The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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| GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
131
GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE.
Death and Disease my solemn muses be;Throw o'er my soul a sickbed's canopy;
Let Sorrow dictate every mournful line,
And, true Repentance, let the strains be thine!
Tears wet the page, while falling like the rain,
O'er my two friends by wine untimely slain.
Their mothers met, their fathers friendly were,
Before their infant eyes could drop a tear;
And when they felt the first of earthly joys,
When first they toddled, oft exchanging toys,
Plucked in each other's gardens flowers they chose,
And smiled together, when they knew not woes.
How oft their parents talked of future times,
And prayed that they might e'er be clear from crimes,
Pleased to behold them in a garment new,
And loved them better as they older grew!
Young Philo joined them—then the happy three
In pleasure lived, and knew not misery.
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Of honeyed heath, they talked of bliss to come;
Then bathed amid the mountain's crystal spring,
Blithe as the trout that skims with finny wing.
A thousand sports were there to make them blest,
The happiest moments when the heath they pressed;
When the wild lapwing, or the grey curlew,
Screaming around their heads in circles flew,
And moorhens, rolling o'er the bent and heath,
To save their little broods from instant death;
But when the cruel youths once came too nigh,
They spread their wings, and showed they yet could fly:
An emblem these of joys seen just before,
We grasp in hope, they fly, and are no more.
Oft in mischievous sport these took delight,
And made the sable evening clouds be bright
With fiery turf, with heath, and brackens dry.
The heath soon blazed, and seemed to light the sky;
As if some great volcano there had been,
And blushed the clouds as they beheld the scene.
Philo would talk of Ida's mighty flame,
When blazed the woods, and liquid iron came;
Compare it then to Ætna in his mirth,
And spoke of Herculaneum swept from earth;
Then talk of great Vesuvius' mighty blaze,
And wished that he could on its terrors gaze.
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A mile around, and tinged the smoke with red:
Then came the besom-makers with a shout,
And with their besoms strove to dash it out;
Singed with the flames, they could not heat abide,
For they with brooms as soon had stopped the tide.
The ling was deep, and old and strong the bed,
Dry was the night—the flames in fury spread
To such extent, that nought could stop their force,
Till not a branch of heath was in their course.
Where first the fire began the youths were lain,
Vowing they ne'er would fire the heath again.
Their other fires some acres swept away,
This blackened many hundreds ere 'twas day:
An emblem this of drink—we take a quart,
Perhaps some spirits, ere from friends we part,
And then another glass, perhaps the same,
Till folly spreads into a foolish flame.
My tale must pass o'er years, with all their joys,—
They spent their lives in play, like other boys.
Young Philo was to learning most inclined,
But Amphorus to music turned his mind.
Paros, a lovely youth, within his breast
Of mortal feeling surely had the best.
He never mis'ry saw, but shed a tear,
He had no friends, but loved them far too dear;
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So honest, man's deceit he could not see.
The evening sun of summer seldom set,
But these three youths in purest friendship met,
Talked till the light was faded in the sky,
Or listened Amphorus' wild melody.
Sometimes young Philo struggling with his theme,
An evening from his comrades would redeem;
His mind expanded as his knowledge grew,
And learning's every step more pleasant grew.
He saw the hidden stores of Grecian lore—
Each draught he took but made him thirst for more.
Amphorus said, “For nought on earth I'll live
“But those sweet pleasures harmony can give;
“Whate'er my kindred leave me shall be spent
“On music, and the noble instrument
“Which brings the skylark's note, or the deep tone
“Which shakes foundations of the firmest stone.
“The viol's varied tones I yet will know,
“The harp's, from whence soft melody can flow;
“Each varied part my bosom shall inspire,
“Of lively concerts, or the solemn choir;
“And marches for the army I'll compose,
“Such as shall sound when Britain meets her foes.
“The music of the ancient school I'll learn,
“And where the solemn chords of dirges mourn;
“Mozart, Von Weber, in each varied flight
“I'll follow, till I catch their notes at sight.”
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And with his eye her outlines he could trace;
In youth he begged for colours to be bought,
To place upon the canvas what he thought.
With practice now he can in shades portray
The varied tints of soft departing day,
Touch the rich landscape with such light and shade,
That many thought the pencilled objects played.
The youths and virgins, in the bowers of love,
Were so like nature, that they seemed to move.
Whene'er the landscape was by Paros shown,
The varied trees and every shrub were known.
Send Paros where you would, in every place
His lively eyes were fixed on Nature's face;
But such his application for a name,
Deep study shook at last his tender frame,
And for his health, and for the art he loved,
From Cumbria's scenes to Paris he removed.
Pleased with the paintings where the masters shone,
He gazed upon them as a chiselled stone
Formed to a statue; so engaged his mind,
He thought not then of Nature's scenes behind;
But when the time arrived that he must part,
The thoughts of Grasmere rushed upon his heart.
No scenes in Paris gave him such delight
As he had found upon Helvellyn's height,
Where o'er its top the eagle soars on high,
And round its rocks the croaking ravens fly.
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But not tremendous, like great Skiddaw's storms.
Walk Paris round, and view its beauties o'er,
What are its fountains to the grand Lowdore,
Where, dashing from the dreadful chasm on high,
The cataract seems as rushing from the sky?
These Paros saw—retiring in despair,
He durst not try such grandeur as was there.
Oft he beheld the mist from Derwent lake
Slow curling to the hills in many a flake,
And as the morning sun sent forth his rays,
The scene was far above the greatest praise;
Such there is seen when not a zephyr blows,
When the pure lake upon its surface shows
Skiddaw inverted, and the cliffs on high—
Fit scenes to wake the noblest minstrelsy.
Oft Paros viewed the yellow orb of night,
When rising on the lake with golden light,
Her shadow dancing like a sheet of flame,
And with the scene soft Meditation came.
Beneath the oaks, and opposite Lowdore,
Oft Paros sat, and heard its torrent roar,
Sketching the trembling waves, when Keswick's bell
Hummed through the valley with a solemn swell.
The hills returned the sound with weakened power,
And told the artist 'twas the midnight hour.
He thought upon the peace he left behind—
The thoughts of Ellen pressed upon his mind;
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At Grasmere dwelt, where waves the solemn yew.
Oft had he led her up Helvellyn's height,
Her cheeks like roses, and her gown as white
As is the snow where British eagles yell,
Upon the mighty rocks where Goothë fell.
When in the Louvre and the Champ de Mars,
He thought of France and all her bloody wars,
With all the arts,—to Paros these gave pain,
While admiration mingled with disdain,
To think what noble works to France were brought,
The noblest statues, by great sculptors wrought,
When thousands fell, and from the sacred shrine
Such works were torn as, France, were never thine;
While the great artists slept within the tomb,
By study hastened to an early home,
Their paintings such as wet the eyes with tears,
With by-past actions of a thousand years,—
Adam and Eve, the flaming sword behind,
So well portrayed, it seemed as if the wind
Bended the flames, or as Eve's flowing hair
Waved with the blast of vengeance that was there,—
The Saviour dead—before the sheet was thrown
O'er Him that made all worlds, and wears the crown.
Great is the imitation!—but I shrink
That greatest artists ever dared to think
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Raphael ne'er could form a face like His,
Could he have seen how fair in death He slept—
The hardest heart that viewed it would have wept.
These things are nothing to the present theme;
Paros believed his Saviour would redeem
Poets and painters, though they wildly roved,
For genius sure in heaven must be beloved.
Through France and Switzerland the artist ranged,
Where fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains changed;
Then viewed them all with inexpressed delight,
Scenes rich by day, or grander still by night.
As on the Alps the avalanches rise,
Hills of eternal winter pierce the skies.
He climbed their sides, with perseverance true,
Till kingdoms on each side were in his view.
Arrived at Rome, his young and eager mind
With works of ev'ry master was refined.
What there he saw, what artists can behold,
To tell, might make this humble tale seem cold:
But he returned again to Cumbria's fells,
To Derwentwater and to Grasmere's dells;
Then his rich neighbours flocked around to hear
How well he liked at Rome, what paintings he saw there.
He said, De Urban's lively canvas spoke,
And Raphael's pencil ev'ry passion woke;
Carracci's masterpiece would make you weep,—
He knew so well what would his paintings keep,
That on each face you'd think old Nature played,
And Life seemed dancing in the light and shade:
But would not any trav'ller seem a fool
To tell the masters of each varied school?
Paros beheld their works, and thought them fine,
But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine:
For he who once was well content with beer,
Must now have spirits, his weak heart to cheer;
Then he could tell what he had seen away,
Live in high life, and ne'er have aught to pay.
Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast?
Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest?
Is there for mortals any earthly curse?
There's nothing to a genius that is worse.
Hundreds have spirits sent unto the tomb,
And made for youth the grave an early home.
Death's the dire consequence of drinking deep,
Then children, widow, and relations weep.
So 'twas with Paros—he could paint the form
Of wild despair, when struggling with the storm
Sketch the wild anguish of a vessel's crew,
Their bowsprit lost, and but her masts in view
Paint well the billows, that they seemed to roll,
And with his pow'rful pencil freeze the soul.
Nature was in his strokes, and every touch
Was neither yet too little nor too much;
Secure in his imagination's might,
Nature his pencil guided, and 'twas right.
Upraised to fame, his company was sought,
And likenesses he sketched as if they thought;
So well he touched the portrait of the fair,
She seemed to breathe, as life herself was there,
The battle piece of Prestonpans he took,—
The scene the noble mind of Paros woke.
An ancient song, with fire in every line,
Gave the first sketches of the great design;
These were the words that fired his feeling heart,
And told how madly Stuart played his part:
When o'er Brussels dark Night had cast her shade,
Where fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains changed;
Then viewed them all with inexpressed delight,
Scenes rich by day, or grander still by night.
As on the Alps the avalanches rise,
Hills of eternal winter pierce the skies.
He climbed their sides, with perseverance true,
Till kingdoms on each side were in his view.
Arrived at Rome, his young and eager mind
With works of ev'ry master was refined.
What there he saw, what artists can behold,
To tell, might make this humble tale seem cold:
But he returned again to Cumbria's fells,
To Derwentwater and to Grasmere's dells;
Then his rich neighbours flocked around to hear
How well he liked at Rome, what paintings he saw there.
He said, De Urban's lively canvas spoke,
And Raphael's pencil ev'ry passion woke;
139
He knew so well what would his paintings keep,
That on each face you'd think old Nature played,
And Life seemed dancing in the light and shade:
But would not any trav'ller seem a fool
To tell the masters of each varied school?
Paros beheld their works, and thought them fine,
But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine:
For he who once was well content with beer,
Must now have spirits, his weak heart to cheer;
Then he could tell what he had seen away,
Live in high life, and ne'er have aught to pay.
Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast?
Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest?
Is there for mortals any earthly curse?
There's nothing to a genius that is worse.
Hundreds have spirits sent unto the tomb,
And made for youth the grave an early home.
Death's the dire consequence of drinking deep,
Then children, widow, and relations weep.
So 'twas with Paros—he could paint the form
Of wild despair, when struggling with the storm
Sketch the wild anguish of a vessel's crew,
Their bowsprit lost, and but her masts in view
Paint well the billows, that they seemed to roll,
And with his pow'rful pencil freeze the soul.
Nature was in his strokes, and every touch
Was neither yet too little nor too much;
140
Nature his pencil guided, and 'twas right.
Upraised to fame, his company was sought,
And likenesses he sketched as if they thought;
So well he touched the portrait of the fair,
She seemed to breathe, as life herself was there,
The battle piece of Prestonpans he took,—
The scene the noble mind of Paros woke.
An ancient song, with fire in every line,
Gave the first sketches of the great design;
These were the words that fired his feeling heart,
And told how madly Stuart played his part:
“The flashing claymores gleam afar,
And small the files in distance are,
Each helmet glitters like a star,
As clansmen are advancing.
And small the files in distance are,
Each helmet glitters like a star,
As clansmen are advancing.
The trenches dug are broad and deep,
In which the loaded cannon sleep—
Silent their guns the terrors keep,
To wait the Scotch artillery.
In which the loaded cannon sleep—
Silent their guns the terrors keep,
To wait the Scotch artillery.
Behind the hill the fight began,
Death came with ev'ry kilted clan,
And down fell many a Southern man,
The pipers sounding victory.
Death came with ev'ry kilted clan,
And down fell many a Southern man,
The pipers sounding victory.
141
They yet remembered Glencoe's vale,
And sent their bullets thick as hail,
And with the broadswords cut the mail,
And met the slaughter dreadfully.
And sent their bullets thick as hail,
And with the broadswords cut the mail,
And met the slaughter dreadfully.
Now rages discord—man and steed
Rush to the charge—they fall, they bleed—
Forgot is many a noble deed,
The battle burns so terribly.
Rush to the charge—they fall, they bleed—
Forgot is many a noble deed,
The battle burns so terribly.
Each cannonier, with charge in hand,
And others with the blazing brand,
Close to the heated cannon stand,
The smoke ascending rapidly.
And others with the blazing brand,
Close to the heated cannon stand,
The smoke ascending rapidly.
The steeds, that left the foam behind,
The pennons, streaming in the wind,
And Scots, that scorned a coward's mind,
Rushed to the onset gallantly.
The pennons, streaming in the wind,
And Scots, that scorned a coward's mind,
Rushed to the onset gallantly.
The English, loyal and more true,
The thistle scorned, and firmer grew,
As closer pressed the bonnets blue,
Inspired with Highland minstrelsy.
The thistle scorned, and firmer grew,
As closer pressed the bonnets blue,
Inspired with Highland minstrelsy.
The smoke, the blaze, the charge, the fire,
The ranks that fall ere these retire,
And England's banner lifted higher,
Were grandeur and sublimity.
The ranks that fall ere these retire,
And England's banner lifted higher,
Were grandeur and sublimity.
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Then darkness comes—the blaze is seen
At distance, and long time between
Each flash, which through the day had been
From cannon quick as musketry.
At distance, and long time between
Each flash, which through the day had been
From cannon quick as musketry.
What Scotland won soon Scotland lost;
Culloden all the glory tost
To the cold shades, and there the frost
Nipped her sharp thistle cruelly.
Culloden all the glory tost
To the cold shades, and there the frost
Nipped her sharp thistle cruelly.
Brave Gardner!—in death he lay;
A better never lost the day,
Nor nobler spirit fled away
To realms of blest eternity.
A better never lost the day,
Nor nobler spirit fled away
To realms of blest eternity.
The banners now must wave no more,
The dreadful conflict now is o'er,
And Scotland shall be clear from gore,
For discord's lost in amity.”
The dreadful conflict now is o'er,
And Scotland shall be clear from gore,
For discord's lost in amity.”
On the broad canvas Paros had portrayed
The varying glances of each shining blade,
Left all descriptive poetry behind,
And stamped at once the battle on the mind;
But close beside him was the bottle hung—
He drank when faint, then painted as he sung;
But when the cheering draught had lost its head,
His pencil shook, and all his fancy fled.
When warmed with wine, his airy thoughts brought home
The paintings, statues, and the scenes of Rome;
Columns of ev'ry order, laid on earth,
Where Desolation frolicked in her mirth;
All Nature rolled before his strong ideas—
The land, the skies, the cities, and the seas:
But soon his pulses in quick motions beat,
His ruined appetite enjoys no meat,
His frame decays, the mind is weaker made,
He starts in dreams—his bosom's sore afraid,
No pleasure can his weeping Anna give;
To him 'tis now no happiness to live;
He values not the bubble of a name,
Nor prides himself in vain posthumous fame.
When his bright eyes grew dim, and fancy fled,
Bound to the confines of a dying bed,
The pleasing landscape could no longer cheer;
His mind was weak, his dissolution near,
When his pale cheek was laid on Anna's breast,
And his cold hand by her he loved was pressed.
What weeping then!—no language now can tell
How tears were rained when such a genius fell.
Then was destroyed a gen'rous noble mind,
While the destroyer lurked in shades behind.
Dreadful Intemperance! thy tempting snare
Holds while thou slayest, O father of Despair!
There lay the artist, ready for the tomb,
His valued paintings hung around the room;
Here the old ruin, and the shades below
Spread where the crystal streams of Eden flow,
And there the copy of the ocean storm,
From Powell's, with the waves in ev'ry form.
Oh! the sad sight—'twas solemn there to tread,
To view his works, and see the artist dead.
How placid he appeared!—he seemed asleep—
I wept, and all his portraits seemed to weep.
It was the last farewell—he could not hear—
His eyes were closed in peace, and not a tear
Wet his pale cheek—he panted not for breath,
But outshone life, as calm he lay in death.
The varying glances of each shining blade,
Left all descriptive poetry behind,
And stamped at once the battle on the mind;
But close beside him was the bottle hung—
He drank when faint, then painted as he sung;
But when the cheering draught had lost its head,
His pencil shook, and all his fancy fled.
143
The paintings, statues, and the scenes of Rome;
Columns of ev'ry order, laid on earth,
Where Desolation frolicked in her mirth;
All Nature rolled before his strong ideas—
The land, the skies, the cities, and the seas:
But soon his pulses in quick motions beat,
His ruined appetite enjoys no meat,
His frame decays, the mind is weaker made,
He starts in dreams—his bosom's sore afraid,
No pleasure can his weeping Anna give;
To him 'tis now no happiness to live;
He values not the bubble of a name,
Nor prides himself in vain posthumous fame.
When his bright eyes grew dim, and fancy fled,
Bound to the confines of a dying bed,
The pleasing landscape could no longer cheer;
His mind was weak, his dissolution near,
When his pale cheek was laid on Anna's breast,
And his cold hand by her he loved was pressed.
What weeping then!—no language now can tell
How tears were rained when such a genius fell.
Then was destroyed a gen'rous noble mind,
While the destroyer lurked in shades behind.
Dreadful Intemperance! thy tempting snare
Holds while thou slayest, O father of Despair!
There lay the artist, ready for the tomb,
His valued paintings hung around the room;
144
Spread where the crystal streams of Eden flow,
And there the copy of the ocean storm,
From Powell's, with the waves in ev'ry form.
Oh! the sad sight—'twas solemn there to tread,
To view his works, and see the artist dead.
How placid he appeared!—he seemed asleep—
I wept, and all his portraits seemed to weep.
It was the last farewell—he could not hear—
His eyes were closed in peace, and not a tear
Wet his pale cheek—he panted not for breath,
But outshone life, as calm he lay in death.
His spirit's fled, his hand is still,
His pencils now are useless laid,
No more to sketch the vale or hill,
No more to touch the light and shade.
His pencils now are useless laid,
No more to sketch the vale or hill,
No more to touch the light and shade.
Let violets bloom where he is lain!
Ye flowers, stay late upon his tomb!
He ne'er can paint your tints again—
True genius now has left its home.
Ye flowers, stay late upon his tomb!
He ne'er can paint your tints again—
True genius now has left its home.
Relations wept, and Anna deeply sighed,
For Anna, had he lived, had been his bride;
But all their weeping was an empty show,
Compared to Philo's “eloquence of woe.”
When Philo entered, not a word he spoke—
The feelings of the friend and poet woke;
Thoughts flew across his fancy, wild and deep,
When Paros' eyes were sealed in endless sleep.
He thought upon the soul of genius fled,
Words burst in sorrow while young Philo said—
“Where is the spirit gone? Could such a mind
Vanish in air, and leave but clay behind?
Could matter think? could dust through systems roll?
No—'twas the spirit fled without control.
Sceptics, come blush, who think the soul is air—
Look on his corpse when there's no spirit there.
The mind that once was kept by genius bright,
I knew in innocence, when, day or night,
Joy plumed its wings: Oh, happiest days on earth!
When pleasure changed from purest joy to mirth,
From mirth to rural bliss, from that to sleep,
When health was good—we knew not how to weep.
His mind for ever stretched in fancy strong,
He soared too high on earth to tarry long:
But language fails, while thus my bosom swells—
I soon shall find where Paros' spirit dwells;
Then shall unnumbered worlds, and all things new,
Beyond the reach of mortals, burst upon our view.”
For Anna, had he lived, had been his bride;
But all their weeping was an empty show,
Compared to Philo's “eloquence of woe.”
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The feelings of the friend and poet woke;
Thoughts flew across his fancy, wild and deep,
When Paros' eyes were sealed in endless sleep.
He thought upon the soul of genius fled,
Words burst in sorrow while young Philo said—
“Where is the spirit gone? Could such a mind
Vanish in air, and leave but clay behind?
Could matter think? could dust through systems roll?
No—'twas the spirit fled without control.
Sceptics, come blush, who think the soul is air—
Look on his corpse when there's no spirit there.
The mind that once was kept by genius bright,
I knew in innocence, when, day or night,
Joy plumed its wings: Oh, happiest days on earth!
When pleasure changed from purest joy to mirth,
From mirth to rural bliss, from that to sleep,
When health was good—we knew not how to weep.
His mind for ever stretched in fancy strong,
He soared too high on earth to tarry long:
But language fails, while thus my bosom swells—
I soon shall find where Paros' spirit dwells;
Then shall unnumbered worlds, and all things new,
Beyond the reach of mortals, burst upon our view.”
Through Nature Philo's lively fancy flew,
He something of each varied science knew;
He read of Polar wonders with delight,
And searched each cause on which the learned write,
He learned to know how little mortals know
Of things above, or meanest things below,
That when the northern dancing streamers fly,
They cannot tell how these can light the sky;
He learned to know that men of wit and thought,
With greatest learning, scarce have learned ought.
Philo the works of navigators read,
That round the globe the bending canvas spread;
He knew by reading what each clime brought forth,
Between New Zealand and the cold Cape North.
Astronomy he loved—his soul flew far,
Through all the systems, to the Polar star,
Nor rested there—he struggled to explain
The cause of tides that roll upon the main.
Greek was his glory, Homer's verse he knew,
His mind through Æschylus with pleasure flew;
He read each passage, soft, sublime, and strong,
From great Euripides to Sappho's song;
His mind was learning's self, for such as he,
That love to learn, grasp at infinity.
The microscopic beauties they behold,
Where atom insects seem as tinged with gold,
Trees, plants, and birds, and all that is or was,
In quick succession through their fancies pass,
And every language, vulgar or refined,
Are nothing to express the scholar's mind.
He something of each varied science knew;
146
And searched each cause on which the learned write,
He learned to know how little mortals know
Of things above, or meanest things below,
That when the northern dancing streamers fly,
They cannot tell how these can light the sky;
He learned to know that men of wit and thought,
With greatest learning, scarce have learned ought.
Philo the works of navigators read,
That round the globe the bending canvas spread;
He knew by reading what each clime brought forth,
Between New Zealand and the cold Cape North.
Astronomy he loved—his soul flew far,
Through all the systems, to the Polar star,
Nor rested there—he struggled to explain
The cause of tides that roll upon the main.
Greek was his glory, Homer's verse he knew,
His mind through Æschylus with pleasure flew;
He read each passage, soft, sublime, and strong,
From great Euripides to Sappho's song;
His mind was learning's self, for such as he,
That love to learn, grasp at infinity.
The microscopic beauties they behold,
Where atom insects seem as tinged with gold,
Trees, plants, and birds, and all that is or was,
In quick succession through their fancies pass,
And every language, vulgar or refined,
Are nothing to express the scholar's mind.
147
Philo in study passed his years away,
Ere he was led to college far astray.
There, with all aids, the dissipated youth
Fly from the paths of rectitude and truth;
The greatest learning sometimes turns a curse,
At every step the human heart grows worse,
Though these can have the globes, the map, the chart,
And every help of Nature and of Art,—
Old vellum manuscripts of Runic lore,
And those which ancient Romans scribbled o'er.
From Egypt curiosities are brought,
Perhaps two thousand years since these were wrought,
Parchment from Athens, papyrus from Rome,
Where Learning had a palace for her home.
Language is now at college which was spoke
When Britons groaned beneath the Saxon yoke.
All that three thousand years can now supply,
Are spread before the youthful scholar's eye;
However dark the works, they there can gain
Others that will the darkest parts explain.
But Philo, taught by many a pompous guide,
For Nature's scenes and his own closet sighed.
Sorrow, he found, with learning must increase—
All chances there, but still he wanted peace,
And sighed for solitude beneath some hill,
Where at its foot runs swift the moorland rill,
The blossomed bough, the birds upon each spray,
Chanting their vespers to departing day,
Where bounding trouts within the brook arise,
When winds are still, and sporting are the flies.
Such rural pleasures Philo then could please,
And nought on earth can equal joys like these.
No pleasure half so near the joys above,
As he experienced when he met his love,
True as Leander, she as Hero true,
Bliss most refined, the greatest e'er he knew.
Kings have not more, and riches cannot give
Such bliss as when in innocence we live.
Ere he was led to college far astray.
There, with all aids, the dissipated youth
Fly from the paths of rectitude and truth;
The greatest learning sometimes turns a curse,
At every step the human heart grows worse,
Though these can have the globes, the map, the chart,
And every help of Nature and of Art,—
Old vellum manuscripts of Runic lore,
And those which ancient Romans scribbled o'er.
From Egypt curiosities are brought,
Perhaps two thousand years since these were wrought,
Parchment from Athens, papyrus from Rome,
Where Learning had a palace for her home.
Language is now at college which was spoke
When Britons groaned beneath the Saxon yoke.
All that three thousand years can now supply,
Are spread before the youthful scholar's eye;
However dark the works, they there can gain
Others that will the darkest parts explain.
But Philo, taught by many a pompous guide,
For Nature's scenes and his own closet sighed.
Sorrow, he found, with learning must increase—
All chances there, but still he wanted peace,
And sighed for solitude beneath some hill,
Where at its foot runs swift the moorland rill,
The blossomed bough, the birds upon each spray,
Chanting their vespers to departing day,
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When winds are still, and sporting are the flies.
Such rural pleasures Philo then could please,
And nought on earth can equal joys like these.
No pleasure half so near the joys above,
As he experienced when he met his love,
True as Leander, she as Hero true,
Bliss most refined, the greatest e'er he knew.
Kings have not more, and riches cannot give
Such bliss as when in innocence we live.
Within the valley Philo had a friend,
With whom he many a happy hour could spend,
His greatest glory was to make him blest—
He lent the youth all volumes he possessed.
Here Philo, happy, passed his hours away,
Ere wine had led his tow'ring soul astray.
He read of battles, and the sons of Jove,
Of mystic rites, and of the scenes of love.
In learning's happy hours the youth was blest,
Till love's strong passion raged within his breast;
Then lost was peace, and Homer's noble fire
Was quenched amid the fervour of desire;
Forgot the things below, the orbs above,
His tow'ring spirit was subdued by love.
She that had vowed to love him while away,
Bless him at eve, and think on him by day,
Like woman, to be rid of anxious pain,
Forsook young Philo for a vulgar swain.
Then fell the genius—Philo's love was scorned,
In silent grief the foolish scholar mourned,
Cobwebs were seen among his modern books,
And Care had stamped her image on his looks.
What tuneful Virgil? or what Homer then?
What all the writings of the wisest men?
What all the greatest literature of earth?
What all his studies?—all are nothing worth.
French and Italian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek,
Served but the anguish of his soul to speak.
His loving heart beat fast with anguish wrung,
And thus, in tuneful Greek, the scholar sung:
With whom he many a happy hour could spend,
His greatest glory was to make him blest—
He lent the youth all volumes he possessed.
Here Philo, happy, passed his hours away,
Ere wine had led his tow'ring soul astray.
He read of battles, and the sons of Jove,
Of mystic rites, and of the scenes of love.
In learning's happy hours the youth was blest,
Till love's strong passion raged within his breast;
Then lost was peace, and Homer's noble fire
Was quenched amid the fervour of desire;
Forgot the things below, the orbs above,
His tow'ring spirit was subdued by love.
She that had vowed to love him while away,
Bless him at eve, and think on him by day,
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Forsook young Philo for a vulgar swain.
Then fell the genius—Philo's love was scorned,
In silent grief the foolish scholar mourned,
Cobwebs were seen among his modern books,
And Care had stamped her image on his looks.
What tuneful Virgil? or what Homer then?
What all the writings of the wisest men?
What all the greatest literature of earth?
What all his studies?—all are nothing worth.
French and Italian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek,
Served but the anguish of his soul to speak.
His loving heart beat fast with anguish wrung,
And thus, in tuneful Greek, the scholar sung:
“What is the consummation of desire,
The scholar's learning, or the poet's fire?
What pleasures from the greatest knowledge flow?
Learning is oft the cause of deepest woe.
The peasants may admire the learned youth;
But did the poor unlettered know the truth,
How fine their feelings, how their lives are spent,
They then would sing, enjoying true content.
The learn'd may search in ancient books for years,
And read till not a novelty appears,
These cannot Nature from the bosom move,
No—more they know, the stronger is their love;
And women, oh! I write it with a tear,
Soon lose affection when you are not there.
Oh, angel forms! Heaven's masterpiece on earth!
Sources of pain, the fount of joy and mirth!
Destroyers of dark grief, the cause of woe!
But why be blamed, since Nature made you so?
Sometimes as true as Sol's returning rays,
But oft as fickle as the meteor's blaze.”
The scholar's learning, or the poet's fire?
What pleasures from the greatest knowledge flow?
Learning is oft the cause of deepest woe.
The peasants may admire the learned youth;
But did the poor unlettered know the truth,
How fine their feelings, how their lives are spent,
They then would sing, enjoying true content.
The learn'd may search in ancient books for years,
And read till not a novelty appears,
These cannot Nature from the bosom move,
No—more they know, the stronger is their love;
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Soon lose affection when you are not there.
Oh, angel forms! Heaven's masterpiece on earth!
Sources of pain, the fount of joy and mirth!
Destroyers of dark grief, the cause of woe!
But why be blamed, since Nature made you so?
Sometimes as true as Sol's returning rays,
But oft as fickle as the meteor's blaze.”
Now Philo's years amount to twenty-one,
And he a learned youth, a hopeful son;
His lyre he tuned, and love was in its sounds,
And he sole master of three thousand pounds.
As when the rider, on the grassy plain,
The useless bridle thrown upon the mane,
The curb of wisdom thus did Philo throw,
Resolved all passions of mankind to know.
A sable velvet coat he first had made,
And o'er his breast the shot-belt was displayed;
With spaniels and swift greyhounds Philo ranged,
As fancy led, so his amusements changed;
Each night at parties, at the course next day,
And thus the hours of Philo passed away:
Or when the horn proclaimed the cheerful chase,
Philo was there, with pleasure on his face.
At concert, play, the masquerade, or ball,
With learning, mirth, and wit he outshone all,
No thoughts of feeble age, or future days—
His soaring mind was ever drunk with praise.
His gay companions now with him would go,
And view the far-famed field of Waterloo;
Provided well with gold, they bade farewell
Each to his fair, and saw the ocean swell.
When in the strongest gale, upon the prow
Young Philo stood, and watched the waves below,
Whose foaming tops were whitened o'er with spray,
And tossed the vessel as she ploughed her way;
With heart undaunted he beheld the tide—
His mind rejoiced to see the vessel ride,
Her head amid the waves, her stern on high,
And then her bowsprit pointing to the sky;
One hand was firmly grasped around the line,
The other held a quart of purple wine.
Serene, he viewed the waves in every form,
And vowed 'twas wine inspired him in the storm:
For firm he stood, and saw the vessel plough
Through hills of seas, his friends all sick below.
The tempest ceased, the winds retired to rest,
The bark skimmed smoothly o'er the ocean's breast.
On deck the sea-sick passengers appeared,
By Philo and the sailors loudly cheered.
The youth had seen the well-built vessel roll,
The sight had warmed his genius, fired his soul;
The lightning's flash, the thunder, and the sea
Had raised his mind to noblest ecstasy.
The sails were full, and, leaning on her side,
Swiftly she cuts her passage through the tide,
And soon the land is seen in distance blue—
The level shores of Belgium they view.
The music sounds, the wines like water run,
When mirth upon the vessel is begun,
The captain joins, and there the spirits shine,
The choicest brandy, and the best of wine,
And soon they hailed a vessel which they knew,—
The captain from the steerage quickly threw
A cask of Hollands—with the best 'twas stored—
The sailors shouted when 'twas heaved on board.
Then discord rose, and every sailor drunk—
Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk.
The boat was lowered, but mirth and joy were o'er,
They fell-but from that fall they rose no more,
Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land,
And left them nearly buried in the sand.
And he a learned youth, a hopeful son;
His lyre he tuned, and love was in its sounds,
And he sole master of three thousand pounds.
As when the rider, on the grassy plain,
The useless bridle thrown upon the mane,
The curb of wisdom thus did Philo throw,
Resolved all passions of mankind to know.
A sable velvet coat he first had made,
And o'er his breast the shot-belt was displayed;
With spaniels and swift greyhounds Philo ranged,
As fancy led, so his amusements changed;
Each night at parties, at the course next day,
And thus the hours of Philo passed away:
Or when the horn proclaimed the cheerful chase,
Philo was there, with pleasure on his face.
At concert, play, the masquerade, or ball,
With learning, mirth, and wit he outshone all,
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His soaring mind was ever drunk with praise.
His gay companions now with him would go,
And view the far-famed field of Waterloo;
Provided well with gold, they bade farewell
Each to his fair, and saw the ocean swell.
When in the strongest gale, upon the prow
Young Philo stood, and watched the waves below,
Whose foaming tops were whitened o'er with spray,
And tossed the vessel as she ploughed her way;
With heart undaunted he beheld the tide—
His mind rejoiced to see the vessel ride,
Her head amid the waves, her stern on high,
And then her bowsprit pointing to the sky;
One hand was firmly grasped around the line,
The other held a quart of purple wine.
Serene, he viewed the waves in every form,
And vowed 'twas wine inspired him in the storm:
For firm he stood, and saw the vessel plough
Through hills of seas, his friends all sick below.
The tempest ceased, the winds retired to rest,
The bark skimmed smoothly o'er the ocean's breast.
On deck the sea-sick passengers appeared,
By Philo and the sailors loudly cheered.
The youth had seen the well-built vessel roll,
The sight had warmed his genius, fired his soul;
The lightning's flash, the thunder, and the sea
Had raised his mind to noblest ecstasy.
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Swiftly she cuts her passage through the tide,
And soon the land is seen in distance blue—
The level shores of Belgium they view.
The music sounds, the wines like water run,
When mirth upon the vessel is begun,
The captain joins, and there the spirits shine,
The choicest brandy, and the best of wine,
And soon they hailed a vessel which they knew,—
The captain from the steerage quickly threw
A cask of Hollands—with the best 'twas stored—
The sailors shouted when 'twas heaved on board.
Then discord rose, and every sailor drunk—
Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk.
The boat was lowered, but mirth and joy were o'er,
They fell-but from that fall they rose no more,
Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land,
And left them nearly buried in the sand.
Arrived upon the hill where armies fought,
Young Philo's soul was all absorbed in thought;
The place where thousands lay interred was seen,
And there the grass waved with a deeper green.
He thus reflected: “What a stillness here!
Low the Hussar, and cold the Cuirassier;
The meeting armies shout not on the field,
Nor fall by thousands, each too firm to yield;
The close-wedged squares of British troops are gone,
Now still the place where Europe's peace was won;
Mute are the bugle and the trumpet's calls,
Yet here the plough shall find the bones and balls,
And here the spade shall turn up many a scull,
And broken arms, of which the fields are full.”
In thoughtful contemplation Philo gazed,
And saw the spot where Hugomont had blazed;
He thought what thousands fell when that was fired,
Then, with a sigh, from Mount Saint Jean retired.
At Belle Alliance, at the close of day,
The blithe companions drove their cares away;
Inspired with brandy, Philo's muse awoke,
And in extempore verses thus he spoke:
Young Philo's soul was all absorbed in thought;
The place where thousands lay interred was seen,
And there the grass waved with a deeper green.
He thus reflected: “What a stillness here!
Low the Hussar, and cold the Cuirassier;
The meeting armies shout not on the field,
Nor fall by thousands, each too firm to yield;
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Now still the place where Europe's peace was won;
Mute are the bugle and the trumpet's calls,
Yet here the plough shall find the bones and balls,
And here the spade shall turn up many a scull,
And broken arms, of which the fields are full.”
In thoughtful contemplation Philo gazed,
And saw the spot where Hugomont had blazed;
He thought what thousands fell when that was fired,
Then, with a sigh, from Mount Saint Jean retired.
At Belle Alliance, at the close of day,
The blithe companions drove their cares away;
Inspired with brandy, Philo's muse awoke,
And in extempore verses thus he spoke:
“Low laid in yon mountain the hero, the brave,
The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot,
And the young British warrior's no more than a slave,
He now as a slave is forgot.
The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot,
And the young British warrior's no more than a slave,
He now as a slave is forgot.
The pride of the battle to ashes are turned,
And dim their once war-beaming eyes;
The boldest, that rushed where the hot battle burned,
Fell quickly, but never to rise.
And dim their once war-beaming eyes;
The boldest, that rushed where the hot battle burned,
Fell quickly, but never to rise.
And this is their glory—they stand as a mark,
Firm, braving the bullets, for fame;
They flash, like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark—
To them all the blaze of a name.”
Firm, braving the bullets, for fame;
They flash, like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark—
To them all the blaze of a name.”
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With thirst of knowledge Philo's bosom burns,
And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns;
But the young muse had formed her thorny nest,
Sweetly perfumed, within his youthful breast.
Here he resolved to make remarks as true
As life itself, on every passing view.
His books he spurned, and open threw his mind
To read the spacious volumes of mankind;
He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools,
Full of the modern jargon of the schools;
But he resolved the varied scenes to see,
From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty.
First at Brussels he told his tale of woe,
As though his arm was lost at Waterloo;
His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side—
In Anglo-French he told how comrades died.
At night, what varied scenes were in his view,
Mixed with the beggars and the gipsies' crew!
Their mournful tales were changed to mirth and glee,
And mendicants all joined in harmony.
When Philo saw their mirth and fun begin,
A louis d'or he gave to purchase gin.
All instruments were tuned that then were there,
And punch and music drowned all their care;
Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see,
And good box organs grinded melody.
Philo without its mask deception saw,
Amid the motley group, that laughed at law.
Escaped from prison, one, disguised, was there,
Another was a wounded privateer;
And there was one her infant's blood had spilt,
That Hollands deeply drank, to drown her guilt.
Mirth still prevailed, and tuned the viols' strings—
Grief, Care, and Sorrow spread their drowsy wings,
And flew away—such sportive glee and fun
As few behold, by gipsies were begun.
Then young and old could sit not on the bench,
But danced—Italians, Germans, Dutch, and French.
Upon the earthen floor the wooden peg
Kept as true time as many a better leg.
To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene,
Up rose three youthful gipsies, scarce eighteen;
One touched the sweet guitar, and with a smile
The other danced, in true Italian style;
Chords from the tambourine the third awoke—
Philo stood charmed, their feet the music spoke.
These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain,
With these he never wished to meet again;
Then were Deception's masks all torn away—
In higher spheres he spent each future day.
And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns;
But the young muse had formed her thorny nest,
Sweetly perfumed, within his youthful breast.
Here he resolved to make remarks as true
As life itself, on every passing view.
His books he spurned, and open threw his mind
To read the spacious volumes of mankind;
He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools,
Full of the modern jargon of the schools;
But he resolved the varied scenes to see,
From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty.
First at Brussels he told his tale of woe,
As though his arm was lost at Waterloo;
His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side—
In Anglo-French he told how comrades died.
At night, what varied scenes were in his view,
Mixed with the beggars and the gipsies' crew!
Their mournful tales were changed to mirth and glee,
And mendicants all joined in harmony.
When Philo saw their mirth and fun begin,
A louis d'or he gave to purchase gin.
All instruments were tuned that then were there,
And punch and music drowned all their care;
Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see,
And good box organs grinded melody.
Philo without its mask deception saw,
Amid the motley group, that laughed at law.
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Another was a wounded privateer;
And there was one her infant's blood had spilt,
That Hollands deeply drank, to drown her guilt.
Mirth still prevailed, and tuned the viols' strings—
Grief, Care, and Sorrow spread their drowsy wings,
And flew away—such sportive glee and fun
As few behold, by gipsies were begun.
Then young and old could sit not on the bench,
But danced—Italians, Germans, Dutch, and French.
Upon the earthen floor the wooden peg
Kept as true time as many a better leg.
To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene,
Up rose three youthful gipsies, scarce eighteen;
One touched the sweet guitar, and with a smile
The other danced, in true Italian style;
Chords from the tambourine the third awoke—
Philo stood charmed, their feet the music spoke.
These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain,
With these he never wished to meet again;
Then were Deception's masks all torn away—
In higher spheres he spent each future day.
Hundreds were dressing for the masquerade,
In all the varied costumes nations wear
In every clime throughout each hemisphere.
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Who led the dance, with Muses circled round.
With grand, majestic step Apollo trod—
The sons of song paid homage to the god.
First Homer came, a venerable form,
Upon his breast portrayed the ocean storm,
Above, the gods, descending from the sky,
Some to defend, and some to ruin Troy;
Across the poet's breast a robe was flung,
And there portrayed the battles that he sung.
Next ancient Hesiod, whose mighty strains
Were heard from earth to the celestial plains;
Sappho and tuneful Virgil next appear,
Horace and Pindar pay their homage there.
Then Shakespeare comes, with a majestic mien,
The trumpet's sounds the greatest bard proclaim;
Apollo bows, and reaches forth his hand,
Around the Muses and the poets stand;
Apollo crowns him with a wreath of light,
Whereon is written, “Nature, Depth, and Height.”
Cupid is on his robe, the dying maid
Within the tomb of Capulets portrayed;
The field of battle, and the ocean storm,
The solemn ghost, and Ariel's fancied form;
The meeting armies, and the murdered kings,
E'en some short sketch of all created things.
Philo, to praise the mighty bard, displayed
The noblest scene of all the masquerade;
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With fair French belles, as lovely as refined.
Through every stage of life he strove to pass,
Resolved to see how varied Nature was:
But here the youth was foolish, learned, and vain,
His genius drowned in the bright champagne;
Wisdom departed, riot took her place,
And led young Philo into deep disgrace.
The scene must drop, and hide him from our sight,
With all the follies of a drunkard's night.
Learning is not true wisdom. Youths may be
Refined and polished to a high degree;
Genius may mark the scholar for her own,
Yet by her brightest sons is often shown
Minds that can soar in rapture to the skies,
On Learning's wings—feel noblest ecstasies,
Then sink to earth; and mixing with the throng,
In Folly's path with drunkards roll along.
With best of resolutions Philo came,
And deeply sighed, through grief and inward shame.
Oppressed with sickness, his ideas fled,
His memory weakened, and an aching head;
A ruined appetite, a trembling hand,
His pen obeying not his mind's command.
To drive away the melancholy train
Of dark ideas, he flew to wine again;
An ecstasy he felt in getting drunk—
To what a depth his learned mind was sunk!
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That all the learning of his youthful years,
With which his father hoped to make him blessed,
Should only leave his bosom more oppressed.
Oft would his mind upon the muses' wings
Soar to the skies, and leave all earthly things;
Beyond mortality were Philo's strains
Tuned to the orbs that deck the heavenly plains.
He sung not love's soft passion, lovers' care,
His theme the heavens, the ocean, earth, and air;
In deepest bursts of passion he could shine,
And power and harmony filled every line.
With thoughts original, with words at will,
His verses made his readers' blood run chill,
But not with horror,—'mid the stars he trod,
And sung th' omnipotence of Nature's God;
On wings of fancy his unfettered soul
Flew far as comets soar or planets roll.
Where undescribed Infinity had birth,
He looked in vain for this small spot of earth,
Beheld the Almighty's power the systems guide,
Then asked—“What am I? what is human pride,
What our conceptions, learn whate'er we can,
What is the pomp, the dignity of man,
Compared with Him? How mighty is the thought!
He spoke—the worlds, the systems sprung from nought?
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He says, ‘Let there be light!’ and light appears;
And when it shall be the Creator's will,
A word can make the rolling orbs be still.
At His command the orbs burst out in flame,
Or fade to nothing, whence at first they came.”
At intervals, the muse of Philo sung
In strains like these, then silent was her tongue.
The hand that holds the fatal potion shakes,
Invention's fled, the nervous feeling wakes;
His eyes have lost their fire, his faltering tongue
Speaks not in sentences so firm and strong,
His memory's fled, invention laid at rest—
His heart-strings quiver in his weakened breast;
But still the thoughts of other bards' despair,
The sons of misery and rankling care,
Prompted a last, though enervated lay,
And this the substance of his weak essay:
“Where merit lives, the greatest sorrow swells,
Fortune forsakes the spot where anguish dwells;
Obscure in life the man of letters mourns,
While hope, and care, and sorrow come by turns;
Or if his reputation widely spread,
Oft has he starved, and even wanted bread,
Perished in poverty, of little note,
While others profited by what he wrote.
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Or moved by want, or pressed by hunger's call,
Mourning in shame, he scarce durst raise his head,
But spoke immortal verse to gain his bread.
Plautus, whose verses made all ages smile,
A miller was—then sat, and wrote awhile;
It was no shame that he, a poet born,
Should sometimes sing, whilst others ground the corn.
Xylander studied at eighteen for fame,
His hope, his glory, was a poet's name:
His notes on Dion Cassius, every line,
Were sold for want, that he once more could dine;
Then his young vanity for ever fled,
He thought, he studied, how to write for bread.
Agrippa in a workhouse laid his head,
But soon they found the great Agrippa dead;
Forced from his native valleys to depart,
Despair and poverty had broke his heart.
The tuneful Camoens sweetly strung his lyre—
Dimmed was the poet's eye, and quenched his fire;
He, who could tune his wildest notes so sweet,
Perished from hunger in the public street;
Child of the muses! he, a poet born,
Found, with his broken harp, a corpse at morn!
Upon the bard the haughty, wealthy gaze,
And those who most neglected, gave him praise.
He heard it not, his noble soaring mind
Was glad to leave such cold neglect behind.
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Till he a crown had borrowed from a friend;
And when in study he sat up at night,
So poor, he oft was destitute of light;
But soared above all want, he wrote—and praise
Has formed his chaplet in succeeding days.
Great Ariosto bitterly complains
Of poets' misery, of poets' gains,
Till great Alphonso gave a lovely spot,
And built the bard a little rustic cot;
When these were done, the poet's soul was glad,
Yet he so poor, his furniture was bad;
He found few riches flow from poets' strings,
And palaces and verse are different things.
See great Lord Burleigh, fav'rite of the queen,
When Spenser was approaching, step between
Her and the bard whose fame through lands resounds,
Keeping the poet from the hundred pounds:
He thought his clerks deserv'd far more than he—
The child of genius and of poverty.
But Burleigh's name detested shall be read,
Who caused the bard to die for want of bread.
O poets! hope not favour from the great,
These merit often cast beneath their feet.
Savage, unfortunate, by want distressed,
When cares and sorrows on his bosom pressed,
Th' eccentric ‘Wand'rer’ he had studied years,
Smiled on its lines, or wet them with his tears,
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For poor ten pounds the beauteous poem sold;
And mighty Milton, who could sing of heaven,
For his great work, had just the same sum given.
Otway and Butler suffered here in time,
One starved, and one imprisoned for his rhyme;
But Chatterton, the noble-minded youth,
Whose genius soared in hyperbole or truth,
Whose fancy mounted on her airy wings,
As o'er the clouds he touched his powerful strings,
Oppressed with misery, o'ercome with care,
Fell, early victim to a dark despair!
A luxury he thought a single tart,
And study and long starving broke his heart.
He who to water got sometimes no bread,
We see applauded, when the youth is dead.
Poor Boyce, who wrote ‘Creation,’ see him stand,
White as the paper, while Death shook his hand!
Cold in the garret, destitute of fire,
This son of song the world left to expire.
No crust of cheese, and not an ounce of bread
Found in his garret, when the bard was dead!
Here had he died in penury alone,
O'er his worn shoulders an old blanket thrown,
A skewer thrust in before to keep it fast,
And in his hand was found his pen at last!
The tuneful Burns, old Scotia's darling pride,
In his youth's bloom full prematurely died,
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To ask a favour even from a friend;
He struggled hard against his adverse fate,
And when assistance came, it came too late:
Yet, when the harp of Burns had ceased its sounds,
They heaped upon his dust seven thousand pounds!
I speak the truth, what every man must feel—
This would have bought and stocked for him Mossgiel;
But poets seldom rise while here they live,
The critics break their hearts, and then a stone they give.”
Philo, irresolute, is still led on,
Till health, and genius, and his strength are gone.
The rosy cheek is pale, the manly face,
Where Health had stamped her own strong masc'line grace,
Fast shrinks away, and difficult the breath—
He feels the woeful harbingers of death.
Fain would he turn to his once healthful food,
But nought he sees can do the smallest good.
Life would die out, as tapers do expire,
Did not strong spirits keep alive the fire.
His old companions, true to him when young,
Come to inquire, but when he hears each tongue,
Oh, how he weeps!—he knows what is the cause
Of his strong system making such a pause,
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Had deep within the mighty ocean sunk.
I leave the thoughts that press upon his mind,
When he must leave his dearest love behind.
The cares of earth with him will soon be o'er,
But what a boundless ocean lies before.
Amph'rus beheld his early grave, but grief
Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief.
The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead,
Thrilled through his heart, and his soft bosom bled.
The days of youth, but newly left behind,
With all their pleasures, rushed upon his mind.
Young Philo's sister he before had loved—
From her his constant bosom never moved;
But long had absence torn their hearts in twain,
And deep the grief when these can meet again.
With tears fair Rosabelle her sorrows spoke,
And all the sister in her bosom woke:
“Philo is now no more—oh! Amph'rus, hear
This last request—I make it with a tear.
Philo, my brother, is untimely gone,
And Paros' sand of genius too is run—
Oh! drink no more—stop, ere the hour come soon,
Which makes your morning sun go down at noon!”
He heard and wept—he trembled for his fate—
He would return, but feared it was too late.
165
His mind from music to despair was tost.
Just like a youth when running down a hill,
And shows his action and his youthful skill,
Who sees, at length, a gulf where he must drop,
But, swift his motion, and he cannot stop;
He takes a spring, to live or rise no more—
He's saved—his effort brings him safely o'er.
Amph'rus beheld before the gulf of death,
The grave wide yawning, his a feeble breath,
Then he forsook strong spirits, drank good beer,
He lives—and yet his noble notes I hear.
When in the minster all the octaves swell,
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the octaves well;
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the soothing lute,
'Tis Amph'rus on the viol or the flute.
In music Amph'rus in full splendour shines,
And will do, like the sun, if he refrain from wines.
But, oh! what morals do the writers make!—
'Tis better far to give advice than take.
Oh! could I write that I myself could save
From this one curse, this sure untimely grave,
This endless want, that soon must stop my breath,
These flaming draughts, which bring disease and death,
Then should my Muse upon her wings advance,
And Genius triumph o'er Intemperance.
166
When friends with friends a social hour employ,
When the full bowl is circled all around,
And not a single jarring string is found;
But truest wisdom of a young man's heart,
Is well to know the moment to depart.
Thousands of hopeful youths, who first begin
To mix with friends in this bewitching sin,
Soon lose their resolution, and what then?
Their privilege is gone to other men,
Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where
They seemed so happy with his social cheer,
When all is spent, and all resources o'er,
Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door.
I could employ my pen for weeks, for years,
Write on this subject, wet it with my tears;
For spacious as the ocean is the scope,
For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope,
Lays best of characters below the dust,
And fills connections with a deep distrust.
But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told—
Eternity alone can these unfold.
That I may know these ills, and stop in time,
Is my last wish, as thus I end the rhyme.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |