Now spring appears, with beauty crown'd,And all is light and life around,Why comes not Jane? When friendship calls,Why leaves she not Augusta's walls?Where cooling zephyrs faintly blow,Nor spread the cheering, healthful glow.That glides through each awaken'd vein,As skimming o'er the spacious plain,We look around with joyous eye,And view no boundaries but the sky.
Already April's reign is o'er,Her evening tints delight no more;No more the violet scents the gale,No more the mist o'erspreads the vale;The lovely queen of smiles and tears,Who gave thee birth, no more appears;But blushing May, with brow serene,And vestments of a livelier green,Commands the winged choir to sing,And with wild notes the meadows ring.
O come! ere all the train is gone,No more to hail thy twenty-one;That age which higher honor shares,And well becomes the wreath it wears.From lassitude and cities flee,And breathe the air of heav'n, with me.
MAY 5, 1795.
1795.
At an open window sitting,
On this day of mirth and glee,
'Cross a flow'ry vista flitting,
Many passing forms I see.
Ah! lovely prospect, stay awhile!
And longer glad my doating eye,
With poverty's delighted smile,
And lighten'd step, as passing by;
With labour's spruce and ruddy train,
Deck'd out in all their best array,
Who, months of toil and care disdain,
Paid by the pleasures of a day.
The village girl still let me view,
Hast'ning to the neighb'ring fair;
Her cap adorn'd with pink or blue,
And nicely smooth her glossy hair.
With sparkling eye and smiling face,
Ting'd o'er with beauty's warmest glow;
With timid air, and humble grace,
With clear and undepressed brow.
Go! lovely girl, and share the day,
To thy industrious merit due;
There join the dance, or choral lay;
Thou blooming, village rose, adieu!
And thou, O youth, so blythe and free,
Bounding swiftly o'er the plain,
Go, taste the joys of liberty,
And cheer thy spirit, happy swain!
How different to the lonely hour,
When slowly following the plough,
Self-buoyant joy forgets the pow'r,
Which warms thy gladden'd bosom now.
If some rural prize desiring,
Or ambitious of applause,
Loud huzzas thy wishes firing,
Thy steady hand the furrow draws;
Ne'er a victor fam'd in story,
Greater praise and reverence drew,
Than thou, attir'd in humble glory,
So, guiltless conqueror, adieu!
Oh, here a charming group appears!
A cottage family, so gay,
Whose youthful hopes, uncheck'd by fears,
In smiles of thoughtless rapture play.
Here, borne in fond, parental arms,
The infant's roving eye we view;
Boasting a thousand, thousand charms,
Endearing innocents, adieu!
They go! no more with beating heart,
And lively, dancing step to tread;
Unwillingly will they depart,
To seek again their homely shed.
Ah! Eve, I love thy veil of grey,
Which will conceal them from my view,
For, bending home their weary way,
How sad would be our last adieu!
The following was suggested by reading a whimsical description, given by Scarron, of the deformity of his person, contrasted with its former elegance, in the Curiosities of Literature, vol. 2, page 247.
Ye blooming youth, possest of every grace,
Which can delight the eye, or please the ear,
Who boast a polish'd mind and faultless face,
Awhile the councils of Philemon hear!
Let not pride lift the thoughtless head too high,
Temerity arch o'er the scornful brow,
Contemptuous glances arm the sparkling eye,
Or the high heart with self-complacence glow!
Alas! full soon the eve of life arrives,
Though pale Disease's train approach not nigh;
Short is the summer of the happiest lives,
If no rude storm disturbs the smiling sky.
This wretched body, bending to the earth,
Once, on the wings of health, alert and gay,
Shone forth the foremost in the train of mirth,
And cloudless skies announc'd a beauteous day.
My parents oft, with fond complacence view'd,
The elegance of my external form;
And thought my mind with excellence endued,
Bright as my genius, as my fancy warm.
There was a time, poor as I now appear,
I admiration met in every look;
And, harsh as now my words may grate your ear,
Each tongue was silent when Philemon spoke.
Once could this voice make every bosom thrill,
As it pour'd forth the light or plaintive lay;
And once these fingers, with superior skill,
Upon the lute could eloquently play.
By partial friendship sooth'd, by flattery fann'd,
I learnt with conscious grace the dance to lead,
To guide the Phaeton with careless hand,
And rule, with flowing rein, the prancing steed.
Sick with the glory of a trifler's fame,
By folly nurtur'd, I was proud and vain;
Till Chastisement in kindest mercy came,
Though then her just decrees I dar'd arraign.
The form that sought so late the public view,
That glow'd with transport, as the world admir'd,
Fill'd with false shame, from every eye withdrew,
And to the shades of solitude retir'd.
Consum'd by fevers, spiritless, forlorn,
Blasted by apoplexy's dreadful rage,
My bleeding heart by keen remembrance torn,
I past my prime in premature old age.
I heard my parent's ill-suppressed sighs,
And wish'd myself upon the peaceful bier;
I saw the anguish of their sleepless eyes,
The smile dissembled, and the secret tear.
Oft, with a kind of gratifying woe,
I recollected every former charm,
And, with the spleen of a malicious foe,
Delighted still to keep my sorrows warm.
"Where is the lustre of the gladsome eye,
The airy smile, the animated mien,
The rounding lip of liveliest crimson dye,
So lately envied, now no longer seen.
"I too have gloried in my waving hair,
No ringlets now remain to raise my pride;
Nor can I now lay the white forehead bare,
And push the too luxuriant locks aside."
Thus, like a child, I sigh'd for pleasures past,
And lost my hours in a delusive dream;
But Reason op'd my blinded eyes at last,
And clear'd each mist by her refulgent beam.
I saw futurity before me spread,
A scourge or sceptre offer'd to my view,
Alarm'd, from Folly's erring mazes fled,
And to my God with humble rev'rence drew.
I bow'd, submissive, at the holy shrine,
His mercy with warm gratitude confest,
Which had reveal'd the spark of life divine,
That slumber'd in my earth-enamoured breast.
Had I, as friendship and self-love desir'd,
Still suck'd delirium at the fane of praise,
I might, my conscience lull'd and passions fir'd,
Have lost my soul in the bewitching blaze.
Dear rising train, let not my words offend!
Nor the pure dictates of my love despise;
To one, late like yourselves, attention lend,
And, taught by his experience, be wise!
Ah! banish from your eye the fiend Disdain;
Let fair simplicity supply its place;
Nor longer let conceit the bosom stain;
The child of weakness, follow'd by disgrace.
Should time from you each glowing beauty wrest,
You will not then those self-reproaches feel,
Which every eye awaken'd in my breast,
And twenty winters scarce suffic'd to heel.
Nor will your friends observe each faded charm,
Since still your countenance its smile retains,
And the same lov'd companion, kind and warm,
With unassuming manners, yet remains.
SEPT. 8, 1795.
Now I've painted these flowers, say what can I do,To render them worthy acceptance from you?I know of no sybil, whose wonderful artCould to them superior virtues impart,Who, of magical influence wonders could tell,And, who over each blossom could mutter a spell.
You only the humbler enchantments can prove,That arise from esteem, from respect, and from love;With such I assail you, and pow'rful the charm,When applied to a heart sympathetic and warm;To a heart such as that, which, if right I divine,O C—ll—n—n! dwells in that bosom of thine.
NOV. 10, 1795.
Fair village nymph, ah! may I meet
Thy pleasing form where'er I stray!
With open air and converse sweet,
Still cheer my undiscover'd way!
With eyes, that shew the placid mind,
And with no feign'd emotions roll;
With mien, that sprightly or resign'd,
Bespeaks the temper of the soul.
With smiles, where not the lips alone
Receive a brighter, vermil hue,
The cheek does warmer roses own,
And the eyes beam, a deeper blue!
Though Fashion's minions scorn thy pow'r,
And slight thee, 'cause in russet drest,
Yet Joy frequents thy peaceful bow'r,
And sorrow flies to thee for rest.
The echoing laugh, the rapturous tear,
The smile of friendship, gay and free,
Delight but when they are sincere,
And given, lovely nymph, by thee.
When my Rosina reads a tale,
Though sweet the tuneful accents flow,
No studied pathos does prevail
To bid the hearer's bosom glow;
Her voice to sympathy resign'd,
Each different feeling can impart.
And, tell me not, we e'er can find
A modulator, like the heart!
And Mary's locks of glossy brown,
That fall in waves, with graceful swell,
In ever-varying ringlets thrown,
The fairest curls of art excel.
Still rob'd in innocence and ease,
Daughter of Truth, shall thou prevail,
When Affectation cannot please,
And all the spells of Fashion fail.
NOV. 17, 1795.
Yon coward, with the streaming hair,And visage, madden'd to despair,With step convuls'd, unsettled eye,And bosom lab'ring with a sigh,IsGuilt!—Behold, he hears the name,And starts with horror, fear, and shame!
See! slow Suspicion by his side,
With winking, microscopic eye!
And Mystery, his muffled guide,
With fearful speech, and head awry.
See! scowling Malice there attend,Bold Falsehood, an apparent friend;Avarice, repining o'er his pelf,Mean Cunning, lover of himself;Hatred, the son of conscious Fear,Impatient Envy, with a fiend-like sneer,And shades of blasted Hopes, which still are hovering near!
All other woes will find relief,And time alleviate every grief;Memory, though slowly, will decay,And Sorrow's empire pass away.Awhile Misfortune may controul,And Pain oppress the virtuous soul,Yet Innocence can still beguileThe patient sufferer of a smile,The beams of Hope may still dispenseA grateful feeling to the sense;Friendship may cast her arms around,And with fond tears embalm the wound,Or Piety's soft incense rise,And waft reflection to the skies;But those fell pangs which he endures,Nor Time forgets, nor Kindness cures;Like Ocean's waves, they still return,Like Etna's fires, forever burn.
Round him no genial zephyrs fly,No fair horizon glads his eye,No joys to him does Nature yield,The solemn grove, or laughing field;Though both with loud rejoicings ring,No pleasure does the echo bring,Not bubbling waters as they roll,Can tranquillize his bursting soul,For Conscience still, with tingling smart,Asserts his empire o'er his heart,And even when his eye-lids close,With clamourous scream affrights repose.
Oppress'd with light, he seeks to shunThe splendid glories of the sun;The busy crowds that hover near,Torment his eye, distract his ear;He hastens to the secret shades,Where not a ray the gloom pervades;Where Contemplation may retreat,And Silence take his mossy seat;Yet even there no peace he knows,His fev'rish blood, no calmer flows;Some hid assassins 'vengeful knife,Is rais'd to end his wretched life.He shudders, starts, and stares around,With breathless fright, to catch the fancied sound;Seeks for the dagger in his breast,And gripes it 'neath his ruffled vest.
Lo! now he plunges in the flood,To cleanse his garments, stain'd with blood,His sanguine arm, in terror, laves;But ah! its hue defies the waves.Deprest, bewildered, thence he flies,And, to avoid Detection, tries,Who, frowning, still before him stands,The sword of Justice in her hands;Abhorrent Scorn, unpitying Shame,And Punishments without a name,Still on her sounding steps attend,And every added horror lend.He turns away, with dread and fear,But the fell spectres still are near.Though Falsehood's mazes see him wind!Yet Infamy is close behind,Lifting her horn, with horrors fraught,Whose hideous yell is frenzy to the thought.
Now, maniac-like, he comes again,And mixes with the jocund train;But still those eyes that wildly roll,Bespeak the tempest in his soul.In yon deep cave he strives to rest,But Mem'ry harrows up his breast;He clasps the goblet, foe to Care,And lo! Distraction hovers there.
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to know,The sad varieties of woe;Where'er thy footsteps turn, to meet,An earthquake yawning at thy feet,While o'er thy head pale meteors glare,And boding tempests fill the air,In throbbing anguish doom'd to roam,Yet never find a peaceful home.Haste! to the shrine of Mercy hie,There lift the penitential eye,With breaking heart thy sins deplore,And wound Integrity no more!Repentance then thy soul shall save,And snatch thee, ransom'd, from the grave.
JULY 1796.
The death of Selred, last King of the East-Saxons, reduced that part of the Heptarchy to dependance on Mercia. The rest is imaginary.
When Britain many chiefs obey'd,And seven Saxon princes sway'd,The Mercian monarch, fam'd afar,In peace respected, fear'd in war,Favour'd by heav'n above the rest,In his brave son was fully blest;For none like Cen'lin did arise,So virtuous, elegant, and wise.
Of partial Mercian eyes the joy,His parents idoliz'd the boy;Saw with just pride each op'ning grace,His charms of mind, of form, and face.And as he oft, with modest air,His thoughts and feelings did declare,His father would delighted hear,Would fondly drop the grateful tear;And proudly cast his eyes around,But not an equal could be found.Warm from each lip applauses broke,And every tongue his praises spoke;The list'ning courtiers spread his fame,And blessings follow'd Cen'lins name.
Now twenty summer's suns had flown,And Mercia's hopes were fully blown;When ah! conceal'd in coarse disguise,To Selred's12court their darling flies.Selred, his father's scorn and hate,Became the ruler of his fate.There flatter'd, lov'd, the youth remain'd,Till Cenulph's threats his heir regain'd.But ah! no more the son of mirth,His pensive eye now sought the earth;No more within the dance to move,Or list to sages, did he love;But from surrounding friends would fly,To pour in solitude the sigh.And soon again the youth withdrew,Again to th' Eastern-Saxons flew.His father heard, opprest with woe,His aged heart forgot to glow;He learnt his foes an army led,With youthful Cen'lin at their head,He call'd his warriors forth to meet,And stretch the rebel at his feet:Tears from his eyes in anguish broke,As thus the aged monarch spoke:
"Ye Mercians, let your banners fly!The graceless youth this day shall die!For, since he dares an army bringAgainst his father and his king,Though dear as life, I will not spare,Nor listen to affection's pray'r!If all my people should implore,I'll pardon the rash boy no more!His harden'd heart, to duty blind,No ties of gratitude can bind;This hoary head would else have rest,And pleasure warm this aching breast.Ah, cruel youth! thy wrongs I feel,More deep than wounds of pointed steel.For, if forlorn the parent's doom,Who bears his offspring to the tomb,Some comfort still his breast may know,Some soothing thought may calm his woe,And when he gives a loose to pain,He feels not that he mourns in vain,But fancies still his darling nigh,And grateful for each bursting sigh,Still bending o'er, with list'ning ear,Each weeping, fond complaint to hear,The dear-lov'd phantom hovers round,And pours a balm in every wound.
"How doubly poignant is my smart,Bereaved of my Cen'lin's heart!Exil'd from that deluded breast,Where I had fondly hop'd to rest,With faith undoubting, sweet repose,Till Death should bid my eye-lids close.And sometimes yet will hope arise;Till now he ever scorn'd disguise;Some cursed fiend might taint his youth,And warp a temper form'd for truth.When late he humbly knelt for grace,And clasp'd my knees in close embrace,Upon his lips a secret hung,But something seem'd to stay his tongue;I prest not, for my anger slept,And fondness only saw he wept;Ah! fatal haste! then had I knownThe serpent, I had sav'd my son!Yet surely pardon frank as mine,A noble heart would more confine!When leaguing with my bitter foe,To strike some grand, decisive blow;Perhaps to rob me of my throne,And make it, ere the time, his own;Or, should wan guilt a danger dread,To humble this devoted head,Each throbbing pang of conscience drown,And seize, with bloody hands, the crown.O'er this offence I cast a veil,And fondly hush'd the whisper'd tale.Ah fool! deluded by the grace,Of that fine form, and perfect face;I thought his bosom free from sin,Nor dreamt a demon lurk'd within.His voice, which ever could controul,Each passion of the hearer's soul,With ease my partial heart beguil'd,Who knew no sorrows when he smil'd.And ah! my friends, your downcast eyes,Your pensive air, and smother'd sighs,All tell me you lament the fate,Of him, whom yet you cannot hate.And shall I bear then to behold,That form inanimate and cold,His smiling lips depriv'd of breath,His eyes for ever clos'd in death!Ah no! my heart with anguish swells,And every throbbing vein rebels.Let sorrow weep, or anger thrill,Yet all the parent triumphs still.
"Oh Father! who in mercy reigns,If thy all-ruling will ordains,That my unhappy Cen'lin dies,Remove the picture from my eyes!At the same moment set us free,Both rebel sons, my God, to thee!"Thus did the king pour forth his pray'r,With all the wildness of despair;Then, stilling every rising sigh,He calm'd the anguish of his eye,And though within the burthen lay,He wip'd the falling tears away.
When lo! there comes a youthful train,Descending swiftly to the plain,Drest like the fairest sons of day,In floating robes and colours gay;No crested helmets there appear,No glittering shield or pointed spear,But youths with honey-suckles crown'd,Or their fair locks with fillets bound,Whose circling ranks and varied dyes,Shew'd like the bow, that gilds the skies.Whilst in the van a pair were seen,Of peerless charms and graceful mien;One lovely form the Mercians knew,And gladden'd at the pleasing view,Who, with the glow of youthful prime,Had all the majesty of time.And beauteous was the fair he led,As any fabled Grecian maid;The nymphs who tend Aurora's car,And usher in the morning star,Though made inhabitants of air,Were not more elegant and fair;Nor Dian's ever-healthful train,When skimming o'er the spacious plain.Had not more pure, more lively dyes,Or brighter lustre in their eyes.
The king, so late by woe deprest,Felt hope reanimate his breast,And as his Cen'lin nearer drew,His waking hopes more vivid grew."My friends," he cried, "will you believe,That open mien can e'er deceive?That blooming form can e'er unfold,A heart ungenerous and cold,That melting softness of the eye,Can harbour direst cruelty?Ah no! a poison's baleful pow'r,Lurks not beneath so fair a flow'r.Nor are those youths with amber hair,Such as fell treason would prepare,An aged monarch to dethrone,And hear, unmov'd, a father's groan.Gay are their looks, no dark disguise,Dims the mild radiance of their eyes;No murderous thoughts their souls employ,But, heralds of transporting joy,They come to bid suspicion cease,And sooth my sorrow into peace."Caution could scarce awhile controulThe strong delights of Cenulph's soul,When Cen'lin knelt, and by his sideHalf-kneeling, bent his lovely bride.But, when he first essay'd to speak,A hasty blush pass'd o'er his cheek,He hung awhile his graceful head,Till thus, with air confus'd he said:"I come, by love with honours crown'd,Yet sorrow casts a shade around,That when my consort here I bring,The heiress of a potent king,The Mercians, clad in armour, come,To lead their princess to her home.No joyful hail our nuptial greets,No proof of love my Ela meets,But scarlet banners, waving high,The bridal knot and wreath supply.Alas! I see mistrust has wonE'en Cenulph's fondness from his son;Or could my ever-honour'd sire,A proof of Cen'lin's faith require?Can force so needful now appear,To aid a pow'r which I revere?When eager beauty's form to view,I first to Selred's court withdrew,A single wish thy pow'r maintain'd,A single wish thy son regain'd.I left the maid whose matchless charms,Each rooted prejudice disarms,Who rul'd my heart with sovereign sway,And taught a Mercian to obeyLaws that East-Saxons can impart,When wit and beauty string the dart;Left her when hope my doubts beguil'd,And on our love her father smil'd.Oft have I tried to win thine ear,The fond, romantic tale to hear,But when I found a lonely hour,My coward soul has lost the pow'r;As on my lips the accents hung,Thy hate to Selred check'd my tongue.Yet flattering hopes my passion fed,And from thy court again I fled;I thought when you my fair beheld,And knew how greatly she excell'd,In every charm, each art refin'd,And virtue of the female mind,Thy judgment would approve my choice,And bless it with a cheerful voice.And ah! though fortune did combineWith love, in making Ela mine,I cannot from a grief refrain,Remembering that I gave thee pain.Yet if thy Cen'lin e'er could please,If e'er my cares could give thee ease,Let mild affection now arise,And beam forgiveness from thine eyes!No more thy son shall make thee knowA pain, or give thee cause of woe.No nights the Mercians have to fear,For all I love is center'd here,"He spoke, and o'er his father's soul,A stream of healing comfort stole;He rose, with slow, majestic grace,Tears of delight adorn'd his face,His pious heart with rapture glow'd,And joy a second youth bestow'd.
"To meet thee thus, my son," he cried,"This peerless maiden for your bride,Bids each distressing thought depart,And joy again possess my heart.Fair princess, thine the happy fate,To heal the wounds of mutual hate;No longer shall this bosom know,An Eastern-Saxon as my foe;And she, who bids that passion rest,Doubt not, shall be supremely blest;The part is holy and benign,Befitting such a form as thine.This day, far dearer than before,Kind heav'n does twice my son restore,For by those speaking looks I see,Another valued child in thee."
As then he raised them to his breast,Around the joyful Mercians prest,And made their shouts of triumph rise,To the fair concave of the skies.
OCTOBER 1795.
12: King of the East-Saxons.
Lo! here a cloud comes sailing, richly cladIn royal purple, which the parting beamsOf bounteous Phoebus edge with tints of goldAnd lucid crimson. One might fancy itA noble bird, that laves its graceful form,And bathes its rosy bosom in the light.Look! how it swells and rears its snowy crestWith haughty grandeur; while the blue expanse,In smiling patience lets the boaster pass,And swell his train with all the lazy vapoursThat hover in the air: an easy preyTo the gigantic phantom, whose curl'd wing,Sweeps in these worthless triflers of the sky,And wraps them in his bosom. Go, vain shadow!Sick with the burthen of thy fancied greatness,A breath of zephyr wafts thee into nothing,Scatters thy spreading plumes, uncrowns thy front,And drives thee downward to thy mother earth,To mix with vapour and dissolve in dew.
Such are the dreams of hope, which to the eyeOf youthful inexperience, seem to touchThe pure, unclouded sky of certainty.Buoy'd up by the fond eloquence of thought,And nurtur'd by the smile of vanity,Each hour the air-born vision gathers bulk,And Fancy decks it with a thousand hues,Varied and wild, till it abounds in charmsWhich sink the soul to sadness, when the breathOf gentle Reason breaks the beauteous bubble,And leaves us nought but vain regret behind.
FEBRUARY 1, 1797.
When clouds and rain deform the sky,
And light'nings glare around,
Amidst the dreary, cheerless scene,
Some comfort may be found.
There will, at some far-distant spot,
A streak of light appear,
Or, when the sullen vapours break,
The ether will be clear.
And if the sun illumes the east,
And sheds his gladsome ray,
Some boding mist, or passing cloud
Will threat the rising day.
The heart rejoicing in the view,
And dancing with delight,
Oft feels the touch of palsied fear,
And sinks at thought of night.
So Hope's bright torch more clearly shines,
Amidst surrounding gloom,
And, beldame Fortune vainly throws
Her mantle o'er the tomb.
MARCH 15,1797.
As, musing, late I sat reclin'd,And waking dreams absorb'd my mind,A damsel came, of various dyes,Like painted Iris from the skies;A purfled saffron was her vest,And sweet gum-cistus form'd her crest;In many a playful ring, her hairFlew light and flossy in the air;The mantle, blue and gold, she wore,A rose of opals held before,While, graceful in her fairy hand,Appear'd a crimson-tufted wand,Whose shade on every object threwA glowing tint of roseate hue.
"Whence art thou, blooming nymph?" I cried,And thus a tuneful voice replied:"Men call me Fancy; at my shrineMyriads confess my power divine;There painters bend the willing knee,And laurell'd poets sue to me:For mine is every vivid ray,Which partial Nature gave the day;And, to the music of my song,A thousand nameless charms belong.
"The friend of Happiness, I dwellBelov'd alike in court or cell;Where Glory lifts her ardent eye,With hasty, kindred zeal I fly,In sun-beams place the hero's form,And bid his arm command the storm;On swelling clouds an altar raise,And fan the tow'ring flame of praise.
"Oft, from the lorn enthusiast's lyre,My fingers strike etherial fire,And give to sounds of piercing woe,Extatic rapture's fervent glow.Oft sooth the maniac's throbbing vein,And grace her simple, wilder'd strain;The tribe of Pain in fetters keep,Lull wounded Memory to sleep,And, in the mind of gloomy Care,Bid Thought an angel's semblance wear.
"Dear to each blest aerial pow'r,E'en Wisdom calls me to her bow'r;My songs her leisure hours beguile,And teach her holy lip to smile.And, when the Muse, with thoughtful care,Has woven chaplets for her hair,I let her, with her myrtles, twine,Full many a fragrant rose of mine.
"Then why, since all the wise and gay,To me a grateful homage pay,Since I to all my hand extend,And, liberal, every heart befriend,Does Nancy from the croud retire,And rend my blossoms from her lyre?Though every string the loss bewail,And tones of mellow sweetness fail,Which us'd to charm the pensive ear,When list'ning Friendship bent to hear.
"Tell her I wish not to intrudeUpon her sacred solitude,Nor cast my undulating chain,Around her glowing heart again;No! every claim I now resign,Yet let some small regard be mine;Let one, who nurs'd her infant years,And wip'd away some bitter tears,Still animate the scenes around,And make her tread on fairy ground;Give playful sweetness to each lay,And decorate the passing day.
"Tell her, if now she scorns my strain,She may invoke my name in vain;In vain my proffered aid implore,Contemn'd, I hardly pardon more."
She said, and springing from the earth,Attending found her suitor Mirth,Who caught her hand, with lively air,And plac'd her in his silver chair,Which through the yielding ether flew,And quickly bore them from my view.
Loud beats the rain! The hollow groan
Of rushing winds I hear,
That with a deep and sullen moan,
Pass slowly by the ear.
Soon will my dying fire refuse
To yield a cheerful ray,
Yet, shivering still I sit and muse
The latest spark away.
Ah, what a night! the chilly air
Bids comfort hence depart,
While sad repining's clammy wings
Cling icy, to my heart.
To-morrow's dawn may fair arise,
And lovely to the view;
The sun with radiance gild the skies,
Yet then—I say adieu!
Oh, stay, dear Night, with cautious care,
And lingering footsteps move,
Though day may be more soft and fair,
Not her, but thee, I love.
Stay, wild in brow, severe in mien,
Stay! and ward off the foe;
Who, unrelenting smiles serene,
Yet tells me I must go.
Forsake these hospitable halls,
Where Truth and Friendship dwell,
To these high towers and ancient walls,
Pronounce a long farewell.
Alas! will Time's rapacious hand,
These golden days restore?
Or will he suffer me to taste
These golden days no more?
Will he permit that here again,
I turn my willing feet?
That my glad eyes may here again,
The look of kindness meet?
That here I ever may behold,
Felicity to dwell,
And often have the painful task
Of sighing out farewell?
Ah, be it so! my fears I lose,
By hope's sweet visions fed;
And as I fly to seek repose,
She flutters round my bed.
NOV. 17, 1796.
Thou, Margaret, lov'st the secret shade,
The murmuring brook, or tow'ring tree;
The village cot within the glade,
And lonely walk have charms for thee.
To thee more dear the jasmine bow'r,
That shelt'ring, undisturb'd retreat,
Than the high canopy of pow'r,
Or Luxury's embroider'd seat.
More sweet the early morning breeze,
Whose odours fill the rural vale,
The waving bosom of the seas,
When ruffled by the rising gale.
Than all which pride or pomp bestow,
To grace the lofty Indian maid,
Who prizes more the diamond's glow,
Than all in humbler vest array'd.
Sweet is the rural festive song,
Which sounds so wildly o'er the plain,
When thoughtless mirth the notes prolong,
And heart-felt pleasure pours the strain.
Sweet is the dance where light and gay,
The village maiden trips along;
Her simple robe in careless play,
As her fleet step winds round the throng.
Sweet is the labourer's blazing fire,
When evening shades invite to rest;
Though weary, home does joy inspire,
And social love dilates his breast.
His rural lass with glee prepares,
The dainties fondness made her hoard;
Her husband now the banquet shares,
And children croud around the board.
Ah! who could wish to view the air
Of listless ease and languid wealth?
Who with such pleasures could compare
The joys of innocence and health?
AUGUST 20, 1796.
"D'atre nubi è il sol ravvolto,
Luce infausta il Ciel colora.
Pur chi sa? Quest' alma ancora
La speranza non perdè.
Non funesta ogni tempesta
Co' naufragj all' onde il seno;
Ogni tuono, ogni baleno
Sempre un fulmine non è."
Dark, mournful clouds hang o'er the sun,
Lights gleam portentous in the air,
And yet who knows? This troubled heart
Still gives not up to blank despair.
Not big with shipwrecks every storm,
That sweeps the bosom of the main,
Nor does the threatening, turbid sky,
Always the thunder-bolt contain.
A chi serena io miro,
Chiaro è di notte il cielo:
Torna per lui nel gelo
La terra a germogliar.
Ma se a taluno io giro
Torbido il guardo, e fosco,
Fronde gli niega il bosco,
Onde non trova in mar.
To him whom kindly I behold,
The midnight sky is clear,
And 'mid the wintry frost and cold,
The blushing flowers appear.
But to the wretch who meets my eye,
When kindled by disdain,
The very grove will leaves deny,
And waveless be the main.
Finchè un zeffiro soave
Tien del mar l'ira placata,
Ogni nave
È fortunata,
È felice ogni nocchier;
È ben prova di coraggio
Incontrar l'onde funeste,
Navigar fra le tempeste,
E non perdere il sentier.
Whilst zephyr sooths the angry waves
Of Ocean into rest,
Each vessel is in safety borne,
And every pilot blest.
But he indeed demands our praise,
Who stems the tempest's force,
And midst the ire of hostile waves,
Pursues his destin'd course.
Oh sonno, oh della cheta, umida, ombrosa
Notte placido figlio; oh de' mortali
Egri conforto, oblio dolce de' mali,
Sì gravi, ond' è la vita aspra, e nojosa:
Soccorri al core omai, che langue, e posa
Non have; e queste membra stanche, e frali
Solleva: a me ten vola, oh sonno, e l'ali
Tue brune sovra me distendi, e posa.
Ov' è il silenzio, che'l dì fugge, e'l lume?
E i lievi sogni, che con non secure
Vestigia di seguirti han per costume?
Lasso, che'nvan te chiamo, e queste oscure,
E gelide ombre invan lusingo; oh piume
D'asprezza colme; oh notti acerbe, e dure!
Son of the silent, dark, and humid Night,
Consoler of the wretched, by whose sway
The gloomy train of ills are put to flight,
That blacken Life's uncertain, tedious day,
O! succour now this restless, pining heart!
Give to these feeble, weary limbs repose!
Fly to me, Sleep! and let thy sombre wings
Over my couch their dusky plumes disclose!
O! where is Silence, who avoids the light?
Where the wild dreams that flutter in thy train?
Alas! in vain I call thee, cruel Night!
And flatter these insensate shades in vain.
And oh! without thy cheering dews are shed,How full of hardships is the downy bed!
Breathing the violet-scented gale,
Near to a river's limpid source,
Which, through a wide-extended vale,
Wound slowly on its sleeping course,
Attended by a youthful pair,
With rubied lip and roving eye,
Oft would fair Editha repair,
And let her children wander nigh.
There pleas'd behold their footsteps turn,
To each new object in their way,
Their ringlets glittering in the sun,
Their faces careless, blythe, and gay.
Once, when they drest their flaxen hair,
With flow'rets wild of various hue,
And with a proud, exulting air,
To their delighted parent drew:
"Ah! thus may every day arise!
And pleasure thus your hearts, pervade!"
The widow'd mother fondly cries,
"Before the youthful blossoms fade.
"My sighs are all dispers'd in air,
Resign'd to fate, I weep no more,
Your welfare now is all my care,
Yet am I constant as before.
"The world, because a vermil bloom,
Tinges my yet unfading cheek,
Says I forget my William's tomb,
A new and earthly love to seek.
"Because I join the social train,
With lip that wears a kindred smile;
And a gay sonnet's lively strain,
Does oft the lonely hour beguile:
"Because no longer now I mourn,
With sweeping robes of sable hue;
No more I clasp the marble urn,
Or vainly bid the world adieu.
"Ah! ill my secret soul they know,
Where my lost hero still remains,
Where memory makes my bosom glow,
And binds me still in closer chains.
"Whoe'er hath seen my William's form,
Heighten'd with every martial grace,
The ever-varying, unknown charm,
Which beam'd in his expressive face;
"Or heard his fine ideas try,
In Fancy's fairy garb to teach,
While the sweet language of his eye,
Excell'd the eloquence of speech,
"Could ne'er suppose my faith would fail,
Or aught again this heart enslave;
That absence would o'er love prevail,
Or hope be bounded by the grave.
"Could all but I his merit know?
His wit and talents see?
And is his name by all below
Remember'd, but by me?
"No, ne'er will I the memory lose,
Though from my sight thy form is flown,
Of tenderness for other's woes,
And noble firmness in thy own.
"No slavish fear thy soul deprest,
Of Death, or his attendant train;
For in thy pure and spotless breast,
The fear of heav'n did only reign.
"Thus, when the still-unsated waves
Spread o'er thy head their whelming arms,
When horrid darkness reign'd around,
And lightnings flash'd their dire alarms,
13"When, wing'd with death, each moment flew,
And blood the foaming ocean stain'd,
Thy courage cool, consistent, true,
Its native energy maintain'd.
"And when the fatal moment came,
The bullet enter'd in thy side,
Only thy spirit's beauteous frame,
Its prisoner flying, droop'd and died.
"This is it that consoles my mind,
Which to my love aspiring flies,
And makes me hope, in future days,
To hail my William in the skies.
"Should tears from my pale eyelids steal,
I teach my children's how to flow,
And make their little bosoms feel,
Before their time, the touch, of woe.
"I will not weep! the world shall see
That I a nobler tribute pay;
More grateful both to heaven and thee,
By guiding them in virtue's way."
Embracing then her fondest cares,
She cast her raptur'd eyes above,
And breath'd to heav'n emphatic pray'rs,
Of mingled reverence and love.
APRIL 15, 1795.
13: I know not if I have expressed myself with much clearness here, but I meant to describe a sea-fight as concisely as possible.