Moonlight :: :: University of Virginia Library

Moonlight

The Doge's daughter: Ariadne: Carmen Britannicum, or The song of Britain: Angelica, or The rape of Proteus: By Edward, Lord Thurlow

Thurlow, Edward Hovell-Thurlow (1781-1829)

MOONLIGHT: WITH OTHER POEMS.

[dedication]

MOONLIGHT.

SEVERAL COPIES OF VERSES.

A SCENE, IN AN EVENING BAY.

A Passage in “Angelica,” since otherwise written.

OCCASIONAL VERSES.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

MOONLIGHT: WITH OTHER POEMS.

TO JOHN, LORD ELDON: LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN: HIGH STEWARD OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

MOONLIGHT.

Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with me;
Since the great princes of the world, confin'd
Within the pomp and pageantry of state,
Deny thy presence, to whose searching eye
The world, and it's ambition, is a dream,
And all it's glorious and loud-sounding pomp,
Charmful to sense, well weighed in thy ear,
But musick to a spectacle of woe;
Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with me.
I offer thee my heart, and with it too

Such entertainment as that heart can give,
A fellowship of thought, a deep desire,
E'en to the verge of madness to pursue
The track of meditation, whilst the Moon,
Emerging from the lightly-flying clouds,
Laughs in her pomp, and with her palest light
Sits arbitress in the mid' plains of Heav'n;
Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with me.

What hinders, but, with sad and silent feet,
Hands in each other lock'd, and eyes cast down,
On which the cloud of Meditation sits,
We wander o'er the lawns, and seen of none,
Amidst the pale dominion of the Night,
Hold converse with the habitants of Heav'n?

Now silence is in air, and sound is none:
Save, where the owl from out her ivied bow'r
Hoots joyous at the Moon, and sprinkled stars,
That shine, like di'monds, in the blue serene
Blest harbingers of bliss, and beacons fair,
That guide our wand'ring footsteps through a world

Of errour, that our falt'ring feet beguiles,
I gaze on you with love, and rising hope,
That, when the mass of this empoised globe
Is purg'd by fire, I, rising with the host
Of countless spirits to your utmost sphere,
Shall wake the song of Morning, and admit
My sequent charge to the Archangel's gate.
O, what a dross upon our earthly robes
In that assuaging furnace shall be lost!
Pride, avarice, and lust; with all the bane
Of envy, the malignant scum, that chokes
The fountain of sweet thought; with direful hate,
And ill-advised anger, that bedims
The Sun's bright presence in this balmy world.
There too is Night, where the Archangels dwell;
But Night serene unvisited by storms,
And fed with golden cressets from the hand
Of Love immediate, prodigal of truth.
Thy sister too is there, O silver Moon,
Thy primal sister, from whose image fair
Thy form was taken; there too Hesperus,
The unalloyed lamp, that wakes the Eve;

And that pure star, that, orient to the day,
From out the bosom of sad Night, displays
His kindling fire; lights, too, numberless,
As are the leaves of Autumn, or the sands,
That pave the margin of grey Ocean's tide.
For what is this brave sphere, and perfect round,
But image and brief abstract of the space,
That shines above, wherein the Angels dwell,
And with celestial colloquy divide
The Seasons, as they pass, of day and night,
As do the wise and good in this our sphere?
So let us talk till Morning; tho' alone,
With Angels let us talk, and with the stars,
That shine, as eyes, upon this lunar world;
Diverging upon day, ere yet the air,
With fragrance of the dewy Morn embalm'd,
Strike on our sense, and touch the faulted ghost,
That wanders from it's deep sojourn, with awe
Of Proserpine, that to her biding calls,
And love, reluctant to forsake it's haunt:
They follow, as the falcon to the lure.

What soul, that lives, from off this upper stage
Has down descended to the gate of woe,
Where Cerberus, the cruel worm of Death,
Keeps watchful guard, and with his iron throat
Affrights the Spirits in their pale sojourn?
What soul, that lives, yet living, has ta'en flight
From off the fenced platform of the world,
And, borne on the soft pinions of the Spring,
Or the sweet Summer to the blissful soil,
Has view'd the planets from the edge of Heav'n?
Or with a shorter wing the flight of doubt
Has flown, uncertain, to that veering realm,
That middle empire of th' inconstant air,
(A flight, that must be ta'en in Moons eclips'd,)
Wherein the Spirits, neither bad nor good,
That know no measure of their fruitless time,
Waste time and hope in their unhoped change?
No soul has flown unto the gate of woe,
Or to the blissful soil, or brush'd the shore
Of Limbo with it's wings; or flown, and liv'd:
But yet intelligence from these has come,
By angels, and pale ghosts, and vexed fools,

That, straying as they wont, were blown athwart
The nether world, from the oblivious pool
Scarce 'scaping, on our scornful marge to land;
Thence to be blown by ev'ry idle wind,
Their tale half told, with a new flight of fools,
Eclectick, to the planetary void.
But be it well advis'd, the learned ear
Alone can taste their mission, or the eye
Of wisdom their approaching steps foretell:
Thou, then, O Muse, beneath the burning stars,
Guide me in converse with angelick minds,
And with the fleeting spirits, and protect
My soul, unus'd, from the vain talk of fools.

Awhile, O dear companion of my steps,
Awhile to this seclusion let us pass,
Where, underneath the laurel and the yew,
The owl loud hooting to the frosty air,
Reposing in this shade our dewy feet,
We may observe the chariot of the Moon
Wheel her pale course through the mid' plains of Heav'n.
Link we our souls unto her burning wheels,

And, in her flaming orbit, let us pass
O'er sea and land in our entranced thought!
Oh me, what a prodigious height we soar
Above the bright expanse! how trifling seem
The little aims and troubles of the world,
That with their flimsy bondage yet enthrall
Great souls, of birth to win the arched Heaven!
Where is the speck, for which great Cæsar fought,
For which great Julius in the Senate died,
The sceptre of the World, so call'd by him,
Who led Æneas from the flames of Troy,
Through woe and shipwreck to Lavinia's coast?
Tell me, O Muse, if any eye can tell,
Where is the godlike Alexander's march,
The king of kings, the horned Ammon's son,
Spoiler of Greece, that, stabbing Persia's heart,
Wash'd his soil'd axles in the Indian sea?
Where is that sea? or where, indeed, the world?
The boundless world, by the great poets sung?
A kingdom? or a province? or a field?
A speck, that the exalted mind can scarce
Discern, amid' the wilderness of air!

How pleasant, to consider at his toil
The pale Geographer, with wakeful thought,
The compass in his hand, the open page
Of some great ancient tracer of the hills,
And rivers from their source before him laid,
With careful hand adjusting to each king
His portion of pass'd earth, and marking well
What here to Greece or Artaxerxes 'long'd!
O, this is lunatick, and well deserves
The sounding lash, (cruel expedient,
And ill-abus'd to heighten Nature's woe!)
If the fair picture of this insect world
Were well presented to our purged thought,
And man taught right on what small stage he play'd.
But hold! the abuse of passion here has sway;
Nor let our startled Nature in amaze
Put aught dishonour on the learned toil,
That keeps a Rennel from his balmy sleep.

Then now, O Muse, alighting from the car
Of that pale traveller, the crescent Moon,
Wakeful Diana, let us sit, and think,

By the bright glow-worm's lamp, that twinkling plays
Upon the dewy grass, what causes lead
The unembodied spirit to appear
In semblance of it's person, to dislodge
Clear courage from the startled hearts of men?
Love opes the gate of Erebus; and God
Permits the streaming spirit to ascend,
Impatient of it's woe, the while the Moon
Beguiles the over-dreaming Night, and sinks
The fair Creation in a deep repose?
Then walk the silent Spirits to the beds
Of lovers, on whose lids the tears are wet,
And, waking their o'er-wearied sense, present
The image too belov'd, with gentle hope
And soft assurance of renew'd delight,
When Death shall lead them through the World's sad gate.
Revenge, too, and immortal Pity draw
The Spirit from it's home, where'er it be;
To wander by the glimpses of the Moon,
And overcome the guilty with the sight
Of re-appearance in the form of woe:
Or else to warn the soft and trusting soul,

That in it's safety joys, and fondly sleeps
Upon the edge of peril, of new woe,
That shall awake it to eternal doom.
By rivers, and on lawns, in cypress shades,
In monumental yards, and ivied towers,
Whilst the owl hoots to the uprising fires
Of Hesperus, they haunt, and thence divide
Upon their sev'ral errands, till the lamp,
The harbinger of Morn, awake the East.
Kings, Poets, Virgins, Warriors, whose renown
Has fill'd th' expansive circle of the World,
And Shepherds, that of love disastrous died;
In armour, in soft stoles, in peasant weeds,
Or in the robes of thought, with laurel crown'd:
Touch'd by the dream of life, they re-ascend
From their oblivious haunt, and feed their sense
With expectation of the matin ray.
Not less in number, than the nascent stars
That shine upon their woe, or the soft crowds
Of Daffodills, that in the early Spring
Awake the hill of Mountfield to delight:
But long ere Morn with her awak'ning trump

Disperse the shadows of thin Night, they flee,
Thick as Autumnal leaves upon the shore
Of Vallombrosa, at Proserpine's call,
And warn'd by Phosphor, to their penal home.
Ah, hapless Spirits! but the day shall come,
When Mercy on that silent shore shall reign,
And that too-troubled dream of endless woe,
In which the senses wander, as a pool,
Conclude in bliss, amid' immortal bow'rs!

I question then, O Muse, in love divine,
Where that immortal Spirit may abide,
That in his just vocation of this world,
With favour of the King, maintain'd the sway
Of jurisprudence in this triple realm?
Well known to thee: that, in his aged thought,
With Homer and great Danté did converse,
And sweet Euripides, whose mournful song
Flows in his numbers, like the silver Po,

In weeping tribute to the Adrian sea.
For since the stars have shed discursive light,
With favour, on our globe, no greater mind
E'er sat in judgement on the thoughts of men;
Or brought it's noble faculties to bear
With more advantage on the publick weal:
In thought, in word, in action ever just:
Shield of the poor; and, rising for his King,
Th' upright defender of his awful throne.
Then, oh, may God forsake him not in death!
But that pure Spirit, that on cloudy Earth
Stood faithful to his King, and still upheld
His gracious Master's cause, be crown'd with light,
And in the fields of Æther sit, inclos'd
With glory, on a sempiternal throne!

Led by his hand, I first essay'd to walk,
O dear companion of my earliest steps,
With thee, O Muse; and from the beams of morn

To the pale twilight sought thy converse sweet.
Whatever in old Greece or Rome was done,
Or else recorded of those actions pure,
From thee I learnt, and from his counsel sage.
Grave was he, and severe; but gentle too:
And underneath a rough exterior hid
A heart, which pity melted into tears.
Farewell, my Master, and my earliest Friend!
But not farewell of thee the memory;
Since all I am in fortune, or in rank,
In thought, or my inheritance of fame,
Bating my nature, to thy care I owe;
I should be viler than the dog, that tears
The hand, that fed him from his earliest youth,
If I forsook thee, or thy gen'rous cause:
The seasons may pass on, and blanch my head,
And wither my shrunk cheek, and paint a map
Of woeful age upon my wrinkled brow;
But 'till the tomb outshuts me from the day,
And time disparts me from the things, that were,
Thy memory shall unimpair'd remain,
Boundless, as I must still be less, than thee:

While Spring shall for her blossoms be desir'd,
Or Summer for her sweets, while Autumn pale
With fruitage shall be crown'd, or Winter rule
In storms and tempests the dejected year,
So long, O my first Master, while I live,
Shall I forget not either thee or thine.

Where now is Homer? or great Virgil where?
Or in what shades does Ariosto walk,
That with Orlando's madness charm'd the world?
Where now is Danté? in what region pure
Of that unbounded World he sung so well?
Or Petrarch, that to love was sworn to death?
Or Tasso, in whose stately verse we see
Whatever the great Roman was before?
Where is Malvezzi, in whose bitter sense
The World may smile at it's own Tragedy?
Or, if we tnrn to England in our thought,
Tell me, where Chaucer may be found? or where
Sweet Spenser, that from rebels fled to death,
His heart quite broken with the faulty time?
Where now may Milton meditate? or he,

That sung the praises of a country life,
Himself condemn'd in cities to abide,
The rebel's foe, forsaken by his king,
Ingenuous Cowley? but, above them all,
Tell me, O Muse, for thou alone canst tell
Where is immortal Shakspeare, at whose birth
Great Nature was expended to the lees,
And Death forsook his empire o'er the world?
Or that extravagant and erring soul,
That fled in youth from out the bounds of time,
Since nothing here was equal to his thought?
May God forgive him! wheresoe'er they be,
Or in the Moon, or in the sprinkled stars,
Dividing day and night with punctual love,
Or else laid up within the silent earth,
To bud abroad, like flow'rets, in the prime
Of summer, when the wakeful trump shall blow;
This I pronounce without the awe of fear,
Time, were it lengthen'd out beyond the space,
That yet has pass'd o'er the created globe,
Redoubled to our sense, shall never yield

A harvest of such spirits to our hope.
When Phœbus to his billowy inn retires,
And Hesperus takes up the pleasing toil
Of giving light to this umbrageous world,
A thousand stars, inferior but divine,
Then turn our darkness into second day:
But in this intellectual world, our night
Is boundless prodigality of shade,
Shade without end, that no expectance knows
Of beamy morning to the lapse of time.
So men have thought; whose thinking is held wise:
May God avert this prophecy from truth!

Tell me, O Muse, beneath this silent Moon,
This Moon, that now beguiles us, as we sit,
While to our wakeful ear sweet Philomel
From out the lower woods is chanting now,
Tell me what cause, that in this later age,
Wherein by fortune we are placed here,
The souls of men beneath this equal sky,
Should thus be spoil'd of their inheritance?
Are not the seasons lovely as before?

Do not the glancing lights of Heav'n persuade
With eloquence, as when of old they beam'd
On those wise heads, that now in marble rest?
Witness, O Moon, the fair and primal light,
That on the forehead of sweet Ev'ning burns,
And lights the midnight with a lamp of love,
(That now hast call'd me from my sleepy bed,
To walk beneath the shadows of thy beams,)
For universal Nature be thou pledge,
That all the works of God are equal fair,
As when created at the birth of time!
Doubtless they are, for, what from God proceeds,
Can never know decay; but wheel their orbs,
Or in their stations stand, with lovely light,
Uninjur'd, unimpaired, unalloy'd:
But in the minds of men, by sin defac'd
From their original brightness, change has found
A dwelling, though exil'd from Nature's works.
So is there moral blight, as in the air
The clouds of insects wither leaf and bud.
And now, O Muse, throughout the poets' world
Great fault I find in musick, and in speech,

And in conception of their fabled thought.
For all is false: so novelty persuades
To aim at greatness, far beyond their grasp,
A phantom, that but lures them to decay.
Some with new measures trick the greedy ear,
That would disdain the musick of the stars,
Because, forsooth, it is of ancient date:
Some with such speech beguile the wond'ring time,
That if the triple-mouthed dog of Hell
Should howl a leash of languages at once,
Beneath the doubtful and eclipsed Moon,
His speech were plain simplicity to theirs:
And for their thought, O Jupiter! whate'er
Is base and retrograde from ancient time,
Wherein the minds of men were clean dispos'd,
That reigns in them complete and absolute.
This for the worse: but some there are, O Muse,
That like the wakeful Nightingale we hear,
With fitful musick charm the wand'ring time.
Praise be to them: and let the ill expire,
Like falling meteors, in the depth of night.

How many tubes are levell'd at thy orb!
How many eyes are gazing with despair
From cells of madness at thy silver beams,
Wakeful Diana! that o'ersway'st the seas,
And of the tides of passion reignest queen.
Yet long they shall not gaze, or idly weep;
For now the glow-worm pales his twinkling fire;
The Nightingale is mute; and grey-ey'd Morn
Stands tiptoe on the silv'ry mountain's top:
Farewell, O Muse; and thou, sweet Moon, farewell,
'Till Night again shall give thee to my view.

Edward, Lord Thurlow, Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain.

This alludes to the Chorus, translated by the late Lord Thurlow, from Euripides; which is printed at the end of this poem.

The great, but unhappy Chatterton.

SEVERAL COPIES OF VERSES.

LINES ON THE VICTORY OF CAPTAIN SIR PHILIP BOWES VERE BROKE, BARONET,

OVER THE CHESAPEAKE, IN THE AMERICAN SEAS.

Now had our fleet, that, on the angry main,
Despite of France, of Holland, and of Spain,
The flag of England in full triumph bore,
Been wreck'd at last upon the Western shore.

Columbia's flag was fatal to our pride;
And we, that had the polish'd World defied,
Supreme in courage, and in nautick skill,
Were doom'd to know from petty traitors ill.

The sad reverses of inconstant Fate
Could not o'ercome our courage with their weight;
But England felt this, as a fatal blow,
To strike her colours to so mean a foe.

A foe, that swims about the wat'ry world,
Wherever Jove hath his bright thunder hurl'd,
To pick by carriage on the doubtful main
Our Island's refuse, and her thievish gain.

Long time she doubted, and long time forbore
To face the thunder of the Lion's roar:
But bribes from France, what courage could not do,
To war committed her rebellious crew.

Then the poor senate, in their broken style,
Began the Queen of Nations to revile;
And Billinsgate, by Western wit made more,
Fill'd all the echoes of their knavish shore.

The jails were open'd, and their cunning plann'd
A gen'ral search and rummage through the land,
That all the knaves, that in her bosom slept,
Like flocks of locusts, to their ships were swept.

Then their four frigates, long laid up in mud,
Were slowly dragg'd to the unwelcome flood;
That, once a year, with trumpets passed o'er,
To scare the dolphins, and dismay the Moor.

But now the Citizens the change shall know
Between a turban'd, and a Christian foe;
And Commodores, that brav'd it at Algiers,
Shall skulk in ocean, lest we crop their ears.

Their souls being little, their occasions much,
And no relief from Frenchman, or from Dutch;
With their fat dollars they our men o'er-reach,
And taint their faith with their Satanick speech.

Some, that for debt were in their jails confin'd,
And some, for crime that left our shores behind,
Some weak, some mad, from their allegiance fell,
To find, that treason is a mental Hell.

And well it was America did so,
The only hope of safety she could know;
For, let what will be, thus our fate is spun—
'Tis but by England, England is undone.

In mere despair with these their tops they fill,
And triumph o'er us by their force and skill:
The cannon, pointed by those English minds,
Awhile dispers'd our glory to the winds.

Then their few ships were of so vast a size,
That scarce our decks could to their port-holes rise;
We fought in flame, while they securely stood,
And swept our decks into the briny flood.

Oh! what brave spirits in the deep were lost,
Their friends', their country's, and their nature's boast!
Who smil'd in death, and, to their country true,
Found all their wounds were for their fame too few!

But Broke reveng'd them by his noble deed,
And in the Shannon taught his foes to bleed:
Columbia, gazing on the adverse shore,
Beheld her glory, and her cause no more.

Now, joyous light throughout our nation burns,
While he in laurels o'er the sea returns:
And, taught by Broke, Britannia now may view
What her brave Suffolk to her foes can do.

Our gracious Master, with a sweet reward,
Has shown his faith was grateful to his Lord:
And, brave himself as is the crystal light,
Has cloth'd with honour his courageous knight.

November 19th, 1813.

Sir Philip Broke is a gentleman of Suffolk.

The Prince Regent was graciously pleased to create Captain Broke a Baronet of England, for his conduct in this battle.

TO ROBERT SMIRKE, ESQ.

ON HIS BEAUTIFUL BUILDING OF COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.

When first I saw this fair and wond'rous pile,
The great example of the Dorick style,
And mark'd its wise proportions how severe,
And yet how smooth its beauty did appear,
The bright contention of each outward part,
Where Nature only was adorn'd by art,
Not overwhelm'd, as other builders use,
Who the rich stores of science still abuse,
But rais'd in separate glory to the sky,
As with the works of Nature born to vie:
Lost in delight, and in amaze I stood,
And pitied the old age, that, harsh and rude,
In humble dwellings the sweet scene pursu'd.

And as God fram'd the perfect work of Man,
Where all proportion in its search began,
To be the book and alphabet of love,
Where mighty builders their first science prove;
So this, hereafter, to our eyes shall stand,
The great Ephesian temple of our land,
And sweet Apollo, which thy art has plann'd.

Nor less in beauty, though that beauty be
Of all mankind the pure epitome,
And therefore to our architects the source
Of sweet proportion, and unerring force,
Where they may learn, from this thy rule sublime,
To charm the skies, and to out-question time;
Not less in these, than in fair use we weigh
The wond'rous genius, that these walls display,
That speak thee, Smirke, and boldly I declare
The faultless truth, the great Palladio's heir.

With fine delight, by Mathematicks taught,
A beauteous pile may to the skies be wrought,
In which the marble, or the stone, may vie
In likely form with brave eternity;

And wear a crown of beauty to outshine
Th' engilding Summer with its front divine;
But if the inward beauty be not like,
To win by use, as with delight to strike,
It shall be but a vizor, or a mask,
Which for intelligence we vainly ask;
Apollo to the eye; but to the mind
A vacant ideot, tongueless, deaf, and blind.

This faculty or soul, the light of Heaven,
Thy hand with prodigal award has giv'n,
And fram'd its various chambers to the use
Of boundless passion, bating the abuse;
For that were like the fool of elder date,
Who thought by vast dimension to be great:
Whereas in life, as in the mimick scene,
The perfect virtue lives still in the mean;
And firmly lives: this thy fine nature knew,
And gave example, when this plan you drew.

And as the wisest nature is forbid,
By silence or disuse if it be hid,

And only years and strict attention can
Discourse the perfect nature of the man;
Yet not completely, if we finely sought
From the first cradle, till his age were brought
To fill the second with o'er-lab'ring ill,
So may we read thee, and admire thee still:
Yet hope not, till this squared stone shall fall
To crumbling dust, or fire consume it all,
That, in prophetick light, in Theatres
Gives type aud fashion of the World's decease,
An element, still fatal to the Stage,
That saves it from the sad expense of age,
(Wherein of old the Pope was wont to deal,
Now Bonaparte's vex'd malice doth reveal
Itself in fire;) we hope not to pursue
The map of knowledge, which in this you drew,
To full attainment; but content to find
Each day some new provision of your mind,
Expend our lives in wisely being taught,
How the great founders in their marble wrought
The book of wisdom, and the map of thought.

Thy genius was confin'd, and yet thy art
Will not that secret to the world impart:
But, like Apelles, when he form'd in thought
His boundless picture, this brave house hast wrought:
Free, as when Phidias his keen chisel sway'd,
To carve the marble of the matchless maid,
That all the youth of Athens, in amaze
At that cold beauty, with sad tears did gaze;
(For love, t' expend itself, shall find no bar,
Or on a marble image, or a star;
But wander, in its nature unconfin'd,
As is thy genius, or th' unleased wind;)
Thou, on one side hemm'd in by th' publick ways,
Yet didst this temple to bright honour raise;
And in th' once pious Garden's near despite,
Didst lift these pillars, to outmatch the light:
Great Architect, with wonder I pursue
The fancy of thy draught; and find too few,
Had I a hundred tongues the words of praise,
Which they could yield me, while on this I gaze.

Then be it so: let silence then persuade
Thy gen'rous nature, how our hearts are sway'd:

For silence is best praise, when wonder reigns:
Yet take this versc for thy immortal pains:
Thou here hast built a temple, and a dome,
Which shall exalt thee, for all time to come;
Unless the lightning, in especial love,
Shall this fair structure to the skies remove;
Snatch'd by the hand of Jove: though earthly fire
May be the outward signal of desire.
This may be so; and yet thy name shall live,
And to our public works new glory give,
Where thou and Shakspeare uncontroul'd shall stand,
The mix'd delight and wonder of our land,
Till fire unfeign'd shall mar the world's design,
And wrap in ruin this our brave confine,
Unbounded Poet! Architect divine!

VIRGIL'S GHOST.

I walk in woods from morning until eve,
From eve to dewy night: and pitch my camp
In the sepulchral forests, where the bird,
That fled from Tereus, weeps the livelong day:
And all the starry night she weeps, and sings
Before the gate of Proserpine; a cave,
That leads from Dis into this upper World:
There dwell I, wheresoe'er that dwelling be,
Apart from kings; and with discursive ghosts,
Upon the edge of Morning, sweetly talk.
Now pale Bootes on the cavern shone;
And I, forsaking great Malvezzi's page,
Call'd with bright voice unto that ghostly herd,
Which they are wont t' obey, for Maro's soul,
T'uprise, and visit the o'er-wakeful moon.
I call'd; and Maro at the summons came:
“What would'st thou, son, with me?” I straight reply'd,
“O poet, above all divinely wise,

“To whom the Sun and Moon were strictly known,
“The sprinkled stars, and seasons, that o'er-sway
“This fickle globe, the earth, and what it bears,
“Of fruit, of creatures, of immortal man,
“With all that in the lower realms of Dis,
“Far underneath the glimpses of the moon,
“Have wakeful being; tell me now, I pray,
“What, in this wand'ring errour of the world,
“Best medicine for sorrow, may be found
“To lull the oblivious evil into peace?”
I said; and Maro, with sad tears reply'd;
While, overhead, the wakeful thunder roll'd,
As when it passes o'er Oblivion's shore:
“Great is the task, O son, and various minds
“With various solace lull the poignant woe:
“Some in wild passion steep the troubled breast,
“And some with sweet Nepenthe lull the mind,
“And some with herbs of mere forgetfulness:
“Their potency is much; and men may stay
“The orbit of the moon with herb and song;
“And so the sov'reign reason may assuage.
“But open wide the porches of thine ear;

“Believe it, with the sanction of my soul,
“That, worn with study, sought Proserpine's shore;
“A Pot of Porter, O my gracious son,
“Shall best resolve thy question, if'tis drawn
“From a sweet tap, where the resort is much.”
He said; and vanish'd, like the dews of Night.

TO ITALY, ON THE DIVINE SINGING OF MADAME CATALANI.

Not that thy beauty from the Tramontanes
Is fenc'd by mountains of eternal snow;
Not that great Jove into the silver Po
Struck Phaëton, that lost the Solar reins;
Not that the golden Orange on thy plains,
And fatt'ning Olives in full sweetness blow;
Nor that thy lakes into Avernus go,
While sparkling Summer on their surface reigns;
No; nor that that enlighten'd Hill doth shine,
The torch of Nature, through the radiant night,
Can make thy coast, O Italy, divine:
But this thy glory, this thy sacred light;
That Catalani, whom all tongues incline
To speak immortal, is by birth thy right.

Vesuvius.

THE ORANGE TREE:

A SONG.

Fair blossoms the Orange, and long may it bloom,
And yield a sweet fragrance, ungrateful to Rome;
Beneath the deep shade of its time-spreading boughs,
In the bright blushing Bacchus we steep our warm vows:
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Long, long may it blossom, the pride of that House!

Religion first planted the beautiful tree,
And Liberty kept it from evil still free,
From blasts of the winter, and blights of the spring—
'Till, oh! a sad season misfortune did bring:
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Again shall it blossom, the garden's sweet king!

God smiles on the Orange; and men love its shade;
For the leaves not in winter, unchanging, will fade;
Still true to its nature, it mocks the dark skies,
And, unharm'd by the lightning, the tempest defies:
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Again in new beauty its blossoms arise!

Then bathe its sweet roots in the juice of the vine,
And in songs of bright beauty declare it divine,
Let the fairest of women still haunt the soft shade,
And the bravest of soldiers still rise for its aid!
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Belov'd of all nature, the tree cannot fade!

TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE OF ORANGE AND NASSAU, SOVEREIGN PRINCE OF THE NETHERLANDS.

Thy Sov'reign honour, and thy kingly sway,
Well blazon'd by the artful poet's song,
Shall save thee, Orange, from th' unnumber'd throng,
That, like the leaves of Autumn, flit away,
Call'd by sad death, to be Oblivion's prey,
And over-heap'd by Time's invidious wrong:
Ah me, how many, thy sweet peers among
Shall wail, lamenting, for their natal day!
But thou, a star, that from the briny foam
Is finely lighted in the sparkling morn,
Shall burn in glory to thy sacred home,
And the wild air, and ocean well adorn:
I, first of poets, 'mid the darkling gloom,
Saw thee to light and fine distinction born!

TO JOHN, LORD ELDON, LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN, HIGH STEWARD OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Like as the lights, that on the globed sphere
With fine discernment to our senses play,
And night, and the divided season sway,
With glory, and adornment of the year;
Making what is, since making to appear
What God has planted, our abode t' allay
With pleasance and with use, which else were prey,
But for that grace, to sorrow and to fear;
So shine the wise to our o'er-darken'd sense,
That great Orion in just thought is pale,
And Phosphor dim; so thy bright excellence
Against the clouds of evil doth avail;
And, from thy pure and unhurt eminence,
Above them all, doth make th' un-loyal quail!

WRITTEN ON THE THIRTY-FIRST DAY OF DECEMBER.

Wrapt in a mantle of dark clouds, the year,
The winds now sleeping, in dim rest expires,
And Julius' walls send forth their flashing fires,
And shake with thunder our rejoicing sphere:
The days of Agincourt again appear,
Poictiers, and Cressy, where our warlike sires
Saint George first planted on the Gallick spires,
And Paris shook, that London was so near!
Bourdeaux, and Bayonne view our tented host,
Whose conqu'ring horses drink their streamlets dry;
The Netherlands to France again are lost;
The Rhenish Princes from her banners fly:
Then line the ramparts, while this glorious toast,
Th' IMMORTAL REGENT! thunders to the sky.

The year 1813 ended with a thick, and almost unprecedented fog over London, for some days.

The Tower, built by Julius Cæsar.

THE DOGE'S DAUGHTER:

WITH SEVERAL TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON, AND HORACE.

TO JOHN, LORD ELDON, LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN, HIGH STEWARD OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Then all the fields, and woods shall with it ring:
Then Echo's burden it shall be:
Then all the birds in several notes shall sing;
And all the rivers murmur thee.
Cowley's Mistress.

THE DOGE'S DAUGHTER.

CANTO I.

Now Aurora left her bed,
And from aged Tithon fled;
And Apollo shed his beams
On the deep and silent streams,
Coming forth with all his state
From the Oriental gate;
Now the Doge was at his prayers;
And her bright and golden hairs
Amphitrite combed free,
Underneath the crystal sea;
And the Mermaid chanted brave
On the blue and sparkling wave;

Now from Candia and from Rhodes,
Mighty governors' abodes,
And from Cyprus, too, in haste,
Where the lord Othello grac'd
The ill-omen'd war begun,
(But that was ere the deed was done,
Born of jealousy, and pride,
By which Desdemona died,)
Messengers, with winged feet,
In the Doge's hall did meet,
Bringing tidings of affairs,
To fill his wise and aged cares;
Now the lute and cittern breath'd
Morning vows, to heav'n bequeath'd,
From the chaste, uprising maid,
Vows, which must be duly paid,
When she in marriage-bed doth lie,
Without reproach to chastity;
And whate'er in thought was free,
Like the lark 'gan sweet to be;
But pale jealousy did weep;
And the miser fell asleep;

And the light-hating man, and fowl,
The astronomer, and owl,
To their learned beds were gone;
Now the night, the night is flown,
And the morning came apace,
Breathing sweet an amber grace,
To delight the race of men
With her crimson cheeks again:
But yet Heliodora lay
Turning from the golden day,
Naked, on her purple bed:
Tears, like amber, she did shed,
And her bosom heav'd with groans,
Fit to melt the marble stones,
That jut upon the Adrian sea:
“What is day, false day, to me?
“Hide, O nurse, th' accursed sight,
“False to me, and to delight;
“Close my head in sable night.
“Is not this the fatal day,
“Tell me, O Caneura, pray,
“When the Doge, my father, said,
“I should mount the marriage bed

“With the lord Orsino's heir?
“O day of madness and despair!
“Rather, bear me to my grave!
“Hast thou, O nurse, no means to save?
“Or must I to my tomb be gone?
“Is my father's heart like stone,
“That thus can see his daughter lie
“Distracted, and, unpitying, die?
“Let me to the Indies fly,
“To the out-posts of the world,
“Or upon the winds be hurl'd,
“Far beyond the peopled sphere,
“Ere Orsino find me here,
“Ready for his hateful arms;
“Hast thou, O nurse, no counter charms,
“From the mountains, or the fields,
“That the gentle Nature yields,
“In pity to a maiden's woe;
“O my lord, my father, oh!
“Weeping at your feet I lay,
“Yet you turn'd your heart away
“From your daughter in despair;
“O, pity me, thou golden air,

“For pity to my God I fly;
“O Frangipani, let me die,
“If I behold thee not again!”
Then, overcome with sudden pain,
The maiden fell upon her back,
All her reason gone to wrack,
Fainting from the light away:
Scarce the nurse the life could stay,
When she had restor'd it well;
Scarce her aged sense could tell
What should be remedy to love:
Much persuasion she did move,
The winged God to overcome,
And to bring sweet patience home:
“Men are men,” Caneura said,
And gently shook her aged head;
“And Orsino, to say truth,
“Is a fair and gentle youth,
“Who will speed your happiness;
“Do not you, then, make it less;
“Or against your father fight,
“For a dream of mere delight.

“Is not Frangipani gone?
“Why then will my child make moan
“For a good she cannot have?
“Say, the youth is fierce and brave,
“Full of virtue and delight,
“Yet he is not in your sight,
“Nor he cannot be again:
“What then can be more idle pain,
“Than to tear your heart for one,
“Who cannot to your arms be won?
“Would you with Frangipani go,
“An exile, o'er the mountain's snow?
“Or with Frangipani sleep,
“In the caves of forests deep,
“Underneath dishonour'd boughs?
“Would you be the windy spouse
“Of a corsair, on the deck
“Baring that immortal neck?
“O my Heliodora, bred
“In the golden marriage-bed,
“Fed from out a princely cup,
“Where 'tis only kings may sup,

“Would you”—but who counts the lights,
Sparkling in the summer nights;
Who the leaves can number all,
That in waning Autumn fall;
Who can tell what sands there be,
By the coral-paved sea;
Who can do these things, may tell
That, which is impossible,
The words that from Caneura fell.

All her words were vain; as vain
As it were with gentle strain
Of persuasive speech to move
A marble Dian into love:
And, like the marble, Heliodore,
An image for all men t' adore,
Lay upon her purple bed,
Hiding her thrice-golden head:
Only, now and then, a groan
Made her mighty passion known;
And the tears were flowing free,
As from unhappy Niobe.

Then she lift up her marble arms,
Unfolding a whole world of charms;
And, “O great God, and what beside
“May hear, and pity me,” she cried,
“If I forsake this hapless youth,
“And fall from my pure rock of truth;
“If I forsake him in his woe,
“And from Frangipani go
“To another marriage-bed”—
No more the hapless virgin said;
But fell again upon the bed,
And her bright and golden head
In the dews of night was steep'd;
Long time, then, the maiden sleep'd;
And the nurse, with trembling fear,
Could scarce bring back her daughter dear:
Then, as she held her weeping head,
“And is it thus,” Caneura said,
“My daughter for her love must die?
“Lift up thy thoughts, my child, and I
“To ease thy loaded heart will try:
“What if the Doge be grown so old,
“That he thy passion can behold

“Unmov'd, Caneura will not see
“Thee perish for fidelity:
“'Spite of them all, and all their power,
“Thou shalt be free this very hour;
“I've an old head, and that can tell—
“There's nothing so impossible,
“But that this eve, ere Hesper glow,
“To Frangipani thou shalt go.
“There's never a prince in Italy,
“With my Heliodore shall lie,
“But I'll know the reason why:
“Unless, and I myself deceive,
“Frangipani give them leave.
“Frangipani, I say again,
“What is there in that lovely strain
“So hateful to the Doge's ears?
“The Doge is mad, as it appears;—
“Is he not young, is he not brave,
“On the land, or on the wave?
“Is he not soft and gentle too?
“And very beautiful to view?
“What would the Doge fain have, I pray,
“That to this boy he answers, nay?

“And he must banish him, forsooth,
“Despite of all his spotless truth;
“O, he must banish him, and then
“He brings us here this king of men,
“This great Orsino here to wed,
“And t'enjoy thy golden bed;
“Marry, forbid! the Doge is mad,
“I say't again, the Doge is mad,
“Caneura says it,”—here she stopp'd,
And for a while the subject dropp'd,
Lacking her breath; and then she smil'd,
To see how much her words beguil'd
The virgin, who raised up her head,
As when a marigold doth spread
Her flourishing leaves to the Sun's eye,
That lately in cold death did lie.
The rose came to her cheek again,
And her heart forgot its pain:
And, as the ivy clasps the oak,
The nurse into her arms she took,
And gave her an immortal kiss;
Fit, O Jove, t' have fill'd with bliss

Thy eternal chair on high:
And then upon her neck did lie,
Full of joy, and tranquilly.
Then the nurse resum'd her theme;
“It were folly in th' extreme,
“Longer here, my love, to stay,
“Than the lamp shall shed it's ray,
“In the purple skirts of day;
“Then, ere yet the moon's soft beam
“Gild the Adriatick stream,
“When now the Doge's board is set,
“(We have time t' escape them yet,)
“We with Phœbus taking leave,
“Underneath the purple eve,
“To the port will make repair:
“I have a good brother there,
“Captain of the ship, Saint Mark;
“Who will take us in the dark,
“And safely once on board with him,
“We may chant our vesper hymn,
“Laughing at the peril past:
“And, the while we stand by the mast,

“Farewell, good Orsino, Sir!—
“If the Doge shall make a stir,
“That to us breeds little care,
“When upon the gulf we are,
“And the wind is fresh, and fair:
“And my brother sails to-night,
“Having his permittance right.
“Then, my love, my Heliodore,
“All your grief shall soon be o'er,
“Flying to a foreign shore.
“Only there is one thing yet,
“These legs, so soft and delicate,
“Must forget their wonted state:
“And this bosom for the world,
“When our foresail is unfurl'd,
“Flying in the idle wind,
“Then a sailor's coat must bind:
“I must buy you sailor's clothes;
“But be sure you learn your oaths,
“Not such pretty oaths, as maids
“Find expedient in their trades,
“By Gis, and by Saint Charity—
“No, you braver words must try:

“It will not hurt your chastity,
“Since for winged love you fly.
“Now, my love, awhile farewell!
“I at eve a tale will tell,
“That, I think, shall please you well.”

Then from out the door she pass'd,
But first Heliodore embrac'd,
And to the Doge then went in haste.

Him she pray'd, with simple air,
Her lady's presence to forbear;
“For she was full of shame,” she said,
“Till the lamp of eve might shed
“Her amber light, and Hymen's vows
“Should then be wakeful through the house:
“His highness knew the gentle maid,
“How soft, and how of love afraid,
“And, if it pleas'd him, she would stay
“In her chamber during day,
“Till Hesper should light up his ray.”

Then, having won the duke's consent,
To the port Caneura went:
Her brother, and aboard she found,
Pulling anchor from the ground,
And his sails already bent:
Straight on board Caneura went,
And brought his courage to comply,
To save Heliodore, or die:
“If this wind shall hold us fair,
“We shall cause the Doge some care;
“For long ere morning's light we see,
“Off Apulia we shall be,
“If it but blow a steady gale—
“Believe it, I'll not take-in sail:
“Be sure you come, so soon as day
“Sinks upon the crimson bay,
“And underneath that squared gate,
“My boatmen and my boat shall wait,
“And I, to watch the turns of fate.
“Then bring your beauteous sailor; I
“Am not afraid for her to die,
“But stand prepar'd to fall or fly.”

Then, furnish'd with her boyish weeds,
Caneura to the shore proceeds,
And murmur'd oft upon her way,
“This, sure, is an important day,
“As Venice to her cost shall know,
“Long ere to-morrow's sun shall glow.”

And now the princess, pale with fear,
Seeing, that the hour was near,
Equipp'd herself in boyish weeds,
And to the wat'ry marge proceeds:
The nurse still saying to her friends,
That she her sister's son attends
Down to the port, to Greece to sail:
And now they see the flapping sail,
And now into the boat are gone,—
Orsino, for thy wife make moan!

CANTO II.

Like a dart, from Apollo sent,
Down the Adrian gulf they went;
Like a swallow on the wing,
Flying to o'ertake the spring:
Scarce the moon three times had shone
The silver Adrian waves upon,
Scarce three times on the middle sea,
Shining in her glory free,
Ere the sev'nth morn, at break of day,
They enter'd the Athenian bay:
The ruddy sun began t' appear,
And strait they heard the trumpet clear,

And straight they saw from an armed port
The duke of Athens, and his court,
In gold and filed steel appear,
With blemish to the flow'ry year.
The duke on a white charger borne,
More white, than are the steeds of Morn,
More white, than are the kine that feed
On Clitumnus' sacred mead,
A purple vestment o'er him thrown,
That with all Sidon's beauty shone,
And on his helmet, perching clear,
Like Love, a golden grasshopper,
That seem'd to chirup to the year:
His bridle and bit, embossed brave,
With stones, that a bright lustre gave,
Like light from the Oriental wave;
And in his port, and valour, he
Seem'd like duke Theseus to be,
That won, and then espoused free
The warlike nymph, Hyppolité.
Then did a strain of musick swell,
As when the Tritons sound their shell,
And the approach of Neptune tell:

Or when Proteus breathes his horn,
To call his sea-calves through the morn:
Or when the balmy Venus laughs,
And Jove the cup of Hebe quaffs.
So did the musick breathe; the while
In the ruddy morning's smile,
A pearled banner, painted rare,
Floated in the purple air:
Thereon did Meleager slay
The boar, that made his savage prey
On the Caledonian way:
Great was the skilful painter's art;
The spear went piercing through the heart,
And the boar foam'd out his breath,
Grinning in the sylvan death.
So o'er the duke's brave head did fly
His ancestor's fair victory.
And by his side a knight there rode,
Much in semblance like a God,
That from his perfect panoply
Flames of living light did fly:
Tall and straight, like a pillar fair,
That the wise and pious care

Of Solomon did make, t' uphold
His temple, all carv'd out with gold:
And upon the knight's brave crest
Was a famous charge exprest,
That is, on an uprising knoll,
The God-created Capitol:
Rome, the heart of Rome, he bore:
Then, through the trumpet's silver roar,
It struck the heart of Heliodore:
“O Jove,” she cried, “Apollo 's there,
“Or great Frangipani's heir:
“See, Caneura, see,” she cried,
“The knight, that rides the duke beside,
“Arm'd with Mars' o'er-haughty pride:
“Know you his crest? know you the man?”
Then the aged nurse began;
“O Jove,” she cried, “what grace is here!”
Then in Heliodora's ear
She pour'd a thousand proverbs forth,
Which he may tell, who thinks them worth.
But what the cars, and what the steeds,
Prancing on the flow'ry meads,

Whose hoofs, in fiery thunder hurl'd,
Shook the centre of the world;
What the foot-men, arm'd with spears,
Had I great Nestor's aged years,
And lungs of brass, I could not tell:

Leaving now the Ocean's swell,
Caneura, and fair Heliodore
Stood on the Munychian shore:
The Duke of Athens they were told,
Did war with the fierce Pagans hold;
And now was to the mountains gone,
To make with them his prowess known.
A sigh then Heliodora drew,
And, changing to an ashy hue,
And straight again to crimson red,
Thus to her nurse, Caneura, said;
“Ah me, O nurse, and can I lie
“Thus idle, when the war is nigh?
“What if Frangipani die?
“Love may arm my hand with force:
“Give me a spear, then, and a horse,

“A mailed breast-plate, and I'll go,
“To fight with the unfaithful foe.
“Love shall reign throughout the fight:
“Battle is a sweet delight,
“When the man we love is near:
“Not ev'n a woman's heart shall fear.
“I would not from this combat be,
“For all the gold the Sun can see.”
Then her eyes with fury shone;
But with a fury only known,
Where Love has shook his crimson fire:
'Twas valour, mingled with desire!
Her soul would from her armour fly:
Freely would she bleed, and die:
But more freely yield her breath
In chaste Hymen's softer death.
So the dove will fondly go
To meet the falcon, her fierce foe;
So the fond deer, in nature's truth,
Will brave the boar's o'er-gnashing tooth.
“Did not, O nurse, Hyppolyté
“Shine in mailed armour free,

100

“At Ilium for the cause of love?
“And shall that gentle rapture move
“A mind unspoused? and my soul,
“Wherein all Venus hath controul,
“Be tranquil, while her gentle mate
“Must brave the fierce assaults of fate?”
And then into her cheeks there came
A soft, an Amazonian flame:
And on the ground her looks she bent,
Her soul upon the war intent.

In vain whate'er Caneura said:
Heliodore lift up her head,
And saw beneath an open shed,
An armourer, whose anvil play'd
A merry ditty to his trade.
“Pray, Sir,” said Heliodore, “can you
“Permit me a good suit to view,
“That Hercules could scarce shoot through?
“Armour of proof, that may avail,
“And blunt the Turkish iron hail?
“For, cap-a-pée, perhaps I mean
“To mingle with the warlike scene:

101

And then she gave a smile, whose dart
Went straight into the armourer's heart.
“Fair lady,” said the armourer then,
“These suits are for our warlike men:
“Nor arms, nor armour, can them shield,
“If once 'gainst you they take the field:
“Mars himself to you must yield:
“So sings Anacreon.” Then his work
Went on, despite th' invading Turk:
For he, before to-morrow's sun,
Must have a crested helmet done,
To save a head, that had no brains,
But had a mind for these campaigns.
“Achilles was a valiant man;”—
“Pray, Sir,” said Heliodore—“Anan?”
Replied the armourer: “Sir,” said she,
“A gentle youth commission'd me
“To purchase at what price you will,
“A noble mon'ment of your skill:”
“A monument? that 's fairly said;
“Many that way my skill hath sped:
“But ev'ry man best knows his part;
“And if he have so brave a heart,

102

“Why here's a sample of my art:”
Quoth he, “this armour I first made,
“When I was youthful in the trade,
“And, but Duke Æneus had no wit,
“For him I had imagin'd it:
“However, 'tis a noble piece,
“As you shall look on through all Greece,
“And, if you take it, it is sold
“For fifty pieces of pure gold:
“I warrant it”—said Heliodore,
“Here count your fifty pieces o'er,
“I take it on your word: no more!”—
Then with her took the armour home,
And straight into an inn they come:
Then purchas'd the brave maid a steed,
And fairly rode into the mead:
“Farewell, Caneura: if I die,
“Under a marble let me lie,
“And these few words, my truth to prove,
“I died for Frangipani's love.”

The crimson morn was laughing now:
She heard, upon a mountain's brow,

103

The blazing trumpet's silver roar,
And steeds, that neigh'd along the shore:
The cries of men, like wolves, whom rage
Of hunger doth to fight engage,
That the pale moon away doth fly,
Eclipsed by their famish'd cry:
The crash of armour, like the roar
Of ice, that breaks upon the shore:
Then victory, sweet victory!
She heard the brave Athenians cry:
And then the tide of sound did fly,
And then again approach'd her nigh,
For now it ebb'd, and now it flow'd,
As smil'd or frown'd the warlike God.
At last upon her ear it came,
Like sudden, and soul-startling flame,
And, as a rocky point she turn'd,
Before her all the battle burn'd:
It may be, then her purpose quail'd,
But love, immortal love prevail'd;
For casting round a fearful look,
The blood almost her heart forsook,

104

Beholding Frangipani's crest
By numbers on all sides opprest.
He rag'd, as doth a warlike boar,
Hemm'd in by hunters on the shore,
Or as a rav'nous eagle, when
His mountain nest is scal'd by men.
Now this man, and now that he slew,
But was o'er-power'd by the crew:
Nor could shake off the heavy cloud
Of that unwelcome Turkish crowd.
At last, upon his side there came,
With swiftness of the light'ning's flame,
His spear in rest, a Turkish knight:
When Heliodore perceiv'd the sight,
She gave a cry, as doth a dove,
Who death will for her offspring prove:
And, soul and body, to the fight
She drove her steed against the knight.
Like Jove's divine and winged dart,
Her spear went rightway through the heart,
And o'er his crupper he fell dead:
But Heliodore so swiftly sped,

105

That, falling o'er the man her steed,
She tumbled headlong on the mead:
And with her foe-man senseless lay,
As both had been but imag'd clay.
Frangipani saw the thing:
And, making for himself a ring,
Like Ajax, with his shield and blade,
Protected the unhappy maid:
Brave Ajax, who, still dear to fame,
A purple hyacinth became:
And, like a hyacinth, on earth
Soiled all it's golden worth,
The pallid Heliodora lay,
To death almost a willing prey.
Whoever came too near the maid,
Full dearly for the trespass paid;
For in his throat, or in his heart,
He felt the steel his spirits part.
At length so many Turks had died,
He was by Pagans fortified
Against the war's o'er-swelling tide.
Then Frangipani, when the roar
Of battle now was nearly o'er,

106

And to the hills and forests went
The Turkish host incontinent,
The duke of Athens at their heels,
(As when a wolf, appalled, steals
From the pursuing shepherd's rage,)
Began his pitying thoughts t' engage
With help to the brave knight below,
Immersed in a sleep of woe:
His shatter'd helmet he unbound;
And on the verdure all around
The golden tresses 'gan to play,
Like beams of th' Oriental day,
And Heliodore before him lay:
Yes, Heliodore, expiring knight!
At first he fainted at the sight,
And, but he was most brave of men,
His soul had fled to Hades then.
But love recall'd his spirits soon;
And, swifter than the birds in June,
He brought cold water from the spring,
And did it o'er her temples fling.
The maid then open'd her soft eyes,
And what with joy, and with surprise,

107

When she beheld her lover there,
Again she fainted from the air.
“O Frangipani,” then she said,
When life returned to the maid,
“O Frangipani,” o'er and o'er;
And “O beloved Heliodore!”
As soft, as murmurs are of bees,
Or rivers, flowing to the seas,
Or thunder in the gentle spring,
Launch'd from the hand of nature's king;
So soft these lovers' words and sighs,
And dear unto the deities:
And who can tell the sandy shore,
And of the stars recount the store,
And leaves, that fall in autumn hoar:
He may tell, and he alone,
The kisses, that they made their own.
The duke of Athens join'd their hands,
Love knit them in his golden bands;
And, while the stars their lustre spent,
And to and fro young Hymen went,
The Doge's daughter gave content
For Frangipani's banishment.

144

SONGS.

AN ANGLER'S SONG.

Give me a cup of sparkling wine,
Madge, my pretty dear;
As pure, as are those looks of thine,
Those simple, harmless shepherd looks,
That would tempt fishes to our hooks,
Madge, my pretty dear.

And in the cup put marigolds,
Madge, my pretty dear;
That to the sun her leaf unfolds,
Sweet flow'r, whose essence we will sup,
Then stir with rosemary the cup,
Madge, my pretty dear.

A king may drink a cup less pure,
Madge, my pretty dear;
Less bravely sweet than this, I'm sure,
And pledge a health less fair than thine,
Less steep'd in honour, less divine,
Madge, my pretty dear.

145

The morning saw us at our sport,
Madge, my pretty dear;
For which we gladly leave the court,
And all it's oaths, and flattery,
To fish, to sing, to drink to thee,
Madge, my pretty dear.

146

A SECOND ANGLER'S SONG.

When the sun is shining low,
From our easy sport we go,
Our kettle full of fish:
And, having thought the golden day,
Through the meads we take our way,
In haste to dress our dish:

Whether it barbel be, or pike,
Or trout, or silver eel belike,
Or perch, or grayling free,
Or bream, or carp, or tench, or bleak,
Or gudgeons, we in shallows seek,
Or roach, or dace it be:

A cup, well stirr'd with rosemary,
A health, to Madge too pledged free,
A song of harmless love,
Sheets, neatly kept in lavender,
May each day of the calendar
These simple blessings prove.

147

Before the fire we sit, and sing,
Content and happy as a king,
When winds of autumn blow,
Employ'd upon our gentle themes;
'Till Spring unbind the frozen streams,
And then to fish we go:

With morn unto the dewy meads,
Where the herd contented feeds,
Tracing our steps again:
What fortune can be like to this?
Then let the wise partake our bliss,
The fools at court remain.

148

THE EPILOGUE.

Now thanks, O gentle Muse, I say,
Who gav'st me this Venetian lay,
And may the song be sweet and clear,
In noble Eldon's wisest ear:
With what, too, of diviner flame,
From the learn'd Anacreon came,
And lighter Flaccus, whose sharp string
Could please the world's discreetest king.

And, ere yet the grasshopper
In the mead shall chirrup clear,
And bright willow-buds appear;
Ere the swallow dips it's wing,
On the surface of the spring;
Ere the forsaken Philomel
Her chant unto the forest tell;
Or the cuckoo strain her throat,
Which the married ear may note;

151

Long ere these sweet things shall be,
May this noble lord be free
From pain and infelicity:
That Equity may find its chair
Fill'd with prudence, and wise care;
That th' expecting Parliament
May have it's long-lov'd President;
That the weighty Council-board,
Which, O Muse, can ill afford,
Rich though it be, to lose this lord,
May joy in his pure golden light,
And be to our admiring sight
A perfect constellation bright:

These things shall make our Prince to smile,
And fill with joy the Silver Isle.

Augustus Cæsar.

153

ARIADNE:

IN THREE PARTS.

155

TO ROBERT BANKS, EARL OF LIVERPOOL, WHOSE WISDOM AND ELOQUENCE HAVE PLACED HIM AMONG THE GREATEST, AND WHOSE INTEGRITY AMONG THE MOST VIRTUOUS, OF THE MINISTERS OF GREAT BRITAIN, THIS POEM, AS A SLIGHT TESTIMONY OF RESPECT AND HONOUR, IS DEDICATED BY HIS OBEDIENT SERVANT, THURLOW.

157

I have written this poem, as it were, upon the eve of those memorable occurrences, which have saved Europe from despotism. Certainly, under the auspices of His Majesty, and of his illustrious Son, the Prince Regent, this Country has attained to an excellence of glory, which has no precedent in history. The illustrious Prince, under whose gentle sway we live, is the Defender of Religion, the Protector of Liberty, and the Arbiter of the Destinies of the World.

It may appear presumptuous, in the brilliant prospect, which opens before us (upon which the minds of men are naturally intent,) to suppose, that any attention should be paid to so slight a poem. Undoubtedly, it would have been more appropriate, to have celebrated the events of

158

the last year in heroick song: but every man has not the power of Pindar or Cowley. Whoever contributes his share, however small, to the stock of publick amusement, may deserve some approbation: and now that the sound of the clarion, and the bugle have ceased to awaken to war, the ear of Nature may, perhaps, be delighted with the reed of the shepherd.

I have, however, one allusion to passing events, in the last page of my poem; which, although I have noticed it in a work of fiction, I hope may prove to fulfil the expectation of the world, with all the real blessing of truth.

London, May 19, 1814.

159

ARIADNE.

I. PART THE FIRST.

The level sun was shining low,
And gave the waves a golden glow,
The mermaid with her lullaby
Sung to rest the troubled sea,
And in the beam of Phœbus sate
Amphitrite in her state,
Enthron'd within a pearly cave;
Around the shore great Proteus drave
His scaly herds, and Tritons blew
A song, that those huge monsters knew,

160

Oft heard, ere Neptune's sliding car:
Now, ere the small and twinkling star,
That is a liegeman to the west,
In the glassy wave exprest,
Had, like the eye of ev'ning shone,
And the moon's brave wain anon
Was climbing o'er the upward brine,
Great Neptune's wife, with voice divine,
Amid th' attending deities,
That are of rivers and of seas,
Call'd Ariel to her silver chair:

Amphitrite speaks.
Do thou, my spirit, make repair,
O'er the surface of the deep,
Flying down the western steep,
Swifter than the thoughts of love:
So thy faith shalt thou approve,
And affection due to me,
That from night have set thee free,
Fetter'd in the lowest cave,
Underneath the crystal wave,

161

Where the sea-wolf around thee howl'd,
And the sea-horse appalling scowl'd,
And the sea-bear, with fangs of woe,
Was thy keeper and thy foe,
And oft Leviathan would glide,
And the least glimpse of nature hide,
With his vast unwieldy side,
Slumb'ring at thy prison'd door,
That thou, not then as heretofore,
Plunging in the lib'ral sea,
Or at the gate of Phœbus free,
Glancing on the beams of morn,
Didst thy hapless being scorn,
And thought'st thyself to winter sold,
Shiv'ring in that icy hold;
Till to my soft and partial ear
Thy voice of moaning and of fear
Came upward from the drowned sea;
So may thy faith be pure to me,
As I from that delivered thee,
Taking Neptune to my cave,
In the front of Corinth brave,

162

Where, underneath the wat'ry swell,
I entertain'd his passion well,
Nor had he to this day got free,
But that he gave thy fate to me:
There on a bed of silken leaf,
And flowers of ocean, spare and chief,
Which the Sea-Nymphs had cull'd, I lay,
And with the God had am'rous play,
Till by my hair and eyes he swore,
He lov'd me better than before,
When, all his votive courtship o'er,
He first untied my saffron belt,
And taught my maiden thoughts to melt.
Believe it, Ariel, thrice the Sun
Had to his western manger run,
And thrice his yoke had made a stand
On the coral-paved sand,
And thrice the sea-nymphs chanted free,
Ere I with love could win for thee
Thy charter and thy liberty.
My Ariel, is this fable true?

163

Ariel sings.

Mistress mine, and votive queen,
Born the marriage sheets between
Of the old Oceanus,
When unzoned Tethys lay,
Budding like the purple May,
I will prove my fealty thus:

To the spicy Indian isles,
Or where throned Summer smiles,
In the twinkling of an eye,
Ere a maid can sigh, heigh ho,
To the Morning I will go,
To the cavern'd Pluto fly.

Mistress, I to thee am true,
As the grasshopper to dew,
As the swallow to the Spring,
As the squirrel to the nut;
Now, thy message, queen,—tut, tut,
Answer lingers on my wing.

164

I shall hear, ere yet I go,
The cocks at Sybaris to crow,
Sure the maids at Corinth scold—
Mistress, can you doubt of me?
Ere the cock-shut I shall be,
Piping in my happy fold.

Moppet, Moppet, I am gone,
Ere thy pleasure well is known:—

Amphitrite speaks.

Well then, my delicate Ariel, this is true;
And, like a falling star, go down the west,
Skirting the rear of day, till by the belt,
That girdles this o'er-swelling world you see,
A month's good voyage to a winged ship,
A fragrant isle, upon whose yellow sands
You may remember we have often sate,
The while the winds were hist, and Phœbe reign'd;
Marking the fairies track their ringlets quaint,
While Summer laugh'd, and shook her golden hair.
For, if my art be true, a maid there sits,

165

And with her tears augments the briny flood,
Love's prodigal, and widow of despite:
Young Ariadne, who first saw the light
Within a winged bark, whose ears were lull'd
With wat'ry surges, and the mermaid's song,
Singing her fables on a dolphin's back.
For so her mother bore her on the wave,
Ascending to pale Troy, from Corinth come,
Her native seat, and with her ducal spouse,
Good Menelaüs, seeking there to reign.
What have the winds now done, or fortune's spite,
By wat'ry evil, that the maiden stands,
Disconsolate, upon that yellow shore?
For there my art is hid.

Tell me, Nereus, tell me now,
By what headland's steepy brow,
Dancing in th' Ægean wave,
With thy fifty daughters brave,
Born of Doris, tell me now,
If at Helen's lovely prow
Rising up, thou told'st the fates,
Or unlock'd the garden gates,

166

Blazing on the final wave,
That to Alcmena's offspring gave,
(The watchful dragon proto-slain,)
The apples of the western main,
Tell me, O Nereus, by thy fealty tell,
Into what evil Ariadne fell,
Since Aurora's saffron reign.

And, O Æolus, tell thou,
In what cavern reigning now,
On Æolia's briny coast,
Thou, that mak'st thy stormy boast,
That the stars are at thy beck;
Thou, that speed'st the winged deck,
Inventor of the bellyed sail;
And, to make Ulysses fail,
Heaped'st up the winds, that he
Wander'd still in jeopardy,
At what point the compass stood,
While the chaste Icarian brood,
Hemm'd in by domestick war,
Wept down the Moon, and matin star,

167

With her thick web, array'd in vain,
Beguiling the false suitor train:
O Æolus, on thy sole fealty tell,
Into what evil Ariadne fell,
Since Aurora's saffron reign.

Tell me both, I am your queen,
And of Jupiter well seen,
Tell me, or I'll bind you both,
(By the Styx, a fatal oath,)
Underneath the cavern'd sea,
Where for winters, summers three,
You shall pine in fancy free,
Or for that time three times three,
If you fail to answer me,
Chain'd down to the rocky floor;
And, to plague your madness more,
I will send you mermaids sweet,
Singing, to your lone retreat,
That with tales, and mock, and mow,
And with voices piping low,
Shall your lacking duty show;

168

Tell me, if you Neptune dread,
For by Neptune's sable head,
I will bind you, or 't may be,
Hurl you through the fickle sea,
Or disperse you through the air,
Pining with immortal care,
So dear is Corinth's house to me:

Ariel sings.

See they quake: but let me go,
Ere the twinkling star-light glow,
Ere the fairies sip the dew,
Overspread with Dian's hue:
Mistress, am I dear to you?

Let me go, or let me fly
Underneath the wrinkled sky,
To the brave and yellow sand,
There to trip it, hand in hand,
With the fairies gentle band:
Mistress, do you understand?

169

Amphitrite sings.

Go, my Ariel, this shall be,
On the margin of the sea,
Take kind words and airs with thee:
And let my gentle Ariel say
That the purple buds of May
Are not to Hebe's kiss more dear,
Than, in this our wat'ry sphere,
Ariadne, now alone,
Shall be dear unto our throne.
Tricksey spirit, haste away,
Shaking from your wings delay,
Link ye to the glist'ning car,
That Apollo drives afar,
That with the daylight you may set
On that isle, the cabinet
Where the world's brave gem is stor'd;
Then, as daylight shall afford,
Come to me upon those lands,
Where the two-mouthed Corinth stands,

170

There, beneath the moon's pale eye,
In a cowslip you shall lie,
Fann'd by od'rous winds to sleep,
Fuming from the charter'd deep.

Couch'd within it, you shall dream
By the margin of the stream,
Where the bat shall not come nigh,
Nor the owl with staring cry,
But the bird of Tereus' hate
Shall be thy night-loving mate,
Singing the wild winds to sleep;
'Till above the Eastern deep,
The lamp of twilight shall appear,
To thy fringed lids thrice dear,
And the cocks begin to crow,
And the saffron morn to flow,
My Ariel, shall these things be so?

Go then, now, my Ariel, go,
Faster than the throned moon,
Or the swallow's flight in June,

171

Down the bright and curved sea,
To that wild forsaken lea,
And bring me, ere the darkness steal,
Word of Ariadne's weal.

172

II. PART THE SECOND.

Ariel speaks.

By Amphitrite's most divine command,
Upon the marge of ocean here I stand;
And, see, before, young Ariadne weeps
Her crystal tears into the briny deeps:
Such beauty might delay the fleeting moon,
To do her service; I'll be with her soon:
But in some shape of good intelligence,
That may not startle her afflicted sense.
As a young shepherd with my country tongue,
My staff, and scrip over my shoulder flung,

173

Will I approach her; now assist me, Jove,
That I may worthy of my message prove.

But 'tis well, Jove is not here,
Looking on this beauty dear,
Though in tears, she might persuade
Jove himself to give her aid,
And do service to a maid.
Then, translated to the sky,
Above Hebe she would fly,
And crown'd Juno dispossess,
Making all Olympus less:
What a stature for a queen!
Love her snowy paps between,
Purple love hath spread his wings;
And her eyes are crystal springs
Of persuasion and delight,
Flowing, like the morning bright:
What hath Hebe to compare
With her cheeks of crimson fair?
And her vermeil lips a pair
Of sweet mounds of roses are.

174

Passion here, and here alone,
Is thy kingdom and thy throne:
And a God he sure must be,
Who shall make young Cupid free
Of that empire, there to reign,
And in God-ship to remain:
For what shoulders, but her own,
For his yoke can be a throne?
Swelling her thrice-marble neck,
To make duty a plain wreck;
On the which let honour die,
Tasting immortality!

Now I will a garland make
Of bright lilies for her sake,
And of purple violets,
Closing, when Apollo sets,
And of pale Anemone,
Where the streaks of morning be,
And of roses, kiss'd by Love,
To present this child of Jove.

175

But, hark! she sings, and the delighted ear
Of silence now is fed; Oh me, what strains,
Would Jupiter were here, that the blithe songs
Of chaste Apollo were a carter's tune,
And Hebe but a chanter for the night!
Nay Philomel's o'er match'd:

Ariadne sings.
Where am I, O Sea-Gods, say,
In what wild forsaken bay,
Where for ages I may weep,
Betrothed to the sullen deep,
And my sad complainings keep?
O, where am I,
Who see around but ocean, and the sky?

Ariel.
Poor pensioner of grief! how dear is this,
That even woe is sweet upon her tongue:
Again, poor Philomel?

176

Ariadne sings.

When did spring forsake the world.
And abundant summer's pride,
Into wat'ry darkness hurl'd?
It was when my lover died.

Violets sweet, and daisies trim,
Should have deck'd his sylvan bier,
And the priest's lamenting hymn,
For he was to nature dear.

But his bones are coral made,
Wheresoe'er his spirit be,
And through all the seas are sway'd;
Then, sing, O sing lamentingly, Corydon is dead.

Ariel.

Why this is sweeter than the mermaid's chant,
Beguiling the false wave: if this be woe,
Let me banish'd from the sprightly sun,

177

And drop my tears into the pool as fast,
As if I wept for Phaëton: But, hark!
My mistress now goes overthwart the moon,
So spirited her yoke, that at one plunge
They circle the vast globe: I'll to my task:

Lady fair, or Goddess true,
If my soul may trust my view,
From what heaven art thou come,
Making this our isle your home?
Can a Goddess then have woe,
That thy sacred tears should flow?
May thy grief be shortly o'er,
Thou, that deign'st to bless our shore.
And a garland I present,
For my suit and service meant,
That within our yellow meads,
Where the gentle turtle breeds,
By the side of silver springs,
Nature of her bounty flings.

178

Fair angel of this soil, and messenger
Of winged light, the Phœbus of our sphere,
I worship, and present thee with this crown.

Ariadne speaks.
No, gentle shepherd, I am earthly born,
And tributary to this mortal realm,
Though somewhat at my state I wonder now,
Forsaken here, and 'plaining to the winds,
That take no heedment of a maiden's woe,
Whence-ever come, to this dejected isle.
But who art thou? for since the beams of morn
Have shown th' horizon, I have scarcely seen
But sea-fowl, and the dolphins of the wave,
And here and there upon the sandy waste,
Some straggler from old Proteus' piped herd.
Ah me, shall eve go down upon the sea,
And I be left to 'plain upon this rock?
This rock, whence I have seen the golden sun
From east to west complete his fine career,
And with my tears have told the lapse of time?
Help, gentle shepherd, for thy face betrays

179

A soul of pity, and thou art not hard,
As are the rocks upon this stony isle.
And know beside, that she who asks thee thus,
Is a king's daughter, of the blood of Troy,
Though fortune thus hast cast me here aside.
Say, gentle shepherd.

Ariel.
As the light to morn,
Or as the ev'ning to the welkin'd gloom,
So will I take this honour to my soul,
And be as true, as thou art wise and fair:
A shepherd, lady, on this lonely isle,
I sought a skipping straggler from my flock,
And came here to the sea: but please to tell
Thy sweet commands, that I may haste t' obey.

Ariadne.
Then say, O gentle shepherd, have you seen
A youth, much like Apollo in his mien?
Who left me here, or e'er the morning-shine,
But by what fatal chance I not divine,

180

Yet sure unkindness to his heart ne'er came,
Nor can my Marinello so have blame.
A prince, good shepherd, of all virtues heir,
That in this world for praise or envy are;
And could you once but lead me to his sight,
As sure he left me but in fortune's spite,
I would reward you with our mutual love,
And happy Thebes her gratitude shall prove.

Ariel.
Is that his place?

Ariadne.
Yes, of that town the lord.

Ariel.
Believe it, lady, on a shepherd's word,
I have not seen the youth: but yet I think,
That, we here parleying on this forest's brink,
'Tis like, the while you slumber'd, that his feet
Were tangled here, and cannot now retreat.

181

Ariadne.
This may indeed have been.

Ariel.
'Tis likeliest so,
But to resolve you to the wood I'll go;
And yet with fear, for I have heard it said
That there ill shapes and ugly fiends are bred,
That with lascivious flute, and fawning tongue,
Have minds ill-judging to perdition sung:
The moon not pierces, nor no twinkling star,
But it's vile depths are from all safety far.
This have I heard, and do in part believe;
Yet, O sweet lady, let not fables grieve,
For fables they may be, your spotless soul;
The thrice-prov'd virtue stands not in controul
Of vice; but Marinell thenceforth shall go,
Uncharm'd, unhurt, as from me you shall know.

Ariadne.
Ah me, unhappy, but the ship is gone.

182

Ariel.
What ship is that? for I have look'd on none.

Ariadne.
No, gentle shepherd: but last eve, ere yet
The eye of Hesper was in heaven set,
When owls begin to chant, and day-light done,
The woods' musician through her notes hath run,
Making sweet prologue to black-robed night,
That the world's ear is taken with delight,
Lord Marinell and I, our anchor thrown,
For some brief tenure made this isle our own:
Here by this fountain we talk'd down the night,
And watch'd for great Hyperion's rising light,
To blaze the waters, and renew our flight;
When, ere the bird could the pale skies adorn,
That sings under the eye-lid of the morn,
A slumber took me, and, O shepherd, well
You know the rest; what ills my tongue can tell;
Oh me unhappy!

183

Ariel.
Weep, fair lady, weep:
But yet this harvest of thy sorrow reap;
Mere accident thy foe, and no meant ill,
In him, who loves thee, and shall meet thee still:
For so I dream; what say I, dream? I know:
For where truth is, 'bove fortune it will go;
And ere the Morn shall with her rosy smile
The night's sad liv'ry into joy beguile,
Then banish these soft tears, lord Marinell,
Shall worship at your feet, and all be well.

Ariadne.
If this be flatt'ry, as indeed I fear,
Yet is it sweet, O shepherd, to my ear:
I will be comforted, for hope is near.
Lord Marinell indeed, the soul of truth,
Would never prove injurious to my youth;
Nor can it be, his gentleness should fly,
And leave his Ariadne here to die:
Yet have I shed sad tears.

184

Ariel.
Forget them now,
And let sweet hope be thron'd upon thy brow;
Doubtless pure truth is unto heav'n so dear,
And constant love, that angels from their sphere,
On pinions of soft service would descend,
To wipe away her sorrows, and befriend.
Make trust of God, sweet lady; and ere morn
These things will be, as they had not been born.

Ariadne.
In that is all my hope.

Ariel.
Awhile I go,
That no fit dwelling for such beauty know
Within this isle; to search, where I may find,
For herbs and racy fruits, of nature kind;
Which, with pure water from the spring, may feed
Your gentle sense, the produce of the mead.

185

Ariadne.
Thanks, O good shepherd; what in courts we miss,
We oft-times find under a peasant's weed.
But where is Marinell? O hapless prince,
My beauty and delight, thus torn from thee,
I weep as a poor dove, beguiling morn,
And wakeful eve with my lamenting song:
Flow on my tears, for they are due to him,
Who is the morn, and day-spring of my heart.

Ariadne sings.

O poor Alcyone!
What were thy feelings on the stormy strand,
When thou saw'st Ceÿx borne a corse to land?
O, I could weep with thee,
And sit whole tides upon the pebbly shore,
And listen to the waves' lamenting roar,
O poor Alcyone!

But now thy stormy passion past,
Thou upon the wave at last

186

Buildest, from all tempest free:
Thou and Ceÿx, side by side,
Charming the distemper'd tide,
O dear Alcyone!

But this is idle for another's woe,
And that too but a story of old date,
To weep, when I at home am so possess'd:
O Marinell, my lord!

Ariel returns, and speaks.
Behold, what I have brought: O lady sweet,
These herbs and native fruits, fed by the dew,
And kiss'd of the hot sun, shall more delight,
The pantler being temperance, than feasts,
Dish'd up with kingly musick, and the pomp
Of golden service, and the fuming wine
Blushing to surfeit in their crystal cups.
Is not this crystal? and the marble rock
Shall be thy table; and the warbling bird,
That chants beneath the moon, shall give thee voice,
T' outdo their stringed instruments. Be pleas'd,

187

Fair lady, to accept what duty brings,
O'erlooking all defect.

Ariadne.

Shepherd, thy kindness
Is more than I can pay: but listen now,
And I will tell thee why from Troy I came
With flight upon the wave to this lone isle,
Where yet I find the courtesy of kings;
For I perceive thee curious to know.

My name is Ariadne: I am born
Of Troy, upon the wave th' espoused queen,
My mother bringing forth: what time the duke,
My father, from sweet Corinth led her home
Then did the wave swell underneath the beam
With plenteous duty: and the mermaid's chant
Beguil'd the orbed Dian at her height.
So was my birth eventful; and the term
Of all my life but theme of accident,
Dependent on her pale, and crescent horn.
Well, I grew up, and not the air might breathe

188

On me too roughly, and the poets sung
That Hebe on their meadows walk'd again.
Much learn'd I of my mother's bounteous care,
To walk, to dance, to touch the silv'ry lute,
And with a charmed voice to melt the soul,
Though it were cased in an iron front,
And grown as rugged as the wolf or bear:
Much too of herbs, and of the purple flowers,
Their virtues, and estate: of beaming stars,
Whose influence may be read with fine delight,
And many beauteous fables thence deriv'd
To the pure soul, of moral wisdom store.
Much too of sweet and feminine employ,
That ever held me most: to paint the web
Of Iris' bow, and with the slender warp
Deduce the story of chaste women's love.
But love she bade me shun; a fearful boy,
Whose arrows and whose wings alike are dread:
And love I knew not, nor I car'd to know.
So fifteen summers warbled o'er my head,
And I, beneath my mother's careful eye,
Like a young bird, that must be taught her tune,

189

Liv'd happy, and suspecting of no change.
The sixteenth summer, and, O shepherd, then
My mother died; and I remember well,
'Twas when the almonds blossom, and a bird,
She lov'd and fed, died first upon the eve,
And then she follow'd, innocent and sweet.
Forgive me if I weep; I oft have wept,
Though many years have pass'd: but tears are vain.
My mother died, and then my father sought
Another love; and thence came all my woe.
Now when the May first blossom'd, to delight
His youthful wife, and grace his marriage too,
My father held a tournament of knights,
That from all countries to the barrier came,
Many, and brave, and full of beauteous pride.
But none affected me: or if they did,
'Twas but a passing look: true they were brave,
And in despiteful arms accomplish'd fair;
Their crested helmets nodding in the wind,
Their lances in fine rest, their horses fresh,
As he struck out by Neptune, drinking up
The brazen musick of immortal war:

190

And women, as you know, are Mars's fools,
Being themselves so weak, and timorous.
But had they been as num'rous as the sands
Of fretful ocean, as the summer brave,
Fresh as the wave, and orient as the day,
They had not touch'd my heart, which inly wept,
And for my mother mourn'd; so that I sate
Amid' the musick, hiding in a mask
Of plenteous joy an elegy of woe.
At length, good shepherd, the fine engines blew
A blast of expectation, like the roar
Of brawny Tritons on the curved wave,
When summer from their wreathed shells is told.
All hearts were open'd; mine awaken'd then:
For sure I saw the portals of the Morn,
And great Hyperion coming forth in state,
All armed to the prodigal essay.
He stood, like Mars, amid' the thronged shore
Of ladies, and great knights: his massy coat
Out-heralding the flowers of the spring,
That Tempe was despoil'd, inlaid with gold:
And on his head, that temple of great thought,

191

A mighty lion, finned for the sea,
Made air to tremble with his shaggy mane:
It seem'd his shield, capacious as the moon,
Had ample verge for the embattled spears
Of all Troy's warriors, had all Troy been there:
His spear a mighty mast, with which men sail
From Crete beyond the pillar'd Hercules:
Thrice his horse neigh'd, and the reverberate hills
Gave back the image of his voice, the sea
Replying brave: Troy was astonish'd then,
But more to see his feats: for ere an hour
Had told the fleeting time, his kingly spear
Twelve knights had from their cruppers borne to earth:
And Menelaüs, rising from his throne,
Gave him great welcome; and th' espoused hand
Of that false queen, for so to me she prov'd,
Amid the musick reach'd to him a crown
Of woven laurel, and her lips essay'd,
O cruel lips, though worthy was the cause,
In words, like spring, to speak him first of men.
Where now is Marinell?

192

Ariel.

I thought 'twas so:
For only such a knight, as this, could prove
Worthy, O princess, of such peerless love.

You weep, fair lady, yet are these pure tears
But as the dripping of an April show'r,
From which the sun more brightly shall emerge:
But, pray you, grace your story to an end.

Ariadne.
To make an end, good shepherd, this brave lord,
This brave and virtuous lord, for whom I weep,
Conceiv'd for me affection, and besought
My father, Menelaüs, for my hand:
My father overjoy'd; and I, who knew
How true he was in nature and in thought,
How gentle too, besides, was pleas'd to hear
The words of true affection from his lips.
Great was he in his speech, and fit for kings
In awful council, had they known his worth;

193

And with me, simple maiden, would he sit,
And take occasion from the acts of men,
And beauteous works of nature, to discourse
Of wisdom, in which goodness was the soul.
O, he was dear, for why should I conceal
My harmless thoughts, most dear he was to me:
And but the queen, that had too well perceiv'd
His great perfection, and was caught by it,
Had by vile artifice beguil'd the king
Of his good thoughts, and turn'd them from his child,
Our lives had been a race of happiness.
But love has ever been the foe of chance,
And not a shore of this o'er-braving globe
But tells the story of some lover's woe.
So then the queen, to rid her of her fear,
Abusing with a wicked forgery
The over-credulous ear of the good king,
Persuaded him, that I and Marinell
Had purpose to o'ersway the watchful guard,
And, over-ruling Troy's ambitious state,
To dispossess him of his crown and life:
This work'd like fire in Menelaüs' mind.

194

And then she purpos'd, when my lord was laid,
In durance of the king, to break his bars,
And offer to him liberty and love.
This was her mean: but for an underplot
She thought to snare me with Marsaces' love,
A knave of council, ever cramm'd with ill,
And much obsequious to her changeful mind.
Well, the plot took; for what a woman says,
A wife too, to the fond believing age,
Though it be false, as canker-blooms in spring,
Having some semblance of the nat'ral truth,
Though here was none, O shepherd, shall have rule,
Washing away all old fidelity.
Our ruin had been sure, but friends arose,
Which innocence e'er finds, and sav'd us both
From our distressful fate; the prison doors
Were open'd by the king's unflatt'ring friends,
Who serv'd him as he was, and ought to be,
Ere his compact with ill, and led us forth
Beneath the moon to the hoarse-murm'ring flood.
There lay a bark, a suitor to the wind,
And many tears we shed, and wrung their hands,

195

And had not voice to speak our gratitude.
Believe it, shepherd; in this orbed world,
This brave inheritor of day and night,
Not all the min'ral kingdoms, nor the fruits
Of all it's shores, can equal one true friend,
One old, one faithful, one substantial friend.

Ariel.
Or this is true, sweet lady, or the morn
Is not the fount of light.

Ariadne.
What then had we,
Who had so many, and so perfect friends,
That from this sudden danger we escap'd?

Ariel.
Great praise in this: but virtue has its meed;
And when it speaks in such an angel's voice,
And claims our pity, he that would not die,
And brave the tyrant, let him live, base wretch,
With his thrice-grinning honour, 'till he shame

196

The marble, that shall lie upon his bones.
Forgive me, lady, for my homely speech,
For I had breeding in a shepherd's stall.

Ariadne.
O thou good shepherd, it were well indeed,
If they who hold the sceptre, had a tongue
To speak the dictates of so pure a mind.
What is in stalls, but what in courts might be,
If rightly understood, of all this life,
So blown abroad by heralds? 'tis a charge
Immediately from God, to tend their sheep,
To fence them from sharp hunger and the wolf,
To feed them, and protect them in all ills,
Like a good shepherd, and their gratitude,
Which is as true, as flowers to the sun,
Is more than musick of a poet's mind;
But this is understood by all but kings.
Yet I not say so: for my theme is drawn
From one example: and ill counsel reign'd,
Led by false love, throughout my father's house.

197

Ariel.
Your words are like the honey of the spring,
Sweet and nutritious: lady, it is loss
To the brave world, when such a flow'ring mind
Lies idle and neglected, as the weed:
But this but for short time: I read it now,
That you, the unfather'd orphan of the winds,
Were by them blown to this our marble rock,
Your keel last come from Ilium?

Ariadne.
Shepherd, yes,
After long chase, until the stars grew pale,
From vile Marsaces, like a hungry hound,
That thinks to track down the o'er-chased deer.

Ariel.
Ill things are ever hasty to their fall.
Dear lady, now farewell; awhile I go,
With the sure hope to save you, ere the morn:
Sleep then, and doubt not the lord Marinell

198

Will be the lark, to wake you at your rise.
Farewell, sweet lady.

Ariadne.
Shepherd, too farewell,
That have been true to me, a true farewell.

Ariel.

Farewell, sweet lady.

Now my scrip, and staff are gone,
And again I am my own,
On a moon-beam I will ride,
To the brave Corinthian tide,
Where the queen of Neptune dwells,
And they ring the twilight bells,
One, two, three, four, five, six, sev'n, eight,
To preserve their houses bright
From the ugly witch of night:

Who will, may follow me
O'er the bright and curved sea,

199

For I go,
To let Amphitrite know,
With my pretty yes and no,
That these things are so and so:

But for Ariadne's sake,
Dew of cowslip I will take,
And with seeds of poppy slake,
Which into her porched ear
May dispel the ugly fear,
Pregnant with a maiden's dream,
Of which marriage is the theme.
Oaths, and vows, and kisses sweet
In her dainty fancy meet,
Prologue to the marriage sheet;
And white gloves, and knots, and rings,
And such pretty gawdes, and things,
As queen Mab in plenty flings:

Who will, may follow me
O'er the bright and curved sea;

200

For I go,
To let Amphitrite know,
With my pretty yes and no,
That these things are so and so.

201

3. PART THE THIRD.

Amphitrite speaks.
How well has my bright Ariel play'd his part!
Now, if the leaves be green, when Procne pipes
Amid' the clouds with foretaste of the spring,
And Philomel her summer musick chants;
If dolphins in the purple wave pursued
Arion's ship, enamour'd of his song,
And carried the sweet soul to Tænarus;
I will compel Enceladus, who lies
Fast bound beneath the centre of the sea,
A thousand fathom down, the bolt of Jove

202

Yet hardly sleeping, to declare what shore,
Or haven of this over-murm'ring sea
Contains Lord Marinell: for so his eye,
That never sleeps in ill captivity,
May have well traced; and my art is hid,
I know not by what greater power than mine;
Or evil else permitted for a while.
But what is this, sweet Ariel?

Ariel speaks.
'Tis a scrap
Of measur'd passion; for the truth more shines
In antick musick, so our lovers think,
Than in more homely prose. I pick'd it up,
Unseen of Ariadne, as she wept
Upon the marble rock; mistress, her tears
Undoing April in her fickle woe.

Marinell to Ariadne.
To live is but to love thee: thou art one,
Whom virtue may grow mad, and dote upon:
My goddess is thy soul; and, Oh! before
Her beauteous temple I fall down, t' adore:

203

Thy only image, if in marble wrought,
Had all our nymphs into extinction brought;
How much more then, when we astonish'd hear
Thy words, that musick to our hallow'd ear,
Wherein all goodness, and all wisdom glows,
That earth expects, and great Olympus knows.
Think not this praise: 'tis but the simple part
Of thy perfection, wanting poets' art:
For he, who feels thy loveliness, must know
How much above thou art, and we below:
'Tis not in nature to express thy worth,
Or the complete production of thy birth,
But when I die with gazing and despair,
Men, in my heart, shall read thy image there.

Marinell to Ariadne.
The Gods, that pour'd so many graces on thee,
O Ariadne, making thee divine,
Let them with some compassion look upon me,
Else in this fortune I my soul resign.
The fire ambitious would to heav'n arise,
And ever hopes, yet never gains the skies,

204

Then from your true Olympus may you come,
And deign to build upon our earth your home.

Amphitrite.
I know not what he means, but that he loves,
And love oftimes confounds the finest wits,
Making what else were luminous and clear,
As is Aurora, like the misty eve.
But if it work in Ariadne's mind,
He is a poet, and young Love not blind.

Marinell to Ariadne, calling her Flora.

Sweet thy breath, as violets are,
When the balmy south-wind blows,
And like ruddy corn thy hair,
That no band or cincture knows,
Save one ribband, simply round,
From the which depends a pearl,
Kings, then, to this port be bound,
To admire this lovely girl.

And her eyes are like the star,
That in dewy morn is set,

205

Ere Aurora's saffron car
With the Indian wave is wet;
And her bosom, spicy-sweet,
Like the Parian marble swells;
Kings, then, at this centre meet,
For love here has plac'd his spells.

And her waist is taper, fine
As the chalice, silver-wrought,
To contain the sacred wine:
But, O stay, my daring thought;
Let no tongue profane the sweets,
That in this fair temple be;
'Tis enough: in Flora meets
Love and immortality.

When she walks in female state,
Like Diana, O my soul,
Shall I die, or bless my fate,
That have liv'd in her controul?
Were my empire from the morn,
To where chaste Apollo dips,

206

That fine empire I would scorn,
But to die upon her lips.

Aye, this is love: and sure sweet Philomel
Has taught this passion'd poet half her art.

To Ariadne, calling her Flora.

How awful she, like Juno, looks,
That no least encroachment brooks,
Perfect Goddess of her state:
If I have offended her,
Then farewell the lightsome sphere—
I am wedded to my fate.

But again soft pity flows,
And from lips that breathe of rose,
Sweetest accents I have heard:
Now 'tis May, and Phœbus smiles
On the bright Hesperian isles—
I am to a God preferr'd.

Flora, my delight and love,
In whose praise the planets move,

207

Lighting this o'er-shady globe,
While the sea shall kiss the strand,
Or divine Hymettus stand,
I am vassal to thy robe.

Lay it again upon the rock, sweet bird.

Ariel.
Thou art obey'd, ere yet thy voice is heard.

Amphitrite speaks.

Awake, ye elements, for now I call
Enceladus to lift his monster head
Above the deep profound; and tell the truth,
All that he knows of Marinell.

Arise from out the briny deep,
Where for ages thou did'st sleep,
While the flood above thee roll'd,
Being to endless prison sold:
Arise, O monster, from thy hopeless state,
Lest greater ill be added to thy weight,
And worse damnation heap'd upon thy fate.

208

Lest the polar winds should blow
From the lands of ice and snow;
Lest the fire from Ætna come,
To consume thee to thy doom;
Lest the mournful ocean flow
In all sounds of wat'ry woe,
And wash thy senses to and fro;
And the sky-pitched mountains frown,
And threat to break thy prison down;
Lest these, the warring elements,
Confound thee in their ill events,
And thou freeze, and burn, and rave
At the ever-doleful wave,
And the rocks, that threat thy grave;
Lest these dreadful things should be,
List, O monster, list to me,
And tell me, who am Neptune's wife,
What ill has darken'd Marinello's life.

Ariel speaks.
See, mistress, how he rears his horrid head,
Like endless Night, above the mournful wave;
And, hark, he speaks: thunder to this is calm.

209

Enceladus speaks.
Why am I troubled? can no wretch, but I,
Requite thy question, I, who hate thy house?
Oh, oh, accursed Jove! Marsaces took him,
As by the fountain in your isle he slept,
And chains him now aboard a furlong off:
For Ariadne, she was left to die.
Oh, oh, accursed Jove! now let me sleep.

Amphitrite speaks.
Sleep, and descend to everlasting sleep,
Or rather, wretch, to everlasting woe.
Descend, descend.

Ariel speaks.
The monster doth descend.

Amphitrite speaks.
I now perceive, my Ariel, that my foes
Have done me wrong, and evil arts have been,
Throwing dark clouds upon my orbed sight,
That with an eagle eye could pierce the world:

210

Such agency has been, permitting Jove:
But to repair it; feather now your wings,
And over-fly the kite, that leads the wind,
Down flying to his prey; be falcons lame,
And the fleet antelope a drowsy wretch,
Compar'd with thee, my Ariel. To the isle
Be gone, be present where Marsaces floats;
Bid the keen light'ning quiver round his bark,
The frowning thunder howl, as earth had burst:
Flame on his masts, and on his rigged sides,
And in a sheet of fire involve his sails,
As if the gen'ral ruin had o'erta'en
The soul of his perdition: split his ship,
And hurl the wretch upon the rocky beach,
That he may taste the woe himself had plann'd,
And pine for food upon the marble marge.
But let the rest be safe: and see you lead
The ducal Thebes to Ariadne's side,
There join their hands, and give them gentle airs,
And summer seas to their espousal rites:
Do this, and I shall love thee.

211

Ariel.
I will go
More fleet, than light'ning, to my loved task:
For I perceive, sweet mistress, there shall come
From this dear union all the world thinks good,
Peace, and true laws, and equal liberty:
Am I prophetick, O beloved queen?

Amphitrite speaks.
Thou art, my Ariel, and the world shall bless
The name of Ariadne, and her lord.
Go to thy task.

Ariel sings.

To please thee, my mistress dear,
I will skim the crystal sphere;
Or my flagging pinions steep
In the fountains of the deep;
I will fly from morn to eve,
Or till night the world deceive,
From the furthest pole to pole,
With a bright and joyous soul.

212

Let the bells of Thebes be rung,
And the marriage hymn be sung,
And the house and palace vie
With the purple tapestry,
And the steer be free from yoke,
While the marble altars smoke,
And the maidens strew their flowers,
To delight these blissful hours.

Then will I,
In a bell of cowslip lie,
Happy with a twinkling eye,
And make all my pleasures meet
In my mistress' favour sweet.

Ariel's Song.

I dance upon the curled sea,
Come, follow me,
Ye tripping elves, and fairy bands,
Sporting on the chequer'd sands:
In the moon's brave sphere I ride,
Laughing at the fickle tide;

213

Or on beds of sea-weed lie,
By king Neptune's courtesy.

Come, follow me,
And we will sweet Moppets be,
With the sea-duck we will dive,
With the queen-bee we will hive,
And when Sol is in the west,
And the May-bird gone to rest,
With the cuckoo we will nest.

Come, follow me,
O'er the bright and curved sea,
Ye, that elves and fairies be,
After summer merrily.

214

CARMEN BRITANNICUM:

OR, THE SONG OF BRITAIN: WRITTEN IN HONOUR OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS GEORGE AUGUSTUS FREDERICK, PRINCE REGENT.

217

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE EARL BATHURST, LORD APSLEY, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE, &c. &c. &c.

To You, whose name is vow'd, and dedicate
To the celestial altar of the Muse,
This verse I bring, which I have writ of late,
Whose favour may it's bold attempt excuse:
A bold attempt, to paint the Majesty,
The Grace, the Goodness of our Sov'reign Lord;
And up to Heav'n with fearless wings to fly,
Whence all his heart is with perfection stor'd:
May you, my Lord, these tablets of my soul,
Whereon my duty is thus plainly writ,
And pure allegiance, while the seas shall roll,
And stars shall kindle, as in faith is fit,
To that great Prince, our Sov'reign Lord, present,
And be the patron of my argument.

THURLOW.

219

CARMEN BRITANNICUM:

OR THE SONG OF BRITAIN.

Ye sacred Muses, that in concord move,
O'er-stepping the sweet marge of Castaly,
And, naked, in the sovran eye of Jove,
To melt Olympus with your voices free,
From morn to pale Diana loudly sing
Before th' eternal king:
Where shall I find now, that your dwellings be,
Who fain would your immortal favour prove,
And large abundant love:
O ye thrice-sacred Muses, three in name,
Divine Aæde, and her sister fair,
Bright Mneme, and sweet Melete, who claim
Of all the immortal poets sovereign care,

220

Fill me with wonder and exceeding praise,
That, to the last of days,
Above the rolling of Oblivion's stream,
I may exalt my theme;
And charge the shores of this resounding world
With words, like thunder, or great Neptune hurl'd.

For I have need, who am the priest of him,
Who sits enthron'd upon the triple shore,
And must maintain his glory with my hymn,
And swell my cadence to the falling roar
Of waves, that break upon his chalky floor:
There sits he, the great monarch of the West,
On whom the Northern star with love doth shine,
Like a king's son, that is of Heav'n most blest,
And far above all of his kingly line;
His line, that, from the skies deduced clear,
Has upon earth no peer;
Nor shall have end, until the world expire
In the bright blaze of the last penal fire.

With Jove then I begin; with Jove, who came
To Argos from the bright abode of Heav'n;

221

He struck the door; and, in Amphitryon's name,
Sweet entrance to the panting God was giv'n:
There lay Alcmena in her nuptial robe,
A crown of woven laurel in her hand,
The fairest spouse of this love-feigning globe;
Alcmena, who must loose her virgin band,
At Jove's divine command:
Three times the space of the light-giving Sun,
And silent night, Diana in her chair
Bade her fleet dragons to the Ocean run,
Ere great Apollo could engild the air:
Apollo came at last, and shot his beams
With envy on the curtain'd joys of Jove,
And double splendour on the Argive streams,
To dispossess his father of his love:
He sigh'd farewell, and from the chamber went,
And worlds of kisses on that word were spent,
Kisses, that bred the globe immortal argument!

But with the day-light good Amphitryon came
To the beguiled dame,
And saw at once his glory, and his shame:

222

Here stood the cup he from Ætolia won,
There lay his wife, immortally undone:
But that he fell by Jove, and of his seed
Should heroes, and great demigods proceed,
For this the king then pardon'd what was past:
Besides, his eager nature was in haste.
Then, 'spite of Phœbus, that, with angry eye,
Beheld this second Juno's nuptial bed,
He snatch'd his joys, and with great Jove did vie,
Till the bright Phœbus hid his blushing head,
And to the waves had fled:
So from Alcmena, when espoused thus,
Came Hercules, and mortal Iphiclus:
And, in the seed of the diviner boy,
Heroick action, mix'd with soft alloy,
Death-doing Mars, assoyl'd with Venus' joy.

Who knows not, that Lucina sate her down,
With crossed legs before Amphitryon's door,
And crossed arms, until Nicippe bore?
Nor then had smooth'd the terrors of her frown,
But that Galanthis, from her sad abode,
With a true fable sent her on her road?

223

So great the dread, that then in Heav'n had place
Of this unbounded race.
Who knows not, that great Juno wisely sent
The snake, to spoil that rising argument?
But the brave boy, that in the cradle lay,
With looks of welcome view'd his onward way,
Then with his out-stretch'd arms made his fierce foe his prey.

Like the sad horrour, that the shepherd fears,
When pale Olympus with a lurid light
Gives token of the swift approach of night,
And a low whistling wind sings in his startled ears:
Then comes the thunder, and the flaming bolt,
That dies unquenched in the gloomy holt,
Or mead, and champaign with it's flashing sears:
So came the pois'nous monster, winged bird,
And flaming serpent, from black Dis preferr'd;
So hiss'd he, as along the floor he came,
And his bright ardurous eyes spake with prophetick flame:
But soon he fell; the room with triumph rung;
Pale trem'lous fire yet quiver'd on his tongue,
And his loud-gnashing scales with a low musick sung.

224

So, when the tempest to the sea is gone,
The leafy forests make a murm'ring moan,
The forests, and the hills, that shook anon,
And the soft-whistling birds proclaim the tempest flown.

Awake, ye Muses, with your golden strings,
That only by the chaste Castalian springs,
Or in the dread abode
Of Heav'ns o'er-ruling God,
Or in the chambers of great God-like kings,
Forbidden to the vulgar crowd below,
Make your resounding songs, and your full musick glow.
For here is matter for a world of praise,
While Phœbus sheds around his night-dissolving blaze.
Awake, ye Muses, let my sacred song
Be like Alcides swift, and like Alcides strong.
But who can tell the ever-fretful sands,
That the sea washes on false Egypt's strands?
But who can tell the ever-quiv'ring leaves,
That winter of great Ardenne's wood bereaves?
Or streams, that Danube in his flood receives?
Else would I paint beneath the flaming Sun,
And silver Dian, the great race he run;

225

When by the horns the brazen stag he took,
Of his fine breath, and his fleet path forsook,
Beginning, when the vernal year began,
And ending, when his winter course he ran.
Else would I paint the darkness of his walk,
When the pale ghosts did to his opticks stalk,
And the dull streams did with sad horror flow,
And flames of anguish through all hell did glow;
But, maugre all, he bore the dog away,
And dragg'd the rav'ning monster up to day.
But this is small: and could I tell the flight
Of birds Stymphalian his thin arrows slew,
Or count th' o'er-horsy Centaurs, whom his might
Found populous and vast, and left them few,
Amid their winy feasts sent down to night:
Yet should I fail to tell the hero's praise,
And celebrate in how abundant ways
He bade the nations on his virtues gaze.

But Hercules won all, and made his own,
But envy, and pale jealousy alone:
The love of women, fatal to his race,

226

His shame and glory, his bright fault and grace,
Brought his assigned soul to her last tyring place.
There on the top of Œta, flaming broad,
He built the mountain of his funeral pile;
Whole forests did the mighty building load,
And Nature with a second eye did smile:
The Sun mov'd useless in his golden sphere,
The Moon without availment shone at night,
The eagles on their piny nests did fear,
And the sea-monsters trembled at the light:
Then, ere his spirit from himself had flown,
Great Jove took pity on his Godlike son,
And in a car of fire receiv'd him for his own.

O worthy end of his laborious life,
The nectar'd cup, and Hebe for his wife!
Her golden youth did with new transport play,
And crown'd his passed toils in th' empyréan day.
Yet did he oft, though in her arms he lay,
And tasted to the height immortal youth,
Sigh for young Iole, who, soft as May,
And rich as summer, yielded up her truth:

227

There by Euripus, ever fickle stream,
He won a world in her immortal arms,
And found his prized honour but a dream,
Lost in the ocean of her gentle charms:
O woman, in thy gifts indeed divine,
Of all thy perfect mast'ry this the sign,
Alcides was a God, and did for thee repine!

Young Iole gave Glaucus to the light,
Amid the boars and lions of the wood;
The Satyrs o'er his cradle piped bright,
The Nymphs came dancing from the crystal flood:
Their wreathed horns, and pipes of buxom reed
He well could tune unto the sylvan lay;
And made the leopards, and the panthers bleed,
And the young eaglets his unlearned prey:
With an uprooted knotty poplar arm'd,
He roam'd the leafy wood, and desart shore,
And all the distant country much alarm'd;
Fame to his wildness daily adding more:
Whatever man was outlaw from his peers,
Sought in that wood to reinstate his years.

228

Was nought around but images of woe,
E'en Nature to the scene wild honour paid:
The clouds more swiftly o'er it's shades did flow,
And the loose winds a savage musick made:
In every alley, and in every glade
The fleeting monsters fasten'd on their prey;
Above the eagles their vast pinions sway'd,
Below the serpents glided from the day:
From ivied caverns, and from horrid shades
Came the wild cries of lust-compelled maids.

At last upon a flow'ry morn in May,
When blithe Aurora lighted up the streams,
And the young woodlarks sung on every spray,
Young Glaucus started from his slumbering dreams:
Through the wild forest took his loitering way,
And pierc'd the brindled boar, and branched hart,
Survey'd the Eagle, like the tempest, grey,
And levell'd the black vulture with his dart:
There in a harbour, all inlaid with flowers,
The lovely pride, and garland of the Spring,
Fair daffodils, that tell the vernal hours,
And hyacinths, that are of meadows king,

229

Woodbine, primroses, and sweet gilliflowers,
Young meddow-sweet, and lady-smocks so white,
That mind the maiden of chaste Hymen's bowers,
Being like marriage-sheets, in prospect bright,
Cowslips, and violets, and molys true,
Anemone, and drooping asphodel,
The flower-de-luce, that we in triumph view,
And crocus, of the shepherds loved well,
Young daisies, that at ev'ning shut the eye,
And rosemaries, the true delight of love,
On such a bed young Viola did lie,
And the wild son of Hercules did prove;
As honey-suckles round a temple twine,
So clasp'd she Glaucus in her arms divine.

She was the daughter of the king of Crete,
And wander'd on a journey from her friends,
When this wild passion she in woods did meet,
That clos'd her errour with a sweet amends,
And laid her willing on the nuptial sheet:
A sheet, in colour and in hue more bright,
Than prest Alcmena that immortal night,
When she accepted Jove, and charm'd him to the height.

230

Young Viola, then budding like the Spring,
And prodigal of kisses as the prime,
Through the blithe day did to her compheere sing,
And laugh'd away the love-beguiled time;
As fresh and dative, as the op'ning rose,
That in July to the fierce Summer glows:
But with the star, that doth engild the west,
When shepherds' feet are tracking in the dew,
She rose, and to her lost companions prest,
And with her led her woody Glaucus true:
Perhaps she blush'd, when she in presence came,
But with soft-smiling words conceal'd her flame,
And feign'd a likely tale, and well express'd the same.

“My lord, and father, to the woods I went
“To pluck the primrose, and faint violet;
“The woodbine a delicious odour sent,
“And daffodil, that with her sweetness blent,
“When a wild Satyr on my way I met,
“Who, cruel man, affray'd me, and beset.
“I scream'd, my lord; but ah! you were not near;
“Nor did the Nymphs assist me in my fear.

231

“Me to his cavern then perforce he drew:
“And, oh, what evil would my virtue rue,
“But that this heav'n-bless'd shepherd came in view.
“Believe, my lord, whatever truth can owe
“To honour, and bright courage gently us'd,
“I owe to him, all gratitude below,
“Else had the cruel Satyr me abus'd;”
And then she smil'd, and from her eye-lids sent
A laughing look of love, that crown'd her argument.

To Crete they went upon a vessel brave,
Jove made the air serene, and Neptune smooth'd the wave:
The purple sails to the free Morning flow'd,
The golden tackle, like Olympus, glow'd,
And Venus bless'd the pair upon their wat'ry road.
Crete came in sight: the biting anchor fell:
The fane of Jove receiv'd them on the shore:
To which the God, as Cretan fables tell,
Europa, as a bull, in triumph bore:
And crown'd his wishes on the wat'ry marge,
While the sea-dolphins sported all at large.
Then to the palace with fresh hymns they went,

232

And now the horned Dian flam'd abroad,
And Lucifer his light almost had spent;
Young Viola with soft attachment glow'd,
And mid' her melting kisses gently swore,
She lov'd her Glaucus then, more than she lov'd before:
But with the yellow beams of envious day,
The king, who restless on his pallet lay,
Sought his young daughter's bed, the prototype of May.

O, what a shriek was there
Of gentle love, awaken'd to despair!
It startled the blithe morn, and pal'd the rosy air.
In bands of willing love the victims lay:
Th' incensed monarch frown'd, prepar'd to slay;
And bade them pray to Jove, ere they forsook the day.
But tears prevail'd; an ocean of soft tears:
And Viola, that for her minion fears,
Not for herself, at length forsook her fears:
With his drawn sword a moment's space he stood,
In thought to quench his anger in their blood,
Then turn'd away, and tears began to flow;
“Go, cruel girl, to the chaste temple go,
“And plight your guilty faith, and consecrate my woe.”

233

They to the temple went: the way was strewn with flowers:
And the bright hautboy's breath awak'd the rising hours.
Then from their loins, and blessed union came
A race of sov'reign kings, thrice dear to fame,
And goodly fruit of Rhadamanthus' name:
The daughters chaste, and all the sons were brave;
But time has lapp'd them all in mere Oblivion's wave.
Save, here and there, a name, that cannot die,
Tied by immortal verse to endless destiny:
That shall not sink in night: but brave shall fly,
Long as the silver stars shall gild the sky,
Or sweeping tempests o'er the ocean sigh.
But all the rest are gone:
As leaves in Autumn into streams are blown,
Or prints upon the sand, which tides have overflown.
Only thus much is known;
That their great father, Glaucus, built on high
A hundred cities rising to the sky;
Then, bless'd of all, did, like old Nestor, die.

Is this the end of glory, thrice renown'd,
To be with night and sad oblivion bound?

234

All their Olympique acts, and battles fierce,
And worthy counsels, that the skies could pierce,
Gone, like the dateless world, for want of sacred verse?
Only, beneath the chaste and fickle moon,
With printless feet they by the rivers walk,
Or haunt the meadows in her silent noon,
Or o'er the scenes of passed battles stalk,
While overhead, is heard the sweet bird's tune,
To be the theme of some poor shepherd's talk;
When his young children o'er the embers cower,
And fear presides at night's unwholesome hour:
This is their end,
Who had no sacred poet for their friend,
But without golden hymns did to the grave descend.

As Alpheus, that by fair Olympia flows
Beneath the sea to Arethusa's spring,
And all his sacred waters there bestows,
Whom faithful love did to that distance bring,
So from the womb of fables, and old night,
This god-like race, long hidden from the sight,
Shine in new-founded Rome, and blaze into the light.

235

Swift as the lightnings rend the haughty pine,
So fell the people's rage on Tarquin's line;
The self-same Sun beheld their fall, and their decline.
And, as when some great fortress tumbles down,
Or by the cannon, or the thunder's frown,
The neighb'ring temples in the ruin share,
And, resting on it's strength, involved are
In the same deep destruction, and despair;
So, when the Tarquins perish'd from their state,
The noble Actii too partook their fate.
Then to fair Este their household Gods they took,
And with a weeping mind sweet Rome forsook:
For equal rights with all the race disdain'd to brook.

Nought but a crown could please
The ever-mindful sons of Hercules:
And, in the rolling years, and fav'ring Heav'n,
Este, Genoa, Milan, Tuscany were given.
Then Azo, son of Hugo, rul'd the name,
A mighty prince, and heralded by fame:
He to the altar led the Scythian dame,
Unmarried daughter of Bavaria's race,
From whom our kings the Saxon sceptre claim,

236

And the White Horse do in their banners place:
Had I the Heavens for space—
But, hold! ambitious Muse:
'Twere best this boundless subject to refuse;
Thou canst not paint their glory, but abuse.

No wood, no mountain of the antique world,
No rolling river, into ocean hurl'd,
No inland champaign, and no wat'ry marge,
But of their glory has receiv'd the charge:
Their blood has flow'd, where'er the winds can flow,
Or the bright Sun from Heav'n's great portal glow.
No head, that ach'd beneath the weighty crown,
Could on the pillow lay it's counsels down,
Till it had weigh'd their smiles, and balanc'd well their frown:
For what they spoke was fate;
Who brought divine protection to their state,
And, being the sons of Gods, rul'd with resistless weight.

He, who will count the stars, from which they came,
Or all their worthy acts, thrice dear to fame,
Or the bright sands of the Italian shore,

237

Or leafy woods, through which the tempests roar,
Wherein they chas'd the leopard, and the boar;
Or towns, and temples, that the Elbe displays,
Or the bright meads, through which her water strays;
He, whose arithmetick shall reach to this,
May tell their glory, and imperial bliss:
But I shall pass them o'er;
Fame, which has much in store,
Ne'er crown'd so great a race of Heav'n-sprung lords before.

Then Ernest had to wife Bohemia's child,
A kingly maid, and of fair Britain born:
All Nature on the beautous marriage smil'd,
And all her lights conception did adorn.
The Sun infus'd the vigour of his beams,
The Moon the soft completion of her sphere,
And golden fancies, and immortal dreams;
That a true king should to the world appear.
Then the first George maintain'd the sov'reign sway,
And sate enthron'd upon Augusta's shore,
And the whole World did his great thoughts obey,
Far as the winds can sweep, or billows roar:

238

Thames, first of rivers, in his sacred time
Receiv'd the wealth of ev'ry burning clime.

And then a second glorious king arose,
Wise, prudent, brave, as all his fathers were;
He shone in arms, where mighty Rhenus flows,
And with his clarions quail'd the silver air:
The earth his bed, the stars his tapers were;
In pitched camps he ever lov'd to dwell,
With the hoarse cannon's breath, and trumpet's blair,
To the wide world did his great meaning tell:
Truth he maintain'd, and justice he upheld,
And through his reign the tyrant's force was quell'd.

Meanwhile a prince, whose virtue had no peer,
The likely hope, and promise of his reign,
Fell, like a star, too swiftly from his sphere,
And ev'ry poet did to Heav'n complain:
Like the unsoiled lily on the plain,
Or crimson rose, the regent of the year,
He fell, and England thought her ruin plain,
But the third George did to her eyes appear:
Like Phosphor, mid the purple weeds of night,
He peer'd abroad, and bless'd us with his light.

239

O, I could sing, till all the stars were pale,
And the bright Sun was quench'd in endless night,
Above the lunar horns in thought prevail,
Painting our English King, the world's delight:
The best of fathers, husbands, and of friends,
Most brave of men, most faithful to his God,
Most gentle Sov'reign, whom no private ends
Ere from the track of virtue sent abroad:
If blameless be the crystal star of morn,
Then all the virtues do our King adorn.

But God, who virtue by affliction tries,
And, whom he loveth, chasteneth still the more,
Ere yet they gain the amaranthine prize,
And sit enthron'd upon the tranquil shore,
Where sorrow never weeps, nor tempests roar,
When now the sceptre, for full fifty years,
He had in justice, and in mercy sway'd,
Then chang'd his hand, and 'mid the people's tears,
A heavy judgment on our father laid:
That beauteous mind, that did in truth delight,
He quench'd, alas! and hid in darksome night;
Yet, Britain, not repine: for what He wills is right.

240

Let pray'rs unfeigned from your hearths arise,
And all your churches echo with the same,
Fear not to weary the indulgent skies,
And let the organs make their sacred claim,
And the bassoon with pensive voices rise:
O Heav'n, restore again,
From darkness, and from pain,
Him, who in virtuous law did ever love to reign:
And all our waves shall yield their full increase,
And all our fields their ripen'd corn present,
And all our meads the lowing herds of peace,
And our rich gardens, sweetly eloquent,
With fair Pomona, our just vows content:
All is too little for this bounteous gift:
O gracious God, be in thy mercy swift,
To whom we bow the head, and our join'd hands uplift.

Meanwhile the King's great armies on the land,
And floating navies are with triumph crown'd:
Where'er the cross of Britain can be scann'd,
Be sure, that vict'ry to her staff is bound:
Her name is known, the orbed world around,

241

For matchless courage, and unblemish'd worth:
Then let the merchants catch the glorious sound,
And the sweet poets spread it o'er the earth:
In every tongue, on every shore be heard,
That Britain to the World, is by the World preferr'd.

What song can speak the wonders of thy praise,
Thou polish'd Prince, of victory the lord,
Who, studious of thy father's sacred ways,
Art justly for thy conq'ring arms ador'd,
And beauteous counsels, with full wisdom stor'd?
Our dark estate turn'd into golden day,
And peace dispers'd through the affrighted air,
All Europe sav'd: let men these triumphs weigh;
And History to paint thee shall despair:
When thou command'st thy banner be unfurl'd,
Thou hast no peer, or equal in the World.

Thames by thy victories is set on fire,
And London, like the starry cope of Heav'n;
The flags wave ruffling from each taper spire,
And the bright peals unto the sky are given:

242

The cannons send thy glory to the air,
Which back returns it to the vaulted ground,
Men's tongues with thy great praises loaded are,
And the full concerts swell the grateful sound:
In ev'ry chamber, and in ev'ry street,
Is heard the thrilling harp, and the full organ sweet.

The flute, the hautboy, and the clarionet,
The serpent, and the sweet, most sweet bassoon,
The great trombonè, where all sound is met,
And the large trumpets, that exalt the tune:
The wreathed horns, and the ear-piercing fife,
The clashing cymbals, and the rolling drum,
Awake our active spirits into life,
And speak of greedy battles yet to come:
But ev'ry instrument, a thousand ways,
And ev'ry tune is vocal in thy praise.

The Sun beholds thee with uprising love,
And joyous laughs, in his thrice-golden sphere,
And does reluctant from thy presence move;
The son of Jove, thou to his beams art dear:

243

The Moon and stars, from their thrice-regal height,
Divide in love the watches of the night.
And, be thou faithful to the sacred cause
Of perfect freedom, and the Bible's laws,
Thou shalt, indeed, to that true glory come,
And in unfabled Heav'n find thy immortal home:
But be this late: we cannot spare thee yet,
And in thy drooping sun find all our glory set.
The fruitful sea, and ev'ry distant shore,
Presents the native tribute of it's wealth,
And gifts of nature, never seen before,
Immortal riches, and abundant health:
All herbs of earth are in thy gardens seen,
And in thy forests ev'ry glorious tree,
The Indian world has been despoiled clean,
And Africa, to find new beasts for thee:
Gems, armors, marbles, all the proofs of mind,
By which the Romans claim'd the conquer'd world,
And the wise Greeks, in virtue thrice refin'd;
Vast volumes of philosophy, unfurl'd
Oft when the bear controuls the silent pole;
These are thy dear delights, and nearest to thy soul.

244

Great kings, and emp'rors to thy court repair,
To hear the speech of so divine a mind;
And offer tribute of distinction fair:
This doth the Saltier of St. Andrew bind,
And that the Golden Eagle on thy breast,
Or with the Holy Ghost thy sov'reign robe invest:
And he, who call'd to the Italian plains,
To give them laws, and a God-sanction'd king,
Ruling fine spirits with attemper'd reins,
Bids his embassadors the order bring
Of the steep'd Golden Fleece, rich as the burnish'd Spring:
This is thy praise: but greater is thy bliss,
To sit enthron'd upon the regal chair,
And see around thee what no land, but this,
Can yield to thought of beautiful, and fair;
Ladies, whom nature for a pattern made,
In shape, in stature, in complexion pure,
Chaste, modest, noble, by soft reason sway'd,
And form'd to love, and to make love endure;
This is the pride of Albion's happy isle,
That makes our star above all nations smile,
And in the foaming floods augments our warlike style.

245

Now cease, ye Muses, for your task is done,
And your melodious words have sunk the weary sun:
Now leave your verdant chaplets on his gate,
And there in duteous love, and sweet allegiance wait:
Till the bright Seasons, that not yet are born,
Shall this immortal Prince with a fresh palm adorn;
Then will we sing, and with our temples crown'd,
Shake the thrice-crystal Sphere with the ambrosial sound.

247

ANGELICA;

OR THE RAPE OF PROTEUS.

249

TO DUDLEY, EARL OF HARROWBY, VISCOUNT SANDON, LORD PRESIDENT OF HIS MAJESTY'S COUNCIL, WHOSE GREAT TALENTS, AND EXALTED CHARACTER HAVE OFTEN BEEN DISPLAYED IN PUBLICK LIFE, THIS POEM, AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE OF RESPECT, AND HONOUR, IS DEDICATED BY HIS OBEDIENT SERVANT, THURLOW.

251

[_]

This poem is carried on from the Tempest of Shak-speare: only, the name of Miranda is changed into Angelica. Proteus is feigned to have fallen in love with the daughter of Prospero: and the sea-maid, Celatis, to be enamoured of Ferdinand. The States of Naples having granted to him their consent of Angelica, as his wife, he is returning to bring her home to Naples, when the poem opens. The latter part of it may be considered to be written in the style of a Masque. October, 1814.

253

ANGELICA;

OR, THE RAPE OF PROTEUS.

Proteus speaks.
Ye doleful mountains, and ye shagged caves,
Whose echoes with the mournful wave are fill'd,
And your sad locks still dripping briny tears,
To you I come, to lay my sorrows down
In this waste nook, and angle of the world.
For pity may empierce your rugged breasts,
But not the flinty, hard Angelica.
Angelica, thou golden deity!
And wond'rous daughter of the elements!
The earth has had her brood; and the mere air,
Enliven'd by the birth-begetting Sun;
(For so was Ariel born, that fatal spirit,

254

Who does our enemy's behests, and yet
His beauty is more pregnant, than the beam;)
Nay, and the swelling flood, whereof is sprung
The wonder of the sky, whose dripping locks
Neptune fell down, and worshipp'd on the wave:
But thou surpassest all, as much as light
Outgoes Cimmerian darkness, or the beam
Of Phosphor the mere lanthern of a swain.
O thou divine, and passing pageant,
Thou smiling monster of ambrosial seed,
Would I had never seen thee, nor had known
What Nature may give challenge to the Gods.
O, O accursed fair, and fairest curse,
The woes, which I endure, no words can tell,
Nor horrid fables of Proserpine's world,
Where evil at the height is all her bliss.
Farewell, my herds! now may ye browse at large
Through all the wat'ry space; whom I have led,
With reedy pipe, sweet-speaking to your ears,
To pleasant pastures, oft beneath the moon,
And oft beneath the silver light of morn,
But lead no more, for now my hope is dead.

255

Yet have I seen the wonders of our world,
Oft passing to their hymeneal beds,
When Summer smooth'd the seas, whose awful charms
Compell'd the dolphins from their wat'ry holds,
And struck the shrilling Tritons with delight:
Nay, and their accents of persuasive love
Drew down the starry sparkles from their sphere.
But yet I never lov'd, nor now had lov'd,
Had all the treasury of Venus' court
Been pour'd before my eyes, with lib'ral gift
Of Jove, to make them my peculiar fee.
Thou, only thou, Angelica, could melt
My stony heart, and mould it to despair.
O son of Saturn, pierce me with thy fire,
That may undo my nature, else forbid;
Or give me great Nepenthè, that shall drown
All thoughts of this abhorred angel's form.
No: O divine Angelica, accept
The garland of my love; sweet-smelling pinks,
That in the garden of stern Neptune's queen
Delight the sense; and roses, such as deck
Her coral pavement, with the wat'ry flags,

256

And lilies, white and golden, and the flow'r
De-luce, of purple, and imperial stem.
Soft violets, and verdant asphodel,
And the flood-crocus, and the brimming wealth
Of all the cups of Flora, 'neath the sea.
These with the pallid ivy will I bind.
That crawls beside the margin of her throne,
Which Amphitrite loves, and add beside
The wat'ry jasmine, and the silver buds
Of myrtle, breathing through the crystal wave
A fragrant, and divine intelligence.
Thy golden forehead, and Sun-blaming hair,
More lovely than the Morn, I will embind
With weeds, more delicate than earthly flow'rs,
And make thee the bright Ocean's paragon.
Or, if thou choose it rather, thou shalt have
The glossy pearl, for which the Æthiop dives,
Or the green em'rald, or the turkis blue,
Which is Aurora's love, or amethysts,
Whose colour is the light of Hebe's robe,
Or purple sapphire, or the opal keen,
Fire-flashing like the day, or king of all,

257

The brilliant di'mond, rival of the sun.
These shall adorn thee, and, like stars in heav'n,
Discover all thy beauties to the world.
But, O, thou wilt despise them, if from me
Their wealth is offer'd, and my only choice
Is, to lie down, and perish on the beach.
Who am I, whom you scorn? no less a God,
Than Neptune's son, and keeper of his herds,
And mighty prophet of the murm'ring shore.
The Nymphs have lov'd me, and have oft untied
Their saffron belts within the darksome caves,
And yielded their pure virgin patents up
To my divine enforcement, with free will,
And lovely dalliance, prodigal of joy.
O, but this thought is fire, when I pursue
The like with thee, and know impossible
The fatal pleasure of thy radiant bed!
Impossible? why so? thy cruel pride
Shall have the like return: if Hell should gape,
And all the monsters of my father's world,
With hideous throats, uprising from the deep,
Deny my passage, yet would I fulfill
My glorious purpose, and the golden sand

258

Shall take the print of thy immortal form.
Angelica shall be Angelica,
But with her zone unloos'd, and flowing hair
Dishevell'd in delight; and reign the queen
Of the dark-weedy shore, and charm the caves
With prodigal demeanour to her God,
When disabus'd of her virginity.

A Mermaid rises, and sings.
Proteus, list; I sing to thee,
Daughter of the foaming sea:
In the centre late I lay,
Where the springs of ocean play,
Twenty thousand fathom down,
And gaz'd on Amphitrite's crown,
All inlaid with em'rald stones,
And opal, such as earth ne'er owns.
The jasper floor with songs was sweet,
And the Nymphs, with silver feet,
Of fragrant weed divinely wove
A silken counterpane of love;
All emboss'd with orient pearls,
Fit for the angel of chaste girls,

259

And saffron buds, to keep her sense
From the night-witch's foul offence:
And, as they wove, I list them say,
Love be to sweet Angelica,
And household faith, and golden nights,
And a brim ocean of delights:
And ev'ry one, in order due,
The marriage anthem did pursue,
As waves on waves in sequence flow,
When to the sands in love they go,
With musick, for a mermaid's ears,
Fit to charm the drowsy spheres.
In the 'midst of all their song,
A Nymph came in, to speak of wrong,
Done to Amphitrite's meads,
Where her herd, in charter, feeds,
Of water-elks, and ocean-deer,
By some of these you pasture here:
And in the silv'ry marshes too,
Where disports her dolphin crew,
Whose lilied banks are all o'er-thrown,
And purple blossoms trodden down:

260

And in her blooming orchard's fence,
Where her steeds delight their sense,
Her scaly horses, snorting forth,
In token of their love, and worth,
And lashing still their finned tails;
For there the outrage too prevails:
Her tender plants are bruis'd, and torn,
And fragrant apples cropp'd in scorn.
The wat'ry calves, O queen, came in,
With a lowing rush, and din,
Escap'd from Proteus' hoary care,
As when, between the Trojan straits,
Great Neptune rushes through the gates:
The Nymph then wept, her message sped,
And hid in woe her amber head.
Amphitrite, rising straight,
From her chair of glassy state,
Like the orbed Moon, in pride,
Held her pearly sceptre wide,
Tipp'd with em'rald, and she swore
A fatal oath, ne'er heard before
In a mermaid's dulcet ears,
To be aveng'd her servant's tears:

261

And sent a nymph to Neptune straight,
On whose swift feet depends thy fate.

Proteus speaks.
This is the fault of Caliban: 'twas but
The beaming of last Hesper, as we fed
Beneath Sigæum, by the lonely tomb
Of stern Achilles, who in golden arms
Oft flashes on the frighted mariner,
With privilege of woe, and points his wounds,
I gave the monster strict enforced charge,
To gather with sure staff his scaly herds:
For oft I saw them drop into the sea,
As stars of summer from the welkin shoot:
But in his drowsy ear the precept slept,
Which I will well avenge: ungracious monster!

The Mermaid sings.
Caliban i' th' eclipse was got,
When the night-shade pines with drought,
And then takes a deadlier hue,
And was dropp'd, to plague our view,
Underneath the iron shade
Of Hell's gates, and thence convey'd

262

To a witch, who brought him up,
And gave him of dame Hecat's cup,
Which has made him plaguesome thus:
What was his sire? a Succubus.
Was not Sycorax his dam?

Proteus speaks.
Well, I will penn the monster to a rock,
And let him howl nine moons into the deep,
Or bid the Tritons whip him, till his roar
Outgoes the copulating whale: what, wretch!
Forego my precept, and forsake his herd
Of porpusses, and fanged wat'ry calves?
But I will well requite thee.

The Mermaid sings.
Proteus, Love, who skims the seas,
And on the sands does what he please,
Not Caliban, 'though he be vile,
Hath work'd against thee with this guile.
A waning moon ago, I lay,
And comb'd my hair in Corinth bay,

263

Singing in my coral bower,
And mark'd young Cupid squeeze a flower,
Born of Helen's lively blood,
Which blushes sanguine by the flood:
With Ida's shepherd she at play
On the beach of Sparta lay;
A prickly thistle made a wound,
Which ting'd the shore with nectar round,
And of that crimson milk the flow'r
Was nurtur'd in that charmed hour.
With this he dipp'd his sharpest dart,
And quench'd it's fire in Proteus' heart.
Thou know'st it well; and this has made
The herdsman-God forsake his trade:
What dost thou since, but lie and groan,
And make the rocks repeat thy moan,
And all the winds of th' Ocean play
In praise of sweet Angelica?
The very sea-gulls know thy song—
Why Love has done thee this great wrong,
And Love must cure the wound he made,
By rape of this hard-hearted maid.

264

Now, Proteus, to thy eyes I lift
The mirrour, which is Neptune's gift,
And show thee, wreck'd upon the strand,
The barque of royal Ferdinand:
His large big-bellied sails are full,
And swelling waves wash on his hull
To th' island of old Prospero,
To do, what thou too well dost know.
But I will sing him to decay,
And wreck his wishes in the bay,
If thou wilt give the boy to me,
To hold him in the hoary sea,
And make stern Neptune grant the same,
And she, his amber-crowned dame.

Proteus speaks.
That which thou say'st, is true: my tears have worn
The iron rocks, and over-charg'd the sea:
But I will be reveng'd: is Ferdinand
So soon come back from Naples to his wife?
O, thou good maiden, whelm him in the flood,
And think his lips fine coral, and his eyes

265

Blue sapphires, and his locks, O, cursed locks!
The vegetable amber, ere he wed
Angelica, and ruin both our loves.
But I will go to Neptune, and assuage
His rugged brow, and Amphitrite's ire,
Walking beneath the sea with smoothed staff:
And, if my prayers can do it, he shall grant
Thy amorous suit, and charter thee the boy;
With whom in marriage rites thou shalt be laid,
And all the mermaids sing around thy bed,
And all the sea-nymphs dance; the Tritons blow
Their wreathed conchs, and I myself be there.
But since the States of Naples have assign'd
Angelica, the wife of Ferdinand,
For which he now returns, to bear her home,
I will awaken all the deity
To save my cause from ruin, and prevent
The liberal maid from marriage with a man.
Farewell, Celatis; true be to thyself,
To me, and to the Ocean.

266

The Mermaid speaks.

Farewell, Proteus:
And be thy journey happy: I, be sure,
Will charm thee with a song, to draw the Moon
From her pale chair in heaven; if thou succeed,
And make the crowned Ferdinand my spouse.
Now will I chant before old Prosper's isle,
To wait his bark a-hulling o'er the flood.

She sings.

With my golden comb, and glass,
To old Prospero's isle I pass:
Let young Ferd'nand's prow beware,
The sands are deep, the billows fair;
Ding dong, ding dong:
The prince within my arms shall lie,
While all the bells ring heavily,
Ding dong, ding dong;
For the Sea-maid hath her love.

Amber is his curling hair,
And his eyes are sapphires fair;

267

And his lips, like coral, swell,
And his teeth are liken'd well
To the burnish'd ivory,
On his forehead snow doth lie:
Ding, dong, ding dong;
Let Angelica go weep,
For the corn she could not reap,
Ding dong, ding dong,
For the Sea-maid hath her love.

THE SCENE CHANGES TO PROSPERO'S ISLAND.
The Mermaid speaks.
But who is that? a queen upon the shore,
In azure robes, and pearled coronet?
A Goddess, not a queen: 'tis Juno, sure;
Or Hebe, more enlarged, than she wont,
To absolute perfection of her state;
The kiss of Jove hath work'd this miracle,
And she stands there, for men to worship her.
Men? there are no men here, but Prospero;

268

And he is old, and wedded to cold thoughts.
That, that must be Angelica: O me!
A rival, that the queen of Heav'n may fear,
If she should stand before her, as she does now,
In natural proportion of her soul,
The golden heavens clipping her around,
As much as say, behold a paragon!
Why, I shall love, who came to ruin her;
And love her with a nat'ral innocence,
Being the guardian angel of her steps.
Proteus is not to blame, if he prefer
Her garter to the belt of all the world.
She is herself a world, a complete world,
Where all the wealth of Nature is display'd:
The fire of Jove doth lighten in her eyes,
And blazes through her crystal limbs, to show
Her fine proportion, and pure temperament.
She touches me with awe: I must away;
Nor lose myself in her. Divine Angelica,
I whisper to the waves, thou dost outgo
The crowned queen of Neptune: those brave legs
Are not of mortal mould: O Ferdinand,

269

Thy choice is noble: but it shall not be:
I am thy wife, and not this prodigal,
And I will put it to th' arbitrament
Of fate, despite of Neptune: I will kill her,
Tempt her with songs into the smiling deep,
Then strangle in the waves: O devil, devil,
Full of seduction, and abandonment,
Were women all like thee, then the whole world
Were surely mad with Venus: I will kill her,
Or give to Proteus: yet it pities me,
So fair should kiss so foul: so true a bosom
Be leagu'd to one, made rough with wint'ry storms,
And hard as rocks: yet love will have it so,
Or I shall lose my Ferdinand: my bed
Be barren and unfruitful; my whole life
But one unshaped winter: O chaste maid,
All innocent, and happy, as thou seem'st,
Thou tread'st upon the verge; and shalt be lost,
Ere yet thou think'st thy footing is unsure.

Angelica speaks.
Why look'st thou so on me? thy eyes devour me;

270

And thy whole visage now is wint'ry pale,
And now, like flame, is crimson. I ne'er harm'd thee:
But rather, O Sea-maid, would do thee love.

The Mermaid speaks.
I love thee, and not hate thee; chaste delight,
And angel of this shore: and, so I might,
Would entertain thine ears: for I am sent
To charm thee with a loving argument.

Angelica.
Who sent thee to this shore, to sing to me?

The Mermaid.
No less than Neptune, God of all the Sea.

Angelica.
I cannot choose, but tremble at his name;
To be the object of so great a flame:
Yet mortal with immortal may not join;
Nor can my simple beauties be divine.
Besides, I cannot love: I am a wife,
And sworn to pure affection for my life.

271

The Mermaid.
Farewell to pity; for that word is fire.
Thou say'st not true, Angelica: I know
Thou art not married, though betroth'd to one,
Who, yet I weep to say it, lieth drown'd
Within the bay of Naples, and is wed
To the cold sea: the mermaids ring his knell.
Amazement hath undone her: see, she falls.
Angelica! awake, Angelica!
Perhaps, he is not drown'd: I saw him beat
The angry surge: he may not yet be drown'd,
For he was strong, and valiant in the wave.

Angelica.
Away, dissembling monster! he is dead.

The Mermaid.
He is not dead, Angelica: I saw
Him reach the shore: I said it, but to make
A trial of thy love: it has prov'd crystal.
But you must hear me further: when he reach'd

272

The shore, worn out with struggling with the wave,
And lying, like Leander, on the beach,
Lais, who knows not Lais? Naples-born,
More soft, and flatt'ring than the Summer's sea,
By which she dwells, this Lais took him up,
And had him to her own enchanting bed,
Wherein she laid him, wherein now he lies,
Clipp'd in her wanton arms: for she sate by him,
With, O, such heart-drawn sighs, and silv'ry tears,
Her lilied hands still tending on his clothes,
With many melting tales of loving maids,
Who were undone by false men in their youth,
And died of passion, interweaving songs,
Which would make Philomel die, that first he kiss'd,
And then—but I forbear it: does not this move thee?
Well, thou art wise; for, the temptation weigh'd,
The boy may yet be true.

Angelica.
It moves me not:
And I am firm to this, as is the continent
To the beseiging wave: I'm sure, 'tis false.

273

The Mermaid.
Alas, it is not: and, I ask thee then,
Are there not golden pleasures, which in nature
Are to be priz'd, and lov'd for their own sake,
Jove being the author, by whose gift we use them?
And most so, when Revenge doth add her sting,
To sharpen the free will, already apt:
O, 'tis a banquet for a God, to charm
Thy longing soul, and do so good requital
To him, who first had wrong'd thee: think on't, Angelica,
And be both wise, and happy.

Angelica.
I know thee now,
And scorn thee with the knowledge; thou art vile,
And a most false dissembler: get thee hence,
Or I will call my father, to avenge
Th' illusion of thy shallow eloquence,
And heap thy honied evils on thy head.
What, would'st thou tempt my virtue, and abuse
My yet untasted youth? hence, hideous fiend!

274

Go, take thy fawning tales to other ears,
Which may accept them: for myself, I scorn thee.

The Mermaid.
Alas, and wilt thou loose th' imperial rule
Of all the seas, and Neptune's em'rald sceptre,
All, for few words of pale philosophy?
Who is't, Angelica, whose lessons blind
The yet unsated youth? why men, who, dull
With old and crabbed age, envy the joy,
Which the ripe maid is heir to: thou art young,
And Neptune courts thee to partake his bed,
No less a God, than Neptune.

Angelica.
Say no more;
But take thy voyage to another isle.
I fear thee: for my father oft has said,
The Angels may be won by eloquence:
Nay, Angels have been won by eloquence
To gross revolt against the crystal bowers.
But think me thus; if Ferdinand yet live,
I may become his wife; if he be gone,

275

Farewell to marriage, and the natural joy,
Which maids are heir to, as thou wisely say'st,
But say'st with ill intent: I'll be a rose,
To waste my blushes on the desert air,
And fade, as undistilled of my sweets.

The Mermaid.
She's gone, and gone an Angel: yet I hate,
And yet I pity; such a thing is love:
Made up of fire, and wanton-spirited air,
Dull earth, and chilling water: contradictions,
All, that can be in Nature: now resolv'd,
And now dispers'd in a too weak compassion:
At least 'tis so in me. But Proteus comes,
Whose rugged breast has no access to pity,
Hard as the rocks, on which he feeds his herd,
And cold, as the pale sands. My eye can pierce him,
Though flying, as a sea-kite, o'er the waves,
For oft he changes to a separate form,
And now he beats the land, and now is Proteus.
I'll speak to him:
He looks inflam'd with anger, sunk in woe.

276

Proteus.
Well, I return, Celatis: 'tis in vain;
The God would grant it, but the queen is marble.
The blue-ey'd devil, nymph Autolyca,
Stands at her elbow, minding her her wrongs,
And wiping her salt tears with amber hair.
Autolyca, whom Neptune's self adores,
Yet Amphitrite loves her to perdition.
Perdition catch her! for her fatal beauty
Shall be my only ruin: Ferdinand
Shall have, in spousal bed, Angelica,
And I forsake my hopes of happiness,
And all, because Autolyca is fair.

The Mermaid.
Why then the maid will marry Ferdinand?

Proteus.
'Tis like for he will wed Angelica.

The Mermaid.
Then I am lost: O Proteus, I am lost.

277

Proteus.
Am I not lost too? lost beyond redemption,
If once I lose Angelica? O winds,
Blow up the mountain billows to dread Heav'n,
And let the flashing light'nings singe their tops,
To make the world one Tartarus! ye waves,
Obey no more the trident of your king,
But mix in great rebellion with the winds,
And drown the world, or drown this Ferdinand!
O, I will have the maid, should Neptune face me,
And Jove, with arm uplifted, sit above,
To blast me into Erebus!

The Mermaid.
Alas, we must submit, if Neptune frown,
And Amphitrite will the marriage bed:
We must submit to ruin.

Proteus.
Aye, you're recall'd to Amphitrite's throne:
And the sea-nymphs shall whip you, they shall whip you,

278

For thrice-sev'n seasons, 'till this partial fire
Be all expung'd, and raz'd; I heard the mandate;
Autolyca is bade to see it done.

The Mermaid.
Autolyca is bad, that I well know;
For I have felt her whips: the smiling Venus
Lash'd me to purpose in her mistress' cell,
Where the Sea-maids must suffer penalty,
For faults conceiv'd or acted: bade not spare me:
What was my fault? I stole but the fair horn
Of a sea-unicorn, which Thetis priz'd,
And us'd it, as her shell.

Proteus.
Well, she shall whip you,
And worse than that, you shall lose Ferdinand,
Lose him, Celatis; lose the prince for ever!

The Mermaid.
O Proteus, shall this be, and can I live?
Is there no help, to give me Ferdinand?
Can you not prophecy, how this may be?

279

Proteus.
We, prophets, are not prophets for ourselves.
But there is help, Celatis, there is help,
If thou wilt do my meaning: what forbids,
But thou should sink the barque of Ferdinand
Into the golden ruin of the sand,
And clasp the boy in thy especial arms?
I say, what hinders? since, for Amphitrite,
She, who forsakes her subject, cannot blame
Her subject for forsaking: she forsook thee;
Nay, she has touch'd thy health with penalty:
And then, perhaps, she sleeps; perhaps, she walks
With her most dear Autolyca i' th' garden,
Conversing of their loves, dreaming of flowers,
Not minding thy fine action: why the bliss
Is certain, and the evil yet obscure:
Courage has still this patent to go through,
As licens'd, to the goal: then, think the bliss,
The pure, compendious bliss; infinite essence,
Which shall unlock the gates of satisfaction:
Think Ferdinand already in thy arms.

280

Besides, how many women, merely mortal,
Will go to certain ruin for their loves;
And weigh it not a hair? And, can'st thou sing,
'Till the pale moon, and stars shall grow enamour'd,
And look with double pleasure on the wave,
And thus be foil'd of marriage? Fame, Celatis,
Fame is delight to the pure spiritual ear,
But yet the wealth of Nature must be sought;
For soul, and body mutually are link'd:
Thy queen will praise thy songs, and starve thy nature;
Why, I say no: she should be all thy queen,
Or be no queen to thee: 'tis known, Celatis,
That thy thrice-golden song can stay the moon,
When she is, bearward, west'ring to the pole,
And all the twinkling essences of light
Sleep round her shadowy wheels. Thou art the star,
The primal star of Amphitrite's crown:
And shall she, then, deny thee Ferdinand?
Besides, she shall not see thee, shall not hear,
For we will drug Autolyca: for Neptune,
Be sure, he'll wink: besides, thou art foredoom'd,
Can'st not be worse, and may be peerless happy,

281

Happy, beyond infinity of thought.
Then do't, Celatis; for thy own sake, do it;
Drag down the boy into thy coral cave,
And charm thy soul with gladness: else thou lov'st not,
If thou wilt not do this for Ferdinand.

The Mermaid.
Thou speakest, like a God; most like a God,
Most like the Son of Neptune: I will do it;
O Proteus, I will do it. Give me Ferdinand,
And all the world I weigh not at a cinder.

Proteus.
Bravely resolv'd; thou art the maid I took thee:
The noble-minded, and most chaste Celatis!
Take thou thy stand, before that promontory,
Where the false wave is shallow; when the Sun
Shall dip his hair into the briny wave,
And leave a golden mem'ry of himself,
The fire of Hesper rising, sing thy utmost;
For then the sails of Ferdinand shall near:
And, in that intervening space, when day

282

Has walk'd from out the world, and night not yet
Planted her silent foot, then Prospero's art
Can nothing touch, or natural, or divine.
But let not Ariel hear me.

The Mermaid.
Hark! it thunders.
I fear, O Proteus, for our evil speech.

Proteus.
Fear nothing; this is Caliban's mere howl,
Whom I have chain'd to the rocks: there is an island,
Set, like a barren gem, within the deep,
Whose bowels all are marble; and the winds,
And restless surge make musick to no ear;
There have I chain'd him, and the sea-wolves round
Gape hideous in his eyes: he roars, like Ætna:
Men call the island, Elba.

The Mermaid.
It is well;
He'll lose you no more calves; though Ariel drew them

283

From out the speckled welkin with his pipe,
And did with fine seduction tumble down
Into the sleeping sea: this Ariel did,
To torture Caliban, who left his master,
To follow at the treading of thy herd.

Proteus.
Well, it may be so.

The Mermaid.
Yet, I think, it thunder'd.

Proteus.
No, it did not: nor shall, to our disquiet.
But, I behold old Prosper with his daughter,
In deep discourse upon the shelving shore:
I'll listen, as a bird; and suck his doctrine,
Which shall not save her virtue, or I err.

The Mermaid.
Be sure, if thou address her, call thyself
No less a God, than Neptune: so I styl'd thee,
When I preferr'd thy passion to her ear.

284

Proteus.
Did she relent, Celatis?

The Mermaid.
Yes, as marble,
When April show'rs would pierce it to the heart.

Proteus.
Well then, her tears, and not her smiles must serve me:
Which might e'en melt the marble, but not me.
Each to our work, and to our separate joys:
For, what we yet have known of bliss, shall be
To this divinest consummation,
But as the least, and most particular star,
That burns in heav'n, when skirting on the sphere
Of the bright-orbed moon, to that large planet.
O, we are not yet born!

The Mermaid.
Proteus, farewell:
Thou art my God; I will be thine for ever.

285

Proteus.
And I protect, and love thee, as a daughter.

The Mermaid sings.

Ere the dogs begin to howl,
Or to cry the staring owl,
Ere the ghosts begin to stalk,
Or the wakeful Hecate walk,
Long, long before,
We will lie in coral bower,
And delight the amber hour
With the youth, whom we adore:
Farewell, Proteus!

And the while, on the other hand,
On old Prosper's golden strand,
You, O God, shall have at will
Her, whose eyes were born to kill:
Long, long before
The sober-suited Night shall come,
And make the dewy earth her home,
You shall have, whom you adore:
Farewell, Proteus!

286

Proteus speaks.
Hist! hist! lest Prosper hear you: away! away!
I am a bird: I hear you, Prospero.

Prospero speaks.
What I have said, my daughter, may suffice,
If your chaste ear were barren yet to virtue,
And your whole soul untutor'd: 'tis not so,
And all my solitary hours have been
Expended, in the fashioning my child:
Thou hast been to me more, than Summer Suns,
Or the pure light of Morn; for which I thank thee,
And thank the Gods, that made thee dutiful:
What I have more to say, is brief: this Ferdinand
Is a right-noble prince, and loves you dearly,
And from my arms unto his bed you shall
Go with a double blessing: keep thy nature,
Which is, my fair one, chaste as untouch'd snow,
Humble as lowly herbs, modest as eve
Within her amber veil, but free as fire
To fight her virtuous cause, never her ill:

287

Naples may say, that she accepts a woman,
Whose like the world can't furnish: this is all.
Here are thy mother's jewels; 'tis her coronet,
Which I have kept, forelooking to this day,
Instructed by my art: I have sent Ariel,
For accident hath stole one princely gem,
To silver-footed Thetis, to extract
The precious emerald, which fires her zone,
Which she oft promis'd should be thine on marriage:
Thereon the eye of Naples shall be set,
The star of her allegiance. Now ere eve
Awake the silent nightingale, the ship,
Which carries Ferdinand, shall breast our port,
And his sharp anchor bite our golden sand.
Then must the fire be lighted, which shall shine
Upon your equal vows: farewell, my daughter!
For one short hour, farewell! my books are clos'd,
And all my task is done: for the brief space,
That yet remains before the king's arrival,
I fain would pass within my wonted cell,
In contemplation of this dear event,
May all your life be happy.

288

Angelica.
Farewell, my father!
For that short time, farewell! when I forget
Thy gentle learned care of all my youth,
And doctrine of my soul, 'till now I walk
Upon the eve of marriage, may the sweet heavens,
Whose fav'ring mercy still has shone on me,
Forget me also, an ungracious child:
But it shall ne'er be so.

Prospero.
I dare believe it.

Angelica sings.

O nightingale, the wood's best poet, come,
And welcome, whom we look for, home:
The snake now coileth in his leafy bower,
And the shrill cricket tells thy hour:
Day cannot close his eye without thy song:
Then let thy melting note be heard ere long;
Which shall on ev'ry bank, and bushy brake
The glow-worm's silver lamp awake.

289

Well, I will cull fresh flow'rs, to speed the time,
Which lingers, 'till the setting of the Sun:
To make a gift for Ferdinand.

She sings.

Take heed, chaste nymph, take heed,
Singing in the flow'ry mead,
For Love oft lurks in thorny roses,
And there in crimson buds reposes:
Take heed, chaste nymph, take heed,
Lest he awake,
His quiver take,
And bend his bow,
And shoot, heigh ho!
The dart, that makes thy bosom ache.

I will not have these violets; they're faint,
Not sweet enough for Ferdinand: this rose
Is far too pale: my love shall be decypher'd
In these I give him, prodigal of sweets,
Crimson in grain, and full-blown i' th' sun,
The glass, and mirrour of his radiant orb;
What blushes not for shame, but for delight.

290

When Jove kiss'd Hebe first,
In her smile the rose was nurs'd,
But of a pallid hue:
From her golden ewer
She pour'd the nectar pure,
And then it crimson grew:
The Graces danc'd around,
And the blythe Muses made Olympus sound,
With, O, thrice happy rose!
Be thou the queen of flowers,
And lead the summer hours,
So long, as Zephyr blows.

O, here's a charming rose; and here's a bed
Of violets, as sweet as Paradise;
Methinks, a couch for Venus; I will rob it:

For, O dear sir, I was chaste, and sweet,
'Till I gave you a part of my maiden sheet:
Alas! why did I so?
The morning shot in his amber ray,
He donn'd his clothes, and went his way:
I never shall see him mo.

291

With, O bull-rushes, O green bull-rushes,
How sweet is the breath of Spring!

Proteus speaks.

Poor innocent! her harmless songs might melt
A breast of iron: I'll away to sea,
And fleeting, like a swallow, speed the sails
Of Ferdinand: when next I come ashore,
Thou'lt be a wife, a laughing maid no more.

Proteus sings in the air; over the Ship of Ferdinand.

I skim around the roped shrowds,
Perch upon the squared yards,
Pipe unto the amber clouds,
For an Angel's sweet regards:
Blow, O wind: ye billows, flow!
For this ship is doom'd to woe.

First Sailor.
Now then we near the land; the swallows come,
To bid us welcome.

292

Second Sailor.
Land! I see the land.
Go tell the Captain, Nich'las sees the land.

The Captain.
Yes, boys, the chart is true: South-east by south,
And we shall fetch our port: 't must be the land,
To which we are destin'd: Nicholas, here's money:
Some gentleman, whose star is fortunate,
Go tell the prince, that we have fetch'd the shore,
Where all his heart is treasur'd.

Gentleman.
I will go,
For I have need of fortune, and she's here.

The Captain.
Put her upon the tack, nearer the wind:
Now she scuds bravely: 'tis a gallant wench.
Methinks, the wind's enamour'd of my ship,
And the waves run in love.

293

Ferdinand.
Antonio,
Brave Captain, good Antonio, for thy care,
And seaman-like concurrence with our course,
And gallant 'haviour, thou art fit to rule
The decks of all the ocean: Naples thanks thee.
And for our love, large though it be, 'tis poor,
Most poor to thy deserts. Ask what thou wilt.

Antonio.
My lord, I'll ask this favour: let the princess,
The ever-fair Angelica, but say,
Antonio, thou hast nobly serv'd my lord:
'T shall be enough: I'll ask no golden patent,
But be in that a duke: her voice is honour.

Ferdinand.
Nobly declar'd: and, like thyself, Antonio.
But honour must be done thee, worldly honour;
The other is divine: both shalt thou have:
Gonzales, take thou charge, the crew be thank'd
With a full purse of guineas.

294

Gonzales.
Good, my lord.

Ferdinand.
That, when the anchor falls, no heart be sad;
But all rejoice with Ferdinand.

Sailors.
All, all
Pray God to bless your highness!

Antonio.
Open the ports, and let our bristled cannon
Show forth their flaming breath; and tell the Island,
The sovereign Son of Naples is at hand.
In a few moments we will wake the welkin.

Ferdinand.
The sun goes sweetly down upon the sea;
And his large golden sphere gives ample promise
Of a bright ruddy morning: all is calm,
And the moist Zephyr hardly bends the wave:

295

Angelica, O sweet Angelica!
If all the nat'ral tribute of the seas
Could be disburs'd before me, I'd not change
One hair of thine for the prodigious wealth:
The sun now dips i' th' ocean: he'll be gone,
Ere we can say, farewell: gone is the flame,
And now 'tis time for shadows!

Antonio.
Throw forth the anchor; here is goodly sand.

Ferdinand.
Ha! what is that? Gonzales, saw you it?
What is that shape, Antonio? overthwart
The vessel's bow?

Antonio.
Save me, my lord! I know not:
Have we a priest aboard?

Ferdinand.
A priest, Antonio?
'Tis but a silly Mermaid, such as swim

296

Around the seas, in summer, to beguile
The eyes of wand'ring mariners: half fish
It is, half-maid; I oft have read of them,
But never saw, till now.

Antonio.
Nor I, my lord;
Nor like her not, now I have seen, assure you.

Ferdinand.
Alas, she'll do no harm; she is not fatal.

Antonio.
Hold up the anchor: 'tis not seasonable.

Ferdinand.
Nay, I have heard, they oft have counsell'd men
To best expedience, in the jaws of danger,
And have disburs'd the sea of many a wreck.

Antonio.
O, hark! my lord, she sings.

297

The Mermaid sings.
Come, come away,
You, that float i' th' shallow bay:
Let not the iron anchor fall;
For to wreck you shall be thrall:
Coral rocks beneath your bow,
And waves of peril threat you now:
Let Naples know, the sands are deep!
Take heed; or else your wives will weep.

First Sailor.
The witch has a good voice. what say'st thou, Nicholas?

Ferdinand.
Antonio, hark! again: 'tis very sweet;
'Tis melancholy sweet, and yet it charms me.

The Mermaid sings.

I am she, who smooth the seas,
And calm the stormy Cyclades:
I chant the dogs of Scylla down,
Whose songs make many sailors drown;

298

Or would for me; and them I save
From fell Charybdis' boiling wave.
I soften Amphitrite's ire:
And bring to peace great Ocean's sire;
Who bids them straight engulph the winds,
And Æolus in prison binds.
Who is't that frights the whale away?
And makes Leviathan give up his prey;
Whose mighty sides would else undo
The reeling ship, and all her crew?
Who sings at sea to boys o' th' mast,
And bids them to the sands not haste?
Or swims upon the treach'rous wave,
And does from rocks, and reefs of coral save?
Who, when the ship is sunk, and drown'd,
Ten fathom down, i' th' gulphy sound,
Who sings above the washy vane,
And makes the merchant's ruin plain?
Who is't, but I, that o'er the ocean pass,
And with my golden comb, and crystal glass
Make smooth the wave? the cannon-bristling ship,
And freighted merchantman their prows may dip

299

With safety in the flood; but by my aid,
Who am their guardian, and a sea-born maid.

I disperse the wint'ry clouds,
And Hecate's mist, that blackly shrouds
The silver orb o' th' waning moon,
And let her guide your courses soon.
I am link'd t' the polar star;
When other help to men is far,
Then I unveil his fixed fire,
And give to sailors their desire.
I do this, and I do more,
On the seas, and on the shore:
Then, O Antonio, heed my song,
And what doth to my art belong!
Over the prow the sands are deep,
The waves in shallow peril sleep:
Antonio, heed the Mermaid's song,
Or do to Naples endless wrong!

Proteus.
Good, faithful maid, how wisely doth she sing!

300

Ferdinand.
Well, we'll believe her: which way shall we steer?

The Mermaid.
A mile a-head, upon the westward bow.

Antonio.
My lord, she will deceive us: see, the chart
Declares expressly, there the sand-bank lies.

Ferdinand.
Nay, we will trust.

Antonio.
Ho! helmsman, steer a mile,
A mile a-head upon the western bow.

Proteus.

Fatal ship, thou sail'st away,
To be hoary Ocean's prey:
Down, down, down, down,

301

Thou shalt go,
Ere yet thou know,
That thou art o' the verge of woe:
Down, down, down, down!

Sleep, Prosper, sleep i' thy mossy cave,
Whilst I snatch thy daughter brave:
On the Carpathian coast,
Whilst thou shalt tear
Thy aged hair,
Thy angel shall be lost:
Sleep, Prosper, sleep!

Farewell to Ferdinand's ship, she strikes! she strikes!
No man in her shall see to-morrow's dawn.—
I come, I come: Angelica, beware!

The Ship strikes upon the sand-bank: and the Mermaid sings.

Come, Ferdinand, come,
And make my arms thy home:

302

My silver arms, and coral cave
Shall thy beauteous presence have;
Where i' th' arched roof are seen
Flow'rs of lilac, and of green,
With the pallid blue;
And the shemryng pearls between,
To delight thy view:
Come, Ferdinand, come!

Ferdinand speaks, as the ship sinks.
Farewell! there is no help: my friends, adieu!
Adieu, O world! adieu, Angelica!
My kingdom, and my only love, adieu!

Angelica cries out from the shore.
Help, Ferdinand, help! the Sea-God will compel me!

Neptune rises, with Amphitrite, and strikes the ocean with his trident.
Neptune speaks.
Blow, Tritons, blow!
And let this traitor-God my presence know.

303

Bind him in secular chains:
And with the wolf, and bear
Let him in sorrow pair,
Where night, beneath my throne, eternal reigns.
Blow, Tritons, blow!

Amphitrite speaks.

Ye nymphs of wreathed shell,
Who do my pleasure well,
From morn to th' amber eve,
Take false Celatis here,
Bind her in prison drear,
That she with penance grieve.
Ye nymphs of wreathed shell!

Autolyca, I charge you, see this done,
Done to the letter: let Celatis know,
She, who offends her queen, must dwell in woe.

Autolyca sings.

Mistress, I will bind the wench,
Till her endless tears shall drench

304

Her barred prison's floor:
Shall she in Ferd'nand's arms be laid,
A false, unchaste, unsea-like maid?
Tears shall her guilt deplore.

Where no fish shall e'er come nigh,
Nor be heard the sea-bird's cry,
Nor the Triton's shell;
Where th' unfathom'd waters flow,
There, in solitude and woe,
Shall Celatis dwell.

She may to the moon complain
Of Amphitrite's iron reign,
Our dearest-loved queen!
Whose golden smile, and mercy ne'er
Shall be shed on her despair,
'Till thousand moons have been.

Amphitrite.
'Tis well, 'tis well, Autolyca!

305

Neptune.
Tritons, bear up the ship; and give good musick,
To speed her sails into the wish'd-for port.
Autolyca, now sing to Prospero!

Autolyca sings.

Duke of Milan, waken now!
Fear is chased from thy brow:
Neptune has thy daughter sav'd;
Else dishonour had enslav'd
Her free virgin mind; and taught
Doctrine, which indeed is nought.
Proteus now is made to groan
Underneath his em'rald throne:
And by his queen is Ferd'nand sped
To thy daughter's holy bed,
Where Hymen stands with blushing cheeks,
And his sacred wishes speaks
O'er th' immortal counterpane,
Which the Sea-nymphs have wov'n with pain;
Happy pain! to see it laid
Over this soft, enchanting maid,

306

A maid, all other maids above,
As well in chastity, as love.
Let the owl not haunt her ear,
Nor the witch of night be near;
But love's perfect happiness
Her chaste bosom ever bless;
Sound, nor sight e'er make it less!

Double carnations, roses of both hues,
Scent violets, and jasmine, bath'd in dews,
These interweaving with the coronet,
Where welked pearls, and emeralds are set,
Here on thy daughter's pillow will I place,
To breathe a sacred odour, and a grace.
Farewell! Great Neptune's horses snort: I fly,
To chase the orange, and the amber sky;
Where, downwards o'er the bright Atlantick stream,
Apollo lashes his unwearied team.
Adieu! Adieu!

Ariel enters, and sings.
Here I bring the em'rald stone,
That burn'd in Thetis' blazing zone:

307

I have paid my duty's debt,
And my wings with waves are wet;
For I div'd down, how deep! how deep!
Where the green-hair'd Nereids sleep:
But I have brought the prize away,
Whose verdant beams shall far outshine the day.
Awake! Awake!
I am weary for thy sake.

308

A SCENE, IN AN EVENING BAY.

The Zephyr sleeps
On the brine and crystal deeps;
The flagging sails make hardly way,
And the still boats gem the bay:
The fisher throws his shrimping net,
'Tis now near night; but not night yet;
Farewell, Apollo!
I walk upon the sands, and hear
The Sea-nymphs blow their musick clear,
And, hark! the Tritons hollow.

311

A Passage in “Angelica,” since otherwise written.

Yet have I seen the wonders of our globe,
Oft passing to their hymeneal beds,
When Summer smooth'd the seas; whose looks have trapt
The wary Tritons, and their voices drawn
Th' allured dolphins from their native depths.
And yet I lov'd not; lov'd not, 'till I saw
Angelica, thou merely mortal foe,
Yet more, than thrice celestial to my soul!
How oft, when eve went down upon the sea,
Have I sat list'ning to thy angel tongue,
That might have led Apollo from his sphere
With songs of pity, and the mermaids dropp'd
Their golden combs, and, ravish'd with delight,
Stood gazing in astonish'd ecstacy.
How oft, when Morn spread forth his ruddy curls,
And wak'd the world with his thrice-angel lute,
Have I beheld thee, faultless excellence!
To whom the alabaster is but night,
And marble of white Paros but a cloud,

312

Have I beheld thee on th' enamour'd sand,
Thy robes put off, and, panting at the wave,
With boundless beauty set the air on fire!
And must I lose thee? lose thee to a man,
Born of mere woman? such as plough the earth,
And clothe them in the fleecy wools of sheep,
And pray to Jove for the sweet nourish'ng rain?
Who am I, O disdainful fair? my birth
Is of the Gods; and when the moon is up,
And the fine fairies tripping all abroad,
You may behold me, with my thousand herds,
Crown'd by the Tritons, throned on the shore.
Behold, too, when the wint'ry seas are waste,
And wild with wreck, the moon not peering then,
But sulphurous clouds o'erhanging all the deep,
What num'rous fires the shepherds light to me,
And slay their oxen on the margin'd shore.
So do they in the promise of the Spring,
And fading year, and call upon my name.
For I have rule, but under Neptune's frown,
Of all the briny waters, and the strand.
Then not a Mermaid sings, but by my choice;

313

The winds are partly mine, and the deep floods
Of swaying waters, where the pearl is born,
Engender'd of the Sun upon the brine:
Full canisters of such, as put to shame
What Sheba to the wisest king ere while
In tribute brought, fair Angel! shall be thine,
If thou but smile, as gracious to my vows;
Beds of fine pearl, and coral, and the ore,
Which erring men prefer to happiness;
Gold of such pure translucence, that the crown
Of Persia's king may be esteem'd, as dross:
With what of turquois the salt ocean breeds,
And emeralds, in which the Sea-nymphs joy,
And fiery opals, and the diamond sheen:
But, oh! thou wilt despise them—

314

OCCASIONAL VERSES.

A SONG OF THE SEA-FAIRIES.

We tread upon the golden sand,
When the waves are rolling in,
And the porpus comes to land,
And to leap he doth begin,
Snorting to the fishy air:
Prepare, prepare,
Good housewives, keep your fires bright,
For your mates come home to-night.

Now the drenched nets are drawn
From the swaying of the seas;
'Faith, your rings must go to pawn,
Blow such bitter winds, as these:

317

The moon, the moon,
Riding at her highest noon,
Swells the orbed waters bright,
And your mates come home to-night.

Through our crisped locks the wind,
Like a sighing lover plays;
Now let Joan, and Alice kind
Make the wint'ry faggot blaze;
And the pot be Lucy's care:
Prepare, prepare,
And see, you speed your welcome right,
For your mates come home to-night.

Else we'll pinch you black and blue,
Underneath pale Hecate's team;
And the cramp your joints shall rue,
And the night-mare in your dream:
Be sure, be sure,
This, and more you shall endure,
If you smile not, chaste and bright,
When your mates come home to-night.

318

ANOTHER SONG OF THE SEA-FAIRIES.

Ev'ry fairy's son come here!
In the bright moon's rounded sphere,
On the rippling waters clear,
We will trip the salted brine:
Let no gliding boat come near,
Or o'er-pass our line.

Half the world is ours to-night,
While the wheeling moon is bright;
Let no mortal come in sight,
We in depths of Ocean play;
Footing, Oh! in morrice light,
What no tongue may say.

O'er the sloping seas we go,
Where the silv'ry moon-beams flow,
West'ring to the pole; so! so!
Passing, like a fleeting dream:
For Aurora is our foe,
And her crystal team.

321

To the sleeping mermaid's bed,
To the bright moon's horned head,
In a moment we have sped,
Ere the porpus once can leap—
Foot it, Fairies, featly tread;
Let poor mortals sleep.

But behold! I see a sail,
Glancing on the waters pale,
Hark! I hear the sailors rail,
Mark! I see their light:
Hist! away! our wings prevail—
Fairies, now to flight!

322

TO THE AMIABLE, AND LEARNED HISTORIAN, AND ANTIQUARY, JOHN NICHOLLS, ESQ. F.A.S.

Thy voice to me is like the Morning Star,
The harbinger of the o'er-purple day,
That tells, how Phœbus, climbing from afar,
Doth spread the hills, and Ocean with his ray:
And, straight, the throslark breaks upon the morn,
The tuneful mavis mellows her sweet throat,
And Philomel, with whom the year is born,
Awakes the shades, and fountains with her note:
Be the wise ear attentive to my song!
Thy praise is virtue; and my thoughts awake:
I think to charm the silver night ere long
With words, to draw down Dian for their sake:
And when the World shall with the thunder ring,
Let the great Play be grateful to the King!

323

[Give me, O God, be this my constant prayer]

Give me, O God, be this my constant prayer,
If I be worthy any thing to ask,
Give me to breathe amid' the dewy meads,
And the umbrageous forests, where the herd
Of dappled courtiers, to each other false,
At least in woe, may start not at my steps,
Nay, nor the gentler kine ought heed my way.
I would be free, be free to solitude,
Free, as the merle, the mavis, or the bird,
That sings a requiem to the Summer's night,
Delightful to the lover's list'ning ear;
Aye, or the adder, that ne'er lifts his head,
From out the fenced circuit of the wood;
His pleasure that, and mine to be as free,
As thoughts of poets, or the fickle air,
Or Summer, in her wilderness of sweets,
Or Ocean, that ne'er touches on a shore.
Life is but freedom; and, who will, may dwell

324

In the confined city; I at large
On hills, by rivers, and on ferny lawns,
With nature, bare or arbour'd; with the brood
Of herons, owlets, and the martin's foot.

THE END.

I have added these few copies of verses; the two first of which have been already printed.