The peripatetic or, Sketches of the heart, of nature and society; In a series of politico-sentimental journals, in verse and prose, of the eccentric excursions of Sylvanus Theophrastus; Supposed to be written by himself [by John Thelwall] |
 | [I]. |
 | II. | VOL. II. |
| III. |
 | The peripatetic |  |
II. VOL. II.
9
[Eternal curses wait his Crime,—]
Eternal curses wait his Crime,—The monster whose atrocious hand
(When Freedom's patriot soul sublime
Would vindicate an injur'd land)
First lifts, with thirst of slaughter fir'd,
The Assassin's steel, and headlong leads
The frantic crowd to desperate deeds!—
The frantic crowd, by rage inspir'd,
Who when the indignant spirit flames
With Freedom's or Religious zeal,
10
And rush on deeds which Heaven disclaims,
And shuddering Virtue scorns to own:
Deeds that almost in horror vie
With those that prop the Despot's throne,
Or Priestcraft's sable vesture die:—
Deeds that the noblest Cause profane,
And sully Freedom's holy train!
34
[“Come, black Despair! pervade my gloomy mind!]
“Come, black Despair! pervade my gloomy mind!To thee, to thee, I yield my tortur'd soul.
Vain phantom, Hope! I give thee to the wind:—
Come, Stygian fiend! whom endless fears controul.
As broods the mangled serpent o'er his wound,—
As lurks, in ivy'd nook, the caitiff owl,
Nor dares, while beams the sun's broad glare around,
Wake the scar'd echoes with her murd'rous howl.
So, sullen fiend! to this dark cavern flies
The man of crimes—by hopeless pangs opprest.—
Fiend! thou art here.—How ghastly glare thy eyes!
While thy chill touch congeals my shuddering breast.
Come, endless Night! thy thickest mantle spread!
Ye kindred horrors! shriek around my head!”
38
[Victorious weapon in the fields of Fame!]
Victorious weapon in the fields of Fame!
To which the Briton's sinewy arm applied
Sped the long shaft, with never-failing aim,
And the white wing in hostile crimson dyed!
To which the Briton's sinewy arm applied
Sped the long shaft, with never-failing aim,
And the white wing in hostile crimson dyed!
39
How oft (when martial glory urg'd the soul)
Our Richards, Henrys, Edwards prov'd thy force:
Whose race, resistless, to Ambition's goal
Outwing'd thy glowing arrow's fatal course.
Our Richards, Henrys, Edwards prov'd thy force:
Whose race, resistless, to Ambition's goal
Outwing'd thy glowing arrow's fatal course.
E'en now, as distant scenes, and visions old,
The magic powers of Fancy, pleas'd, renew,
Rank urg'd on rank, victorious, I behold
The gallant bands their scatter'd foes pursue.
The magic powers of Fancy, pleas'd, renew,
Rank urg'd on rank, victorious, I behold
The gallant bands their scatter'd foes pursue.
Here bold Croisaders, urg'd by holy zeal,
Spread swift destruction thro' the impious band:
The strings resound; and gasping myriads feel
The distant vigour of the archer's hand.
Spread swift destruction thro' the impious band:
The strings resound; and gasping myriads feel
The distant vigour of the archer's hand.
See Cour De Lion o'er the slaught'ring field,
Like Mars himself, directs the shafts of fate:
Whole nations shout: the gall'd battalions yield,
And hovering Ruin threats the Pagan state.
Like Mars himself, directs the shafts of fate:
Whole nations shout: the gall'd battalions yield,
And hovering Ruin threats the Pagan state.
Full in the van of Conquest's bold career
Britannia thunders, and her sons pursue:
All Europe throngs tumultuous in their rear,
To share their triumphs, and their labours view.
Britannia thunders, and her sons pursue:
All Europe throngs tumultuous in their rear,
To share their triumphs, and their labours view.
'Twas thus our bowmen, in the days of yore,
In Glory's fatal strife unequal'd stood:
O'er Asia's fields their conquering banners bore,
While the pale Crescent sunk in seas of blood.
In Glory's fatal strife unequal'd stood:
O'er Asia's fields their conquering banners bore,
While the pale Crescent sunk in seas of blood.
But where, my Muse, on mad Ambition's wing,
Where speeds thy flight? to what disastrous clime?
The flattering incense of thy praise to fling
On War's sell altar, stain'd with every crime!
Where speeds thy flight? to what disastrous clime?
The flattering incense of thy praise to fling
On War's sell altar, stain'd with every crime!
40
What is this Glory, nursed in deeds of death?
The scourge, at once, and idol of the world!
Who breathes—and plagues and famine wait her breath:
Who speaks—and round are blasting thunders hurl'd.
The scourge, at once, and idol of the world!
Who breathes—and plagues and famine wait her breath:
Who speaks—and round are blasting thunders hurl'd.
Ah! would to heaven that Wisdom's awful voice
Might 'midst the clamours of her train be heard!
That Reason's dictates might direct our choice,
And Truth and Virtue be alone rever'd!
Might 'midst the clamours of her train be heard!
That Reason's dictates might direct our choice,
And Truth and Virtue be alone rever'd!
How might the Toil—the Genius oft employ'd
To savage realms and thin the human race,
Have made whole desarts smile in useful pride,
And deck'd ev'n barren rocks with Culture's grace!
To savage realms and thin the human race,
Have made whole desarts smile in useful pride,
And deck'd ev'n barren rocks with Culture's grace!
How might that wealth which War's inhuman trade
Has oft abus'd, to aggravate Distress,
Have chac'd the gloom from Misery's friendless shade,
And taught Despair the liberal hand to bless.
Has oft abus'd, to aggravate Distress,
Have chac'd the gloom from Misery's friendless shade,
And taught Despair the liberal hand to bless.
Yes Glory, yes—had it thy triumph been
To heal—not wound, to cherish—not destroy:
Thro' many a wasted realm how chang'd a scene
Had met the sage's meditative eye!
To heal—not wound, to cherish—not destroy:
Thro' many a wasted realm how chang'd a scene
Had met the sage's meditative eye!
Then had we seen, instead of burning towns,
Of fields laid waste, of horrid piles of slain,
And all that History shudders while she owns,
Fair smiling Peace, and Plenty's sylvan reign.
Of fields laid waste, of horrid piles of slain,
And all that History shudders while she owns,
Fair smiling Peace, and Plenty's sylvan reign.
Then, as thy chariot roll'd sublime along,
No Orphan's curses, nor no Widow's tears
Should mix, discordant, with the shouting throng,
And pour their anguish in thy wounded ears.
No Orphan's curses, nor no Widow's tears
Should mix, discordant, with the shouting throng,
And pour their anguish in thy wounded ears.
41
Instead of these, to strew thy peaceful way
With flowers, and fruits, and leaves of holy palm,
The village youth before thy steeds should play,
And Love and Music breathe the mingled charm?
With flowers, and fruits, and leaves of holy palm,
The village youth before thy steeds should play,
And Love and Music breathe the mingled charm?
There, too, should Commerce pour her busy train
To hail thee passing;—and each artist band,
And all who pant the laurel wreath to gain
Of liberal Science, laud thy high command.
To hail thee passing;—and each artist band,
And all who pant the laurel wreath to gain
Of liberal Science, laud thy high command.
But chief the Muse, sweet soother of my care!
Her grateful voice should lift with fond acclaim;
With honest pride thy splendid triumphs share,
And swell the chorus of thy guiltless fame?
Her grateful voice should lift with fond acclaim;
With honest pride thy splendid triumphs share,
And swell the chorus of thy guiltless fame?
51
[Enchanting maid! whose voice and air]
Enchanting maid! whose voice and airAlike the attentive soul ensnare,
And, with commutual charm, supply
The perfect types of harmony!
In whom enamour'd Fate bestows
What eastern poets fabled long,
The nightingale and blushing rose
(Love's fragrant bloom, and magic song!)
In bonds of sweet affection join'd;
While beaming from the radiant eye
Speaks forth the feeling, polish'd mind
That wakes the finer extacy,
And shews, with Wisdom's laurel wove,
Each bloom of Taste, Refinement, Love!
56
PHILAUTIACCHA;
OR THE VOLUPTUARY: A RHAPSODY.
How lost to every sense of joy
The wretch who courts the lonely sigh!
Who flies from Pleasure's cheerful dome
To rocks and shades of pensive gloom,
And musing through the mould'ring pile—
The castle's wreck, or Gothic isle—
Converses, with mysterious dread,
With troops of “visionary dead,”
And counts, in his bewilder'd mind,
The various woes of humankind!
Who, dreaming fool! condemn'd to bear
A portion of each wretch's care,
Will pine for every stranger's woe,
And weep when others' sorrows flow;
If anguish rend a neighbour's soul,
Will dash with gall his sprightly bowl,
And sniv'ling to his closet fly
If Envy nip a brother's joy!
Oh! may I never, never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
But ever shall my vows be paid
To thee, thou blest indifferent maid!
The wretch who courts the lonely sigh!
Who flies from Pleasure's cheerful dome
To rocks and shades of pensive gloom,
And musing through the mould'ring pile—
The castle's wreck, or Gothic isle—
Converses, with mysterious dread,
With troops of “visionary dead,”
And counts, in his bewilder'd mind,
The various woes of humankind!
Who, dreaming fool! condemn'd to bear
A portion of each wretch's care,
Will pine for every stranger's woe,
And weep when others' sorrows flow;
If anguish rend a neighbour's soul,
Will dash with gall his sprightly bowl,
And sniv'ling to his closet fly
If Envy nip a brother's joy!
Oh! may I never, never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
But ever shall my vows be paid
To thee, thou blest indifferent maid!
57
Who view'st alike, with careless eyes,
Another's sorrows, or his joys;
Intent to seize, with eager hand,
Whatever bliss thy stars command:—
Bliss which, to be admitted true,
The touch must feel, the sense must view;
And which, like vital breath, 'tis known
To be enjoy'd must be our own.
Another's sorrows, or his joys;
Intent to seize, with eager hand,
Whatever bliss thy stars command:—
Bliss which, to be admitted true,
The touch must feel, the sense must view;
And which, like vital breath, 'tis known
To be enjoy'd must be our own.
Thee, damsel, wanton, sleek, and gay!
Blithe Bacchus got one festive day,
When, reeling, he the vineyard sought,
And 'neath the mantling tendrils thought,
Defended from the sultry ray,
To doze the tippling fumes away.
There it was his chance to see
The sordid dame Misanthropy:
A louring, selfish, sullen wight,
Who scowling flies from human sight,
Nor ever heav'd the social sigh,
Nor knew participated joy.
Her he seiz'd, in dalliance rude,
And to his will by force subdued;
And hence from her unwilling womb
Didst thou, blithe motley damsel, come—
Who know'st around thy brow to twine
With clusters of thy father's vine
The myrtle spray of Paphos grove
And rosy wreath he wont to love,
Till all thy mother's sullen hue,
And sordid front retire from view,
And thronging votaries hail thy fame,
Adorn'd with Pleasure's hallow'd name:
But they, the pow'rs who rule on high,
And, stooping from their ambient sky,
Read at will the secret heart,
And view thy mother's sager part.
Combining in thy motley frame
With all thy father's wanton flame,—
As sportive, sensual, loose as he,
And selfish, to the full, as she!—
To paint in one descriptive name
Each adverse parent's partial claim,
In sage debate awhile confer,
And call thee Philautiaccha!
Blithe Bacchus got one festive day,
When, reeling, he the vineyard sought,
And 'neath the mantling tendrils thought,
Defended from the sultry ray,
To doze the tippling fumes away.
There it was his chance to see
The sordid dame Misanthropy:
A louring, selfish, sullen wight,
Who scowling flies from human sight,
Nor ever heav'd the social sigh,
Nor knew participated joy.
Her he seiz'd, in dalliance rude,
And to his will by force subdued;
And hence from her unwilling womb
Didst thou, blithe motley damsel, come—
Who know'st around thy brow to twine
With clusters of thy father's vine
The myrtle spray of Paphos grove
And rosy wreath he wont to love,
Till all thy mother's sullen hue,
And sordid front retire from view,
And thronging votaries hail thy fame,
Adorn'd with Pleasure's hallow'd name:
But they, the pow'rs who rule on high,
And, stooping from their ambient sky,
58
And view thy mother's sager part.
Combining in thy motley frame
With all thy father's wanton flame,—
As sportive, sensual, loose as he,
And selfish, to the full, as she!—
To paint in one descriptive name
Each adverse parent's partial claim,
In sage debate awhile confer,
And call thee Philautiaccha!
Come, sportive, wanton, brisk, along,
With flowing bowl and antic song,
And banquets gay, and feasting high,
And laughter loud, and thoughtless joy.
Come, revel high without controul!—
Why should reflection damp the soul?—
While, unrestrained, I riot free
In all the pomp of luxury,
What is't to me that at the door
A thousand wretches, starv'd and poor,
With dismal moan, and plaintive cry,
And shivering limbs, all naked lie?
Wherefore should I unhappy be
That others are in misery?
Do Monarchs, or their tools of state,
Their wild ambition e'er abate,
Or quit one barren tract of land,
Whose subjugation Pride had plann'd,
Because the ruthless edge of war,
To spread their mighty names afar,
Must mow in heaps the base-born crowd,
And leave the peasant's low abode,
While Desolation stalks around,
A prostrate ruin on the ground—
While widows, orphans, houseless rove
With piteous plaint the heart to move,
The palsied hand of Want to spread
To passing crowds, in vain, for bread?
Will they the haughty scheme forego
For fear the general groan of woe
Resounding thro' the subject land
Should learn to curse the scepter'd hand?
No: keep but sheath'd the rebel sword,
The wanton night, the wasteful board,
Unawed by Conscience, they enjoy,
And give new mandates to destroy;
And shall not, patron of my song!
Their great example sway the throng
Who to thy hallow'd fane resort
With festive Joy and reeling Sport?
With flowing bowl and antic song,
And banquets gay, and feasting high,
And laughter loud, and thoughtless joy.
Come, revel high without controul!—
Why should reflection damp the soul?—
While, unrestrained, I riot free
In all the pomp of luxury,
What is't to me that at the door
A thousand wretches, starv'd and poor,
With dismal moan, and plaintive cry,
And shivering limbs, all naked lie?
Wherefore should I unhappy be
That others are in misery?
Do Monarchs, or their tools of state,
Their wild ambition e'er abate,
Or quit one barren tract of land,
Whose subjugation Pride had plann'd,
Because the ruthless edge of war,
To spread their mighty names afar,
Must mow in heaps the base-born crowd,
And leave the peasant's low abode,
59
A prostrate ruin on the ground—
While widows, orphans, houseless rove
With piteous plaint the heart to move,
The palsied hand of Want to spread
To passing crowds, in vain, for bread?
Will they the haughty scheme forego
For fear the general groan of woe
Resounding thro' the subject land
Should learn to curse the scepter'd hand?
No: keep but sheath'd the rebel sword,
The wanton night, the wasteful board,
Unawed by Conscience, they enjoy,
And give new mandates to destroy;
And shall not, patron of my song!
Their great example sway the throng
Who to thy hallow'd fane resort
With festive Joy and reeling Sport?
Here, higher fill the sprightly bowl,
Shall I the plenteous draught controul,
Or stint the measure of my bliss,
(Ye feeling sniv'lers, tell me this!)
That others may the bliss enjoy
My more propitious stars supply?
No: may I never never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accursed with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
Shall I the plenteous draught controul,
Or stint the measure of my bliss,
(Ye feeling sniv'lers, tell me this!)
That others may the bliss enjoy
My more propitious stars supply?
No: may I never never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accursed with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
When now the noisy banquet tires,
Let Beauty kindle fierce desires.
Then, while tumultuous joy alarms,
I'll languish in some fair one's arms.
—Oh! give me, with assiduous art,
To triumph o'er the female heart!
Lo, Chloe's eye provokes my flame;
My heart does Fanny's beauty claim;
The rose that tinges Sylvia's cheek,
Fair Flavia's ivory polish'd neck,
Bright Celia's graceful panting breast,
With charming shape gay Phebe blest,
All, all alike, my bosom fire,
All, all enkindle fierce desire;
And all—might I my wish obtain!—
Shall ease my heart's delightful pain.
Or if by my desires I'm led
Some lovely loathing fair to wed,
With golden views I'll win her sire
To yield her up to my desire;
I'll riot in the unwilling joy,
And force the bliss she would deny;
While some fond favour'd youth shall tear
With frenzy his dishevelled hair;
Or, in the desperate rage of woe,
Dismiss his soul to shades below.
What is't to me if she should pine,
Her silly heart to grief resign,
Waste the long day in sullen sighs,
And meet my wish with streaming eyes?
The mellow touch of feeble woe
A softer languor may bestow;
And I alike by turns can hail
The flaunting rose, or lily pale!
Then let her pine—with grief expire—
So I obtain my heart's desire.
I am no dull, no constant fool:
She'll live at least till I grow cool.
Let Beauty kindle fierce desires.
Then, while tumultuous joy alarms,
I'll languish in some fair one's arms.
60
To triumph o'er the female heart!
Lo, Chloe's eye provokes my flame;
My heart does Fanny's beauty claim;
The rose that tinges Sylvia's cheek,
Fair Flavia's ivory polish'd neck,
Bright Celia's graceful panting breast,
With charming shape gay Phebe blest,
All, all alike, my bosom fire,
All, all enkindle fierce desire;
And all—might I my wish obtain!—
Shall ease my heart's delightful pain.
Or if by my desires I'm led
Some lovely loathing fair to wed,
With golden views I'll win her sire
To yield her up to my desire;
I'll riot in the unwilling joy,
And force the bliss she would deny;
While some fond favour'd youth shall tear
With frenzy his dishevelled hair;
Or, in the desperate rage of woe,
Dismiss his soul to shades below.
What is't to me if she should pine,
Her silly heart to grief resign,
Waste the long day in sullen sighs,
And meet my wish with streaming eyes?
The mellow touch of feeble woe
A softer languor may bestow;
And I alike by turns can hail
The flaunting rose, or lily pale!
Then let her pine—with grief expire—
So I obtain my heart's desire.
I am no dull, no constant fool:
She'll live at least till I grow cool.
61
When glutted grows the amorous fire
(For beauty's brightest charms will tire)
I'll leave my couch at early dawn,
And follow blithe the echoing horn.
See, see the steeds impatient stand,
And paw, with restless hoof, the land:
They snort, curvet, and loudly neigh,
Impatient of the dull delay.
We mount. Uncoupled are the hounds.
See, they trace the bushy grounds.
They snuff the gale. They start the hare:
And mingled clamours rend the air.
The deep-mouth'd hounds, with eager cry,
Pursue the scent, and yelping fly.
We shouting follow in the rear,
Devoid of ev'ry coward fear;
The hedge we jump, the gate we leap,
And over ditch and streamlet skip.—
Behold, behold, our comrade falls,
And loud for our assistance calls;
Aloud with anguish he complains
Of broken limbs, and raging pains.
Yo hoy, my boys! the game pursue;
Behold, behold the hare in view!
Shall we the glorious sport forego
To weep at our companion's woe?
Tantwivy, boys! pursue, pursue,
Behold, the game is full in view.
See, she takes the foaming tide;
Pursu'd, she gains the distant side.
Our steeds refuse the curbing rein,
And in the torrent plunge amain.
Now closely cling, the saddle keep,
Or else ye sound the troubled deep.
And see, the bold adventrous fair
Who would our manly pastimes share;—
She falls! she falls! aloud she cries,
The splashing waves around her rise.
Tantwivy, boys! the hare's in view,
The well-breath'd beagles close pursue.
Ya hoa! my lads! away, away.—
The eager sport forbids delay.—
(For beauty's brightest charms will tire)
I'll leave my couch at early dawn,
And follow blithe the echoing horn.
See, see the steeds impatient stand,
And paw, with restless hoof, the land:
They snort, curvet, and loudly neigh,
Impatient of the dull delay.
We mount. Uncoupled are the hounds.
See, they trace the bushy grounds.
They snuff the gale. They start the hare:
And mingled clamours rend the air.
The deep-mouth'd hounds, with eager cry,
Pursue the scent, and yelping fly.
We shouting follow in the rear,
Devoid of ev'ry coward fear;
The hedge we jump, the gate we leap,
And over ditch and streamlet skip.—
Behold, behold, our comrade falls,
And loud for our assistance calls;
Aloud with anguish he complains
Of broken limbs, and raging pains.
Yo hoy, my boys! the game pursue;
Behold, behold the hare in view!
Shall we the glorious sport forego
To weep at our companion's woe?
Tantwivy, boys! pursue, pursue,
Behold, the game is full in view.
See, she takes the foaming tide;
Pursu'd, she gains the distant side.
Our steeds refuse the curbing rein,
And in the torrent plunge amain.
62
Or else ye sound the troubled deep.
And see, the bold adventrous fair
Who would our manly pastimes share;—
She falls! she falls! aloud she cries,
The splashing waves around her rise.
Tantwivy, boys! the hare's in view,
The well-breath'd beagles close pursue.
Ya hoa! my lads! away, away.—
The eager sport forbids delay.—
Now o'er the fields of ripen'd corn
In swift pursuit we're eager borne,
The bended ears, where'er we fly,
Trampled on earth, our steeds destroy:
With curses loud the farmer views,
And fretting, with his eye pursues.
Why let him fret, and chase, and fume,
'Tis nought to me, as I presume.
In swift pursuit we're eager borne,
The bended ears, where'er we fly,
Trampled on earth, our steeds destroy:
With curses loud the farmer views,
And fretting, with his eye pursues.
Why let him fret, and chase, and fume,
'Tis nought to me, as I presume.
Ya hoigh! my comrades! how he stands
And rears to heav'n his clasping hands!—
“Why halloo, farmer! do you pray
In open air at middle day?”
He feels—he feels the biting jest,
And beats with frantic rage his breast.
'Tis true, what thus our hoofs destroy
Might some poor famish'd wretch supply;
Might give a meal to those who till'd
But seldom taste the plenteous field.
But why should thoughts like these assail?
Pursue—pursue the tainted gale!
We do but chace our lawful game:
And Royal George would do the same:
That best of Kings! whose gracious care
The World's four distant corners share;
While all an equal cause must own
To bless him for the good he'as done!!!
And rears to heav'n his clasping hands!—
“Why halloo, farmer! do you pray
In open air at middle day?”
He feels—he feels the biting jest,
And beats with frantic rage his breast.
'Tis true, what thus our hoofs destroy
Might some poor famish'd wretch supply;
Might give a meal to those who till'd
But seldom taste the plenteous field.
But why should thoughts like these assail?
Pursue—pursue the tainted gale!
63
And Royal George would do the same:
That best of Kings! whose gracious care
The World's four distant corners share;
While all an equal cause must own
To bless him for the good he'as done!!!
See, see, the hounds have seiz'd the hare,
And fierce her mangled haunches tear.
Now, huntsmen, do not spare the whip:
Beat, beat them off! The ready lip
Then to the mellow horn apply,
And swell the loud triumphant joy,
Till woods, and echoing hills reply.
And fierce her mangled haunches tear.
Now, huntsmen, do not spare the whip:
Beat, beat them off! The ready lip
Then to the mellow horn apply,
And swell the loud triumphant joy,
Till woods, and echoing hills reply.
I well remember on a day
To have heard a squeamish sniv'ler say,
“How cruel 'tis, for sport that we
Should give these creatures misery!
Poor puss! poor harmless puss!” he said,
And hung in dole his oafish head.
“What joy can any thinking mind
From all thy fears and tortures find?”
Oh! would to Jove the sniv'lling dunce
Were to a hare transform'd at once,
That we might chace him now to death!
Why have such milksops vital breath?
To have heard a squeamish sniv'ler say,
“How cruel 'tis, for sport that we
Should give these creatures misery!
Poor puss! poor harmless puss!” he said,
And hung in dole his oafish head.
“What joy can any thinking mind
From all thy fears and tortures find?”
Oh! would to Jove the sniv'lling dunce
Were to a hare transform'd at once,
That we might chace him now to death!
Why have such milksops vital breath?
Oh! may I never, never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
Thus done the chace, new visions rise,
Bath'd in the bowl's capacious joys,
Of choral mirth, and reeling song,
And jokes that Laughter's reign prolong,
Till Slumber, wrapt in antic fumes,
At length her wonted reign assumes.
Bath'd in the bowl's capacious joys,
64
And jokes that Laughter's reign prolong,
Till Slumber, wrapt in antic fumes,
At length her wonted reign assumes.
Thus let me walk gay Pleasure's rounds,
With wine, with women, horses, hounds,
And whate'er else can transport give;
For only while we're gay we live.
Let tender Pity sway the woman's mind
While I the sweets of sensual Rapture find!
With wine, with women, horses, hounds,
And whate'er else can transport give;
For only while we're gay we live.
Let tender Pity sway the woman's mind
While I the sweets of sensual Rapture find!
96
[O giant fiend! whose haggard eye]
O giant fiend! whose haggard eye,
Blasting each hope of future joy,
In wildering terror restless roves;
Intent, with savage pride, to seize
Whate'er the frantic purpose moves,
Whate'er may Reason's current freeze,
And Resolution's guardian pow'r
Pervert in Sorrow's languid hour
(While keen Remorse aloof attends)
To fell Destruction's baneful ends!
Blasting each hope of future joy,
In wildering terror restless roves;
Intent, with savage pride, to seize
Whate'er the frantic purpose moves,
Whate'er may Reason's current freeze,
And Resolution's guardian pow'r
Pervert in Sorrow's languid hour
97
To fell Destruction's baneful ends!
O fell Despair! should e'er my soul
Dejected feel thy dark controul,
May then, as I eccentric stray,
In lonely grief retir'd to mourn,
No yawning chasm cross my way,
No rapid torrents winding bourn,
No cliff that o'er the raging main
Projecting lours, and turns his brain,
Who, forward bent, with 'ventrous gaze
The foaming surge beneath surveys.
Dejected feel thy dark controul,
May then, as I eccentric stray,
In lonely grief retir'd to mourn,
No yawning chasm cross my way,
No rapid torrents winding bourn,
No cliff that o'er the raging main
Projecting lours, and turns his brain,
Who, forward bent, with 'ventrous gaze
The foaming surge beneath surveys.
Ah! when the melancholy pang assails,
And pale Despondence wrings the feeling heart,
Too oft, dread fiend! thy sullen power prevails,
And barbs too oft the self-destroying dart.
There are who yielding to affliction's smart,
Cherish each sullen fiend of Fancy's train,
To every scene the darkest hues impart,
And conjure phantoms in the working brain;—
Who, all alive in every throbbing vein
To wild Imagination's lawless power,
The gloomy perturbation scarce restrain
When lonely Silence rules the darkling hour.
To such,—if chance along the level meads
(While o'er its breast the weeping oziers play)
Whispering soft murmurs to the waving reeds,
The purling riv'lets slow meanders stray;—
E'en scenes like these—(what time the lunar ray
Spangles the dimpling wave, and tolling slow,
The solemn knell, as holy legends say,
Scares from the death-bed scene the hovering fiend away)
—E'en scenes like these may feed the desperate woe
Till fearful fancies rise; and dark Dismay
The seat of guiding Reason overthrow:
Prompting the deed that Nature shrinks to hear,
And meek Compassion waters with a tear.
Ah! ne'er may such, while throbs the wildering brain,
With devious step this tottering brink attain.
And pale Despondence wrings the feeling heart,
Too oft, dread fiend! thy sullen power prevails,
And barbs too oft the self-destroying dart.
There are who yielding to affliction's smart,
Cherish each sullen fiend of Fancy's train,
To every scene the darkest hues impart,
And conjure phantoms in the working brain;—
Who, all alive in every throbbing vein
To wild Imagination's lawless power,
The gloomy perturbation scarce restrain
When lonely Silence rules the darkling hour.
To such,—if chance along the level meads
(While o'er its breast the weeping oziers play)
Whispering soft murmurs to the waving reeds,
The purling riv'lets slow meanders stray;—
E'en scenes like these—(what time the lunar ray
Spangles the dimpling wave, and tolling slow,
The solemn knell, as holy legends say,
Scares from the death-bed scene the hovering fiend away)
98
Till fearful fancies rise; and dark Dismay
The seat of guiding Reason overthrow:
Prompting the deed that Nature shrinks to hear,
And meek Compassion waters with a tear.
Ah! ne'er may such, while throbs the wildering brain,
With devious step this tottering brink attain.
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[Let raging tyrants, with malignant pride]
Let raging tyrants, with malignant pride,
Display their talents in the public scene,
In glittering arms o'er groaning myriads ride,
And drench with purple guilt the peaceful green.
Display their talents in the public scene,
In glittering arms o'er groaning myriads ride,
And drench with purple guilt the peaceful green.
Let them, still jealous of imagin'd rights,
Sound the dire clarion, spread the clouds of war,
To rouse their frantic slaves, and quench the lights
Of Reason's sun, and Freedom's polar star.
Sound the dire clarion, spread the clouds of war,
To rouse their frantic slaves, and quench the lights
Of Reason's sun, and Freedom's polar star.
100
Let senseless crowds, assembled at their nod,
Smit with strange hate of Liberty! arise;
To humbled Pride restore Oppression's rod,
And lift the fallen Idol to the skies.
Smit with strange hate of Liberty! arise;
To humbled Pride restore Oppression's rod,
And lift the fallen Idol to the skies.
Let them, enamour'd of the galling yoke,
Rush on to death; and orphans, widows leave
The chains they purchas'd with their blood to brook;
To toil rewardless, and unpitied grieve.
Rush on to death; and orphans, widows leave
The chains they purchas'd with their blood to brook;
To toil rewardless, and unpitied grieve.
Let them (for, why, when monarchs give command,
Should Sense or Virtue check the vassal's zeal?)
Against their Guardians lift the furious hand,
And in their Champions' bosoms plunge the steel.
Should Sense or Virtue check the vassal's zeal?)
Against their Guardians lift the furious hand,
And in their Champions' bosoms plunge the steel.
We—we, my friend, while such mad passions reign,
Such servile folly rules the bustling crew,
Will fly, indignant, from the thankless train,
And leave the ingrates their ruin to pursue.
Such servile folly rules the bustling crew,
Will fly, indignant, from the thankless train,
And leave the ingrates their ruin to pursue.
Oh! better far, within some cloister's gloom,
Some forests shade, or cavern's lone retreat,
To waste in sullen sighs our youthful bloom,
And each sad sun with pining sorrow greet;
Some forests shade, or cavern's lone retreat,
To waste in sullen sighs our youthful bloom,
And each sad sun with pining sorrow greet;
Better, forswearing Nature's genuine right,
Withdrawn for ever from her social law,
To live entomb'd, and bid eternal Night
Round the lone head her sullen curtain draw;
Withdrawn for ever from her social law,
To live entomb'd, and bid eternal Night
Round the lone head her sullen curtain draw;
Better than mingling in such scenes as these,
To aid the fiend Destruction's raging hand,
See her fell gripe each Public Virtue seize,
And scourge fair Freedom from each groaning Land!
To aid the fiend Destruction's raging hand,
See her fell gripe each Public Virtue seize,
And scourge fair Freedom from each groaning Land!
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Ah! better far, forgetting and forgot,
Sequester'd, to the peaceful grave to glide,
From Fortune's wheel withdraw our anxious lot,
And crimes we can't prevent, at least avoid.
Sequester'd, to the peaceful grave to glide,
From Fortune's wheel withdraw our anxious lot,
And crimes we can't prevent, at least avoid.
Then, Belmour, come! together let us stray,
And seek some hermit's deep embower'd retreat;
Tune for each other's ear the mournful lay,
And all the anguish of our souls repeat.
And seek some hermit's deep embower'd retreat;
Tune for each other's ear the mournful lay,
And all the anguish of our souls repeat.
Thy tender woes from out her secret bower,
To sweet response shall wooe the bird of eve:
But mine, more loud, shall, at the midnight hour,
Wake the shrill echoes; teach the rocks to grieve;
The woods, the vales, the mountains to reply,
And Nature's self to join the deep-drawn sight
To sweet response shall wooe the bird of eve:
But mine, more loud, shall, at the midnight hour,
Wake the shrill echoes; teach the rocks to grieve;
The woods, the vales, the mountains to reply,
And Nature's self to join the deep-drawn sight
For, oh! I mourn for worlds!—for myriads mourn
Still doom'd in bonds and wretchedness to sigh!—
Against themselves the sharpen'd steel who turn,
And forge the fetters which they should destroy.
Still doom'd in bonds and wretchedness to sigh!—
Against themselves the sharpen'd steel who turn,
And forge the fetters which they should destroy.
And shalt thou, Freedom (oh! my boding soul!)
In the stern grasp of Tyranny expire?
While conquering Despots rage without control,
And Superstition round thy funeral pyre
Exulting smiles, and sees, with savage pride,
Each hope of human happiness destroy'd!
In the stern grasp of Tyranny expire?
While conquering Despots rage without control,
And Superstition round thy funeral pyre
Exulting smiles, and sees, with savage pride,
Each hope of human happiness destroy'd!
134
[Sepulchre of a parent dear!]
Sepulchre of a parent dear!
Oft conscious of my lone complaint,
Oh! treasure still the holy tear:—
Chaste tribute to a martyr'd saint!
Oft conscious of my lone complaint,
Oh! treasure still the holy tear:—
Chaste tribute to a martyr'd saint!
Ah! what can hopeless anguish more—
On earth—in heav'n without a friend—
Than thus her guiltless crime deplore,
And sighs and tears repentant blend?
On earth—in heav'n without a friend—
Than thus her guiltless crime deplore,
And sighs and tears repentant blend?
Oh faithless Love!—oh constant woe!
Mysterious suffering ne'er to cease!
And must the tears that ceaseless flow
Ne'er lull the mangl'd soul to peace?
Mysterious suffering ne'er to cease!
And must the tears that ceaseless flow
Ne'er lull the mangl'd soul to peace?
Then come again, sad soother, Death!
Again I seek thy gloomy cave;
Resign the painful—fruitless breath
Which heav'n for lingering sufferance gave!
Again I seek thy gloomy cave;
Resign the painful—fruitless breath
Which heav'n for lingering sufferance gave!
Sepulchre of a parent dear!
Oft conscious of my lone complaint,
Oh! treasure still the holy tear:—
Chaste tribute to a martyr'd saint!
Oft conscious of my lone complaint,
Oh! treasure still the holy tear:—
Chaste tribute to a martyr'd saint!
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[Ah! witness thou, o'er whose untimely bier]
Ah! witness thou, o'er whose untimely bier,
Cropp'd in thy smiling beauty's gayest bloom,
My Lyre, responsive to the trickling tear,
Wak'd the lorn echoes; thou whose silent tomb
My early muse with dews and flow'rets deck'd:
Wild flowers, indeed, pluck'd from the lowly glade:
Yet such might serve to shew thy kindred shade
A pure remembrance, and a fond respect—
Cropp'd in thy smiling beauty's gayest bloom,
My Lyre, responsive to the trickling tear,
Wak'd the lorn echoes; thou whose silent tomb
My early muse with dews and flow'rets deck'd:
Wild flowers, indeed, pluck'd from the lowly glade:
Yet such might serve to shew thy kindred shade
A pure remembrance, and a fond respect—
Ah! witness thou to whom with early pride
I lisp'd in numbers, and I lisp'd of love;
For whom so oft my infant bosom sigh'd,
And breath'd its fondness to the list'ning grove—
How thrill'd my bosom when thy accent kind
Spoke gentle confidence? how stood the tear
Big trembling in my eye, if chance the fear
Of favour'd rivals stung my anxious mind?
I lisp'd in numbers, and I lisp'd of love;
For whom so oft my infant bosom sigh'd,
And breath'd its fondness to the list'ning grove—
How thrill'd my bosom when thy accent kind
Spoke gentle confidence? how stood the tear
Big trembling in my eye, if chance the fear
Of favour'd rivals stung my anxious mind?
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Nor you, ye sages, with sarcastic smile
The infant dawn of sympathy deride!—
The honest throb of bosoms free from guile,
Unsway'd by interest,—unseduc'd by pride!
'Tis hence, perhaps,—from this etherial glow,
(Where grosser passion claims no sordid part)
That all the fine, extatic feelings flow,
That lift the fancy, and expand the heart!
Hence all the quick perceptions; hence the nerve
That feels alike for all the sentient sphere;
For every joy a transport can reserve,
For every sorrow shed the pitying tear.
Yes, hence the Poet's Soul its genuine fire
May catch;—each glowing charm, each polish'd art:
And ev'n divine Philanthropy aspire
To soothe the pangs of every throbbing heart.
This Shakespeare's rapid genius might bestow,
Stodart's warm tint, and Howard's generous glow.
The infant dawn of sympathy deride!—
The honest throb of bosoms free from guile,
Unsway'd by interest,—unseduc'd by pride!
'Tis hence, perhaps,—from this etherial glow,
(Where grosser passion claims no sordid part)
That all the fine, extatic feelings flow,
That lift the fancy, and expand the heart!
Hence all the quick perceptions; hence the nerve
That feels alike for all the sentient sphere;
For every joy a transport can reserve,
For every sorrow shed the pitying tear.
Yes, hence the Poet's Soul its genuine fire
May catch;—each glowing charm, each polish'd art:
And ev'n divine Philanthropy aspire
To soothe the pangs of every throbbing heart.
This Shakespeare's rapid genius might bestow,
Stodart's warm tint, and Howard's generous glow.
192
[And I who frequent, from my infant years]
And I who frequent, from my infant years,Led on by curious Fancy's daring hand,
With “harebreadth scapes and dangers imminent,”
Have toy'd familiar—Who, in pensive mood,
Oft by the rushing torrent's crumbling bourn
High tottering, or deep eddie overhung
By writhing oak, or willow's weeping spray,—
Fit couch! fit canopy for brooding thought
At Evening's solemn hour!—on rocking wall,
Fragment of antique abbey, hall, or wreck
Of ivy vested Castle,—or, sublime,
On the cloud propping cliff's tremendous brow,
193
And wakes Imagination's wildest dream,
Till the daz'd sight turns fearful:—Even I
(Deserting from my friends and guide to trace
The long neglected avenue, and mount
The still more shatter'd steps, which even the foot
Of vent'rous Curiosity resigns
To bats and owls, who soar on buoyant wing
To their high cradled young) though from my youth,
Familiar with such scenes, shrink back appall'd,
As, near the summit, o'er loose rugged stones
I gain the narrow undefended way,
Where, as I stride, perchance, the smallest slip,
Or giddy wandering of the timid brain,
Might headlong plunge me many a fathom down,
A breathless, mangled spectacle, no more
In worth and dignity than the poor rooks
Whose fate (thrown timeless from the lofty nest)
Below I had deplored. Ah! wherefore, say,
Does Curiosity thus urge the step
Such scenes of trembling horror to explore?—
Why—but that hence the peace-illumin'd scene,
Where calm Security reclines, may smile
With softer pleasures, and enjoy the charm
Of dear vicissitude?—Why—but that Heaven,
Intent to variegate, with bounteous care,
The copious sources of mysterious joy,
For minds of a peculiar stamp reserves
Some daring pleasures—some peculiar zests
Of awe and high sublimity, that must,
Ere with their genuine glow they throb the breast,
Be snatch'd from giant Danger's lowering brow?
196
ODE to the CLIFFS, at SANDGATE.
STROPHE I.
Oh! how Remembrance feasts with visual joy,As, by Imagination's friendly aid,
Again upon the rocking precipice
She stands sublime!
Or o'er the rude-projecting strata leans,
To scan, with timorous eye, the ragged steep,
And hear the murmuring of the ebbing surge
That moans along the beach!
O! how does Fancy shrink, as, once again,
With vent'rous step, on the extended point
Of yonder shatter'd rock, that forward leans,
And seems to tremble in the thinner air,
Again she treads—all isolate,
And scarce connected to the living world;
And there, in awful meditation wrapp'd,
Beholds above, below, and all around,
One boundless ocean of ethereal dew,—
Save where the unstable prominence to the cliff
Imperfect joins:
An isthmus rude,
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Enrag'd,—and hurls
In dread convulsion to the raging flood
That foams, and roars beneath.
ANTISTROPHE I.
Here, as I hover o'er the green abyss,Whose mountain billows scarce below appear
To ape the little ripples that adorn
The babbling stream,
With what bold freedom the excursive eye
Plays o'er the glassy surface, and admires
The dancing sun-beams, and the porpoise huge
That, rolling, sports below!
Ye monsters of the flood! however rude,
To man's imperfect sense, your savage forms!
Howe'er to us your elemental waves
Seem to shut out the finer extasies
That the warm sun should meliorate,
And balmy gales fan into rapturous being,—
Ye have too your sports, your joys peculiar,
Your loves, your pastimes, in the gelid wave,
That check the Tyrant's impious sophistry,
And prove the World he fondly deems his own
Was made for all:
Appropriate boons
To every tenant of the sentient sphere
To yield,—and make
To other, each, within his bounded range,
Impart alternate bliss!
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EPODE I.
O! how serene!With what a mild effulgence o'er the deep
Bends the clear Heav'n!
While, borne by gentle breezes from the coast,
Alauda floats, and warbles as she floats
On russet wing secure:
Rock'd by the buoyant billows, far beneath,
The flocking sea-fowl spread the oily wing,
Scarce from this height discernable;
And friendly zephyrs,
Slow, from yon distant point yet scarcely seen,
Waft the white sail, that homeward proudly swells
To kiss the wish'd-for shore.
Ah! may no bleak disaster sudden rise
To blast the seaman's hopes,
To steep in hopeless tears the virgin's eye,
Who now, expectant, from the stony beach
Views the slow bark, prophetic of its freight,
And William's faithful love.
Yet see!—the anxious eye,
Straining with eager rapture, dim descries
At yonder point,
Where, stooping to the wave, the Horizon faints,
And spreads the margin of her mantle grey
To close the misty prospect,
The darkening cloud
Spread its long streak upon the bounded wave,
That, lull'd, oblivious, by the opiate weight,
Gleams like a polish'd mirror.
Auspicious gales the gloomy sign avert!—
Is it, ye fiends of storm,
Some gloomy tempest from the Ocean caves
199
The smiling image of the world deform,
And mix the warring elements?
Or is it: say:
Some dark aerial vapour, close condens'd,
To lock the imprison'd thunder for awhile,
That soon, dread rattling up the azure vault,
Shall tear the beauteous concave as it flies,
The tower and forest monarch prostrate lay,
Whelm the wreck'd vessel in the treacherous wave,
Plunge the worn crew in endless night,
And blast each promis'd joy?
STROPHE II.
Ah, no! no mists belch'd forth from Ocean caves,Brooding the rocking Earthquake, swell to view:
Nor dense aerial vapour's sable folds
Shroud the dread storm,
That soon with loud-destroying rage shall burst,
Bid the blue concave flame with sudden wrath,
And with mad vengeance rend the forest oak
And whelm the exulting bark!
But fair to view, as now the sharpen'd ken
Pierces the hovering mists, distinct appear
Thy cliffs and swelling shores, luxuriant France!
Whose luscious fruitage for the spoiling hand
Of bold rapacious Tyranny
Had redden'd in the partial sun too long:
That partial Sun who, on thy fertile hills
Still lingering, with prolific ray benign,
Mourn'd to behold an injur'd, trampled race,
Groan in the field, and labour at the press,
200
A ruffian crew,
With gaudy titles deck'd, the goblet seiz'd;
Drain'd off the luscious draught, and left for them
The bitter dregs alone.
ANTISTROPHE II.
And Oh! that now no Woes of other hueO'er the devoted country threat'ning frown'd,
And the well-meaning many left a prey
To Demagogues,
Who o'er the wrecks of public Virtue rise,
And whet the dagger for compatriot strife,
That on the common spoilers of the earth
Should spend its nobler rage;—
Should scourge the tyrants who with impious aim
Seek in the desolated fields of France,
While there again the fallen fane they rear
Of Kingly fraud, new yokes and chains to forge
To bow the necks (well meriting!)
Of tame obsequious vassals, who at home
Lavish their treasures to promote the fame
Of these ungrateful pageants; false, and base!
—O France! O England! rouse ye ere ye fall!
Let not thy upstart tyrants, Gallia! balk
Thy great designs:
Nor Britain thou
Be lull'd in fatal lethargy, supine,
And wake—(too late!)
To curse the galling yoke thy folly bought,
And clank thy chains in vain.
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EPODE II.
O! for an armLike Jove's tremendous in Tytanian war
To reach these crimes!
To vindicate fair Freedom's genuine rights,
And of their two-fold Tyrants rid Mankind:
This sanguinary crew,
That with mad havock grasp at transient power,
And in wrong'd Liberty's polluted seat
Establish factious Anarchy;
And these Oppressors—
These proud destroyers of the abject World,—
That groans and toils, that they may feast, and slay,—
That with blind frenzy slights
Each kindred duty of the social heart
To swell their fatal power,
To lift the puppet Idols to the skies,
With mimic lightnings arm their frantic hands,
With fulsome flattery fan their crimes, and feed
Their pestilential pride!
O! strike them, gracious Heav'n!
With thy avenging thunders check their crimes!
Let them, transfix'd,
With adamantine chains and fetters bound,
On the bleak summit of yon frowning rocks
Bewail their guilty fury!
Let them, so long
As the pent Ocean chafes the rocky bourns
Of these storm-sever'd realms, their guilt bewail;
Their fell, destroying fury
Of mad Ambition, and Anarchic rage!
Let them, avenging powers!
As glides the passing bark, oft shriek aloud,
And bid the shuddering mariners attend;
202
The important admonition—
“O friends! no more,
“Deaf to the call of Patriot Virtue, seek
“A bloody harvest from your Country's woes!
“O royal plunderers of the world! no more
“Plunge your deluded realms in savage war
“To check fair Freedom's course; but see in us
“The living monuments of sacred wrath;
“And yield to Man his ravish'd rights;
—“To Heav'n its worship'd sway!”
225
[O! how sweet, at the hour when, deep-blushing, appears]
O! how sweet, at the hour when, deep-blushing, appears
The sun's swelling orb at the brink of the sky,
And Eve, pensive Eve, bathes the vale with her tears,
And Zephyr, sad Zephyr, expires in a sigh—
O! how sweet at this hour, when half-wearied with toil,
And each kind emotion awak'd in the breast
That Heav'n's varied bounties and Nature's gay smile
Ere stamp'd on the mind that by Fancy is blest—
O! how sweet, at this hour, on the brow of some hill,
By side the clear brook, or embower'd in the vale,
Directed, perhaps, by the clack of the mill,
Or Milkmaid's blithe carol, who sings o'er her pail,
To approach the lone hamlet, our labours to close,
And share the tir'd peasant's contented repose!
The sun's swelling orb at the brink of the sky,
And Eve, pensive Eve, bathes the vale with her tears,
And Zephyr, sad Zephyr, expires in a sigh—
O! how sweet at this hour, when half-wearied with toil,
And each kind emotion awak'd in the breast
That Heav'n's varied bounties and Nature's gay smile
Ere stamp'd on the mind that by Fancy is blest—
O! how sweet, at this hour, on the brow of some hill,
By side the clear brook, or embower'd in the vale,
Directed, perhaps, by the clack of the mill,
Or Milkmaid's blithe carol, who sings o'er her pail,
To approach the lone hamlet, our labours to close,
And share the tir'd peasant's contented repose!
O! how sweet, when each warbler that trill'd from the spray,
Or to Heav'n's azure concave with rapture aspir'd
(The tir'd pinion relax'd, hush'd in silence the lay)
To the grove's covert shade with his mate has retir'd:
How sweet, as around every cottage they play,
(As you wind thro' the lane or the meadow) to hear
The rude ruddy infants attune the wild lay!—
What chorus so sweet to Humanity's ear?
—Sport on, thoughtless babes! ah, yet sport and he gay,
Enjoy the short rapture, and hail the bright glow!
Nor reflect ('twere in vain) on the heels of the day,
Tread Night and her shadows—tread Manhood and Woe!
Ah! too near is the time that your sorrow assures—
When Toil and Affliction alone shall be yours!
Or to Heav'n's azure concave with rapture aspir'd
(The tir'd pinion relax'd, hush'd in silence the lay)
To the grove's covert shade with his mate has retir'd:
How sweet, as around every cottage they play,
(As you wind thro' the lane or the meadow) to hear
The rude ruddy infants attune the wild lay!—
What chorus so sweet to Humanity's ear?
226
Enjoy the short rapture, and hail the bright glow!
Nor reflect ('twere in vain) on the heels of the day,
Tread Night and her shadows—tread Manhood and Woe!
Ah! too near is the time that your sorrow assures—
When Toil and Affliction alone shall be yours!
But see from the furrow, the glebe, and the plough,
The peasants return with the toil-sullied brow:
To their rest they return, to their scanty repast:
For the hour of refreshment relieves them at last.
As hither with toil-wearied steps they repair,
Hark what lisps and what shouts their loud welcome declare:
While, their sports broken off, how the innocents fly,
And clasp each hard hand with a transport of joy;
Or hang by the coat, as around them they throng,
And lend their small efforts to drag them along.
Each grief these endearments from memory blot,
And the cares of the day, and its toils are forgot;
Till again to their dames, o'er their scantling of ale,
As they eat their brown bread, they supply the short tale:
Then to bed they retire, their adventures to close,
To taste (be they sweet!) the short boons of repose:
While the wealthy and proud in mad riot and joy
The fruits of their labour and hardships destroy.
The peasants return with the toil-sullied brow:
To their rest they return, to their scanty repast:
For the hour of refreshment relieves them at last.
As hither with toil-wearied steps they repair,
Hark what lisps and what shouts their loud welcome declare:
While, their sports broken off, how the innocents fly,
And clasp each hard hand with a transport of joy;
Or hang by the coat, as around them they throng,
And lend their small efforts to drag them along.
Each grief these endearments from memory blot,
And the cares of the day, and its toils are forgot;
Till again to their dames, o'er their scantling of ale,
As they eat their brown bread, they supply the short tale:
Then to bed they retire, their adventures to close,
To taste (be they sweet!) the short boons of repose:
While the wealthy and proud in mad riot and joy
The fruits of their labour and hardships destroy.
Now silence succeeds to the bustle of day,
And the Moon's silver orb to the Sun's ruddy beam;
Awhile thro' the dews let me pensively stray,
And indulge soothing Fancy awhile in her dream.
While the Nightingale trills, your sweet minstrel divine!
Let me pierce, O ye Fays! your sequester'd retreat;
With your Shakespeare, your Colins, your Fletcher recline;
Your revels enjoy, and your fables repeat.
Ah, why are ye fled, gentle Fays! from the Muse,
Whose songs ye adorn'd, and whose lessons improv'd?
Are ye scar'd that stern critics their sanction refuse?—
Dull spectres of Night by malignity mov'd!
Ah, scorn their dark malice; renew the wild strain;
And give us our Fletchers and Shakespeares again.
And the Moon's silver orb to the Sun's ruddy beam;
Awhile thro' the dews let me pensively stray,
And indulge soothing Fancy awhile in her dream.
While the Nightingale trills, your sweet minstrel divine!
Let me pierce, O ye Fays! your sequester'd retreat;
With your Shakespeare, your Colins, your Fletcher recline;
Your revels enjoy, and your fables repeat.
227
Whose songs ye adorn'd, and whose lessons improv'd?
Are ye scar'd that stern critics their sanction refuse?—
Dull spectres of Night by malignity mov'd!
Ah, scorn their dark malice; renew the wild strain;
And give us our Fletchers and Shakespeares again.
Such—such are my joys, in lone hamlet retir'd,
When the toil of the day, and its pleasures are o'er.—
Or, perhaps, with the throng by rude Nature inspir'd
I share the blithe cup, and their feelings explore.
Ah! little ye know, who, envelop'd by pride,
Alone the dull pastimes of Grandeur behold,
What life, and what fancy, and humour reside
In these circles of Mirth by no Fashion control'd.
How oft have I smil'd ('twas the smile of the heart,
Not the simper of Form, by Hypocrisy taught;
The mask of dull Custom, the effort of Art
To escape, but in vain, from the torture of Thought.)
How oft have I smil'd, their shrewd maxims to hear,
And see the strong traits of wild Nature appear!
When the toil of the day, and its pleasures are o'er.—
Or, perhaps, with the throng by rude Nature inspir'd
I share the blithe cup, and their feelings explore.
Ah! little ye know, who, envelop'd by pride,
Alone the dull pastimes of Grandeur behold,
What life, and what fancy, and humour reside
In these circles of Mirth by no Fashion control'd.
How oft have I smil'd ('twas the smile of the heart,
Not the simper of Form, by Hypocrisy taught;
The mask of dull Custom, the effort of Art
To escape, but in vain, from the torture of Thought.)
How oft have I smil'd, their shrewd maxims to hear,
And see the strong traits of wild Nature appear!
Let the proud and the weak, then, the dull and the great,
Who loll in their coaches in indolent state,
Who, idle at home, but for idleness stray,
And abroad only prize what's at home every day—
Let to these the proud Inn yield its splendour and down,
And the Country repeat the dull pleasures of Town.
Let me, whom each pleasure eccentric can move,
Who would travel to know, and would live to improve,
When at eve my tir'd limbs relaxation require,
To some snug little thatch, in some hamlet, retire;
Where, the cravings of Nature content to supply,
I may hear, or may join in the hind's rustic joy—
May Man in his varied conditions compare,
And learn the hard lot which too many must bear;
That thus, as with all I alternately blend,
The mind may expand, and the heart may amend;
Till, embracing Mankind in one girdle of Love,
In Nature's kind lesson I daily improve,
And (no haughty distinctions to fetter my soul)
As the brother of all, learn to feel for the whole.
Who loll in their coaches in indolent state,
Who, idle at home, but for idleness stray,
And abroad only prize what's at home every day—
Let to these the proud Inn yield its splendour and down,
And the Country repeat the dull pleasures of Town.
Let me, whom each pleasure eccentric can move,
Who would travel to know, and would live to improve,
When at eve my tir'd limbs relaxation require,
To some snug little thatch, in some hamlet, retire;
Where, the cravings of Nature content to supply,
I may hear, or may join in the hind's rustic joy—
228
And learn the hard lot which too many must bear;
That thus, as with all I alternately blend,
The mind may expand, and the heart may amend;
Till, embracing Mankind in one girdle of Love,
In Nature's kind lesson I daily improve,
And (no haughty distinctions to fetter my soul)
As the brother of all, learn to feel for the whole.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
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