German verse by Haller, the sentiment of which is the ground-work of the above poem. I add it here in a version of tolerable exactness, though somewhat dilated from the original, and therefore less forcible.

Helvetian, pause and view this monument!
It speaks the fate of those redoubted troops,
Who on the pride of Liege had trod, and shook
The throne of Gallia's kings. Helvetian, know,
Not by their numbers or their well-wrought arms
Our fathers conquer'd. Nature gave them force,
And Union made that force invincible.
Helvetians! Brothers! feel your proper strength,
And be united! As your rocks ye stand
Unmoveable, if but that holy flame,
Which warm'd your fathers' bosoms, glow in yours.

It was near this chapel that General d'Erlach, commander of the Swiss troops, was posted in 1798, when the French General Brune sent to summon him to surrender. “My ancestors,” he replied, “never surrendered. Could I be base enough to think of it, yonder monument would recall me to my duty.” Brune, on becoming master of the spot, ordered the building to be destroyed, and not one stone of it now stands upon another.

holy banks,
“By Naefel's rocks, and green Morgarten's plain;
“Granson again, and viny Morat see
“Their waves, bloodstain'd with Gallic chivalry,
”And Freedom still unmov'd her Alpine throne maintain.

“But if fell discord revel here,
“Hence! bow the standard, break the spear!
“Discord, more fatal than the foe, shall strew
“Your strength, and burst your rocky barriers through,

128

“Till thou, poor country, bleeding lie
“O'erwhelm'd by scornful tyranny.
“Then, tho' thy patriot chiefs advance,
“Thy warriors seize the patriot lance,
“Again my war-song sound, my banner wave;
“In vain thy echoing rocks shall spread the strain,
“Thy chieftains call, thy warriors arm in vain;
“Gallia must triumph still, and thou be still a slave!”

Mount St. Gothard.

Mount Furca.

The lake of the four cantons; or, agreeably to the name in the language of the country, of the four forest-towns. William Tell, whose romantic history is given in Coxe's accurate account of Switzerland, was a native of Burglen, a small village not far from Altorf, in the canton of Uri. Uri is one of the four cantons that inclose the lake.

The banners of the cantons of Uri and Berne: meant to denote the Union between the small and great nations.

See note at the end of the poem.

130

DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON.

Αλλ' ουτος μεν δν, ω γυναι, εχει το καλλιστον τελος: νικων γαρ
τετελευτηκε: συ δε λαβουσα τοισδε επικοσμει αυτον τοις παρ' εμου.
Xenoph. Cyrop. VII. 3.

“Come, come; no time for lamentation now
Nor much more cause: Samson hath quit himself
Like Samson, and heroickly hath finish'd
A life heroick: to his enemies
—hath left years of mourning
And lamentation;—to Israel
Honour hath left and freedom;—
To himself and father's house eternal fame;
And what is best and happiest yet, all this
With God not parted from him,—
But favouring and assisting to the end.”
Sams. Agonist. ver. 1703.

With seemliest dirge to soothe thine ear,
If yet thy spirit hover near,
No melancholy verse,

131

O Nelson, shall the generous Muse
No trophies of sad import chuse,
To hang thy laureate herse!

I mourn thee not: tho' short thy day,
Circled by glory's brightest ray,
Thy giant course was run;
And Victory her sweetest smile
Reserv'd, to bless thy evening toil,
And gild thy setting sun.

If mighty nations' hosts subdued;
If mid the wasteful scene of blood
Fair deeds of mercy wrought;
If thy fond country's joint acclame;
If Europe's blessing on thy name
Be bliss, I mourn thee not.

132

That name from Indian Cuba sounds
To grateful Naples' oliv'd mounds,
And Ten'riffe's mountain-isle;
That name the thund'ring Baltic roars,
And Freedom hails on Egypt's shores
The Hero of the Nile.

Oft as Britannia's navies ride,
Where from old Ocean's straiten'd tide
Thy cliffs, Gibraltar, swell;
That name shall fill th' impassion'd thought,
And fond remembrance point the spot,
Where Nelson conquering fell.

His deeds shall veteran Valour speak,
And beardless youth with kindling cheek
Burn at the wondrous tale;

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The theme shall Piety pursue,
And as she bids the sea-worn crew
His nobler virtues hail,

Shew how, in conquest's dazzling hour,
He bow'd before that unseen pow'r
By whom the fight is won;
Serenely how he smil'd on death,
And pray'd with calm expiring breath,
“O God, thy will be done!”

THE END.