'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,That hushed the stormy main;Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed;Mountains, ye mourn in vainModred, whose magic songMade huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head:On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,Smeared with gore and ghastly pale;Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;The famished eagle screams, and passes by.Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—No more I weep: they do not sleep!On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,I see them sit; they linger yetAvengers of their native land:With me in dreadful harmony they join,And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
'Weave the warp and weave the woof,The winding-sheet of Edward's race;Give ample room and verge enoughThe characters of hell to trace:Mark the year, and mark the night,When Severn shall re-echo with affrightThe shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring,Shrieks of an agonizing king!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,From thee be born who o'er thy country hangsThe scourge of Heaven: what terrors round him wait!Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
'Mighty victor, mighty lord!Low on his funeral couch he lies:No pitying heart, no eye, affordA tear to grace his obsequies.Is the Sable Warrior fled?Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead.The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born?Gone to salute the rising morn.Fair laughs the morn and soft the zephyr blows,While, proudly riding o'er the azure realm,In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm,Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
'Fill high the sparkling bowl,The rich repast prepare;Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:Close by the regal chairFell Thirst and Famine scowlA baleful smile upon their baffled guest.Heard ye the din of battle bray,Lance to lance, and horse to horse?Long years of havoc urge their destined course,And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,With many a foul and midnight murther fed,Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,And spare the meek usurper's holy head!Above, below, the rose of snow,Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:The bristled Boar in infant goreWallows beneath thy thorny shade.Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom!
'Edward, lo! to sudden fate(Weave we the woof: the thread is spun)Half of thy heart we consecrate.(The web is wove. The work is done.)Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlornLeave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn!In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,They melt, they vanish from my eyes.But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height,Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll?Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!
'Girt with many a baron bold,Sublime their starry fronts they rear;And gorgeous dames, and statesmen oldIn bearded majesty, appear.In the midst a form divine!Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line;Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,Attempered sweet to virgin-grace.What strings symphonious tremble in the air,What strains of vocal transport round her play!Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear:They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings,Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings.
'The verse adorn againFierce War and faithful LoveAnd Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed.In buskined measures movePale Grief and pleasing Pain,With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.A voice, as of the cherub-choir,Gales from blooming Eden bear;And distant warblings lessen on my ear,That, lost in long futurity, expire.Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day!To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,And warms the nations with redoubled ray.Enough for me; with joy I seeThe different doom our Fates assign:Be thine Despair and sceptred Care;To triumph and to die are mine.'He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's heightDeep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
How the storm begins to lower,(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,)Iron-sleet of arrowy showerHurtles in the darkened air.
Glittering lances are the loom,Where the dusky warp we strain,Weaving many a soldier's doom,Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.
See the grisly texture grow,('Tis of human entrails made,)And the weights, that play below,Each a gasping warrior's head.
Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore,Shoot the trembling cords along.Sword, that once a monarch bore,Keep the tissue close and strong.
Mista black, terrific maid,Sangrida, and Hilda see,Join the wayward work to aid:'Tis the woof of victory.
Ere the ruddy sun be set,Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,Blade with clattering buckler meet,Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
(Weave the crimson web of war.)Let us go, and let us fly,Where our friends the conflict share,Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of fate we tread,Wading through th' ensanguined field:Gondula, and Geira, spreadO'er the youthful king your shield.
We the reins to slaughter give,Ours to kill, and ours to spare:Spite of danger he shall live.(Weave the crimson web of war.)
They, whom once the desert-beachPent within its bleak domain,Soon their ample sway shall stretchO'er the plenty of the plain.
Low the dauntless earl is laid,Gored with many a gaping wound:Fate demands a nobler head;Soon a king shall bite the ground.
Long his loss shall Erin weep,Ne'er again his likeness see;Long her strains in sorrow steep,Strains of immortality!
Horror covers all the heath,Clouds of carnage blot the sun.Sisters,—weave the web of death;Sisters, cease, the work is done.
Hail the task, and hail the hands!Songs of joy and triumph sing!Joy to the victorious bands;Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,Learn the tenor of our song.Scotland, through each winding TaleFar and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence with spurs of speed:Each her thundering falchion wield;Each bestride her sable steed.Hurry, hurry to the field.
Now the golden Morn aloftWaves her dew-bespangled wing;With vermeil cheek and whisper softShe wooes the tardy Spring;Till April starts, and calls aroundThe sleeping fragrance from the ground,And lightly o'er the living sceneScatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, In rustic dance,Frisking ply their feeble feet;Forgetful of their wintry trance,The birds his presence greet;But chief the sky-lark warbles highHis trembling, thrilling ecstasy,And, lessening from the dazzled sight,Melts into air and liquid light.
Rise, my soul! on wings of fireRise the rapturous choir among!Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre,And leads the general song.[Four lines lacking in the MS.]
Yesterday the sullen yearSaw the snowy whirlwind fly;Mute was the music of the air,The herd stood drooping by:Their raptures now that wildly flowNo yesterday nor morrow know;'Tis man alone that joy descriesWith forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune's browSoft Reflection's hand can trace,And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throwA melancholy grace;While Hope prolongs our happier hour,Or deepest shades, that dimly lowerAnd blacken round our weary way,Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still where rosy Pleasure leadsSee a kindred Grief pursue;Behind the steps that Misery treads,Approaching Comfort view:The hues of bliss more brightly glowChastised by sabler tints of woe,And, blended, form with artful strifeThe strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tossedOn the thorny bed of painAt length repair his vigour lostAnd breathe and walk again:The meanest flowret of the vale,The simplest note that swells the gale.The common sun, the air, the skies,To him are opening Paradise.
Humble Quiet builds her cellNear the source whence Pleasure flows;She eyes the clear crystalline well,And tastes it as it goes.
[The rest is lacking.]
From THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES
In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand,Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand:To him the church, the realm, their powers consign;Through him the rays of regal bounty shine;Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows;His smile alone security bestows.Still to new heights his restless wishes tower;Claim leads to claim, and power advances power;Till conquest unresisted ceased to please,And rights submitted left him none to seize.At length his sovereign frowns—the train of stateMark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate:Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye;His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;Now drops at once the pride of awful state—The golden canopy, the glittering plate,The regal palace, the luxurious board,The liveried army, and the menial lord.With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed,He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings,And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.
* * * * *
When first the college rolls receive his name,The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;Through all his veins the fever of renownSpreads from the strong contagion of the gown;O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread,And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head.Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth,And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth!Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat,Till captive science yields her last retreat;Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray,And pour on misty doubt resistless day;Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright;Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain,And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain;Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart;Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade;Yet hope not life from grief or danger free,Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee:Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,And pause awhile from letters, to be wise;There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.See nations slowly wise, and meanly just,To buried merit raise the tardy bust!
* * * * *
On what foundation stands the warrior's pride,How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide.A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain.No joys to him pacific sceptres yield—War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,And one capitulate, and one resign:Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain;'Think nothing gained,' he cries, 'till naught remain!On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,And all be mine beneath the polar sky!'The march begins in military state,And nations on his eye suspended wait.Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,And Winter barricades the realms of frost.He comes; nor want nor cold his course delay—Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day!The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,And shows his miseries in distant lands,Condemned a needy supplicant to waitWhile ladies interpose and slaves debate.But did not Chance at length her error mend?Did no subverted empire mark his end?Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound,Or hostile millions press him to the ground?His fall was destined to a barren strand,A petty fortress, and a dubious hand.He left the name at which the world grew pale,To point a moral or adorn a tale.
* * * * *
But grant, the virtues of a temperate primeBless with an age exempt from scorn or crime;An age that melts with unperceived decay,And glides in modest innocence away;Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears,Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers;The general favourite as the general friend:Such age there is, and who shall wish its end?Yet even on this her load Misfortune flings,To press the weary minutes' flagging wings;New sorrow rises as the day returns,A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns,Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier,Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear.Year chases year, decay pursues decay,Still drops some joy from withering life away;New forms arise, and different views engage,Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage,Till pitying Nature signs the last release,And bids afflicted worth retire to peace.
* * * * *
Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find?Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?—Enquirer, cease; petitions yet remain,Which Heaven may hear; nor deem religion vain.Still raise for good the supplicating voice,But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice;Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afarThe secret ambush of a specious prayer.Implore His aid, in His decisions rest,Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best.Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,And strong devotion to the skies aspires,Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,Obedient passions, and a will resigned;For love, which scarce collective man can fill;For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat:These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain;These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain;With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,And makes the happiness she does not find.
All in a garden, on a currant bush,With wondrous art they built their airy seat;In the next orchard lived a friendly thrushNor distant far a woodlark's soft retreat.
Here blessed with ease, and in each other blessed,With early songs they waked the neighbouring groves,Till time matured their joys, and crowned their nestWith infant pledges of their faithful loves.
And now what transport glowed in either's eye!What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!What joy each other's likeness to descry;And future sonnets in the chirping brood!
But ah! what earthly happiness can last!How does the fairest purpose often fail?A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blastTheir flattering hopes, and leave them both to wail.
The most ungentle of his tribe was he,No generous precept ever touched his heart;With concord false, and hideous prosody,He scrawled his task, and blundered o'er his part.
On mischief bent, he marked, with ravenous eyes,Where wrapped in down the callow songsters lay;Then rushing, rudely seized the glittering prize.And bore it in his impious hands away!
But how stall I describe, in numbers rude,The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed,When from her secret stand aghast she viewedThe cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed?
'O grief of griefs!' with shrieking voice she cried,'What sight is this that I have lived to see!O! that I had in youth's fair season died,From love's false joys and bitter sorrows free.'
From A DESCRIPTIVE POEM
… To nature's pride,Sweet Keswick's vale, the Muse will guide:The Muse who trod th' enchanted ground,Who sailed the wondrous lake around,With you will haste once more to hailThe beauteous brook of Borrodale.
* * * * *
Let other streams rejoice to roarDown the rough rocks of dread Lodore,Rush raving on with boisterous sweep,And foaming rend the frighted deep;Thy gentle genius shrinks awayFrom such a rude unequal fray;Through thine own native dale where riseTremendous rocks amid the skies,Thy waves with patience slowly wind,Till they the smoothest channel find,Soften the horrors of the scene,And through confusion flow serene.Horrors like these at first alarm,But soon with savage grandeur charm,And raise to noblest thought the mind:Thus by the fall, Lodore, reclined,The craggy cliff, impendent wood,Whose shadows mix o'er half the flood,The gloomy clouds which solemn sail,Scarce lifted by the languid gale.
* * * * *
Channels by rocky torrents torn,Rocks to the lake in thunder borne,Or such as o'er our heads appear,Suspended in their mid-career,To start again at his commandWho rules fire, water, air, and land,I view with wonder and delight,A pleasing, though an awful sight.
* * * * *
And last, to fix our wandering eyes,Thy roofs, O Keswick, brighter riseThe lake and lofty hills between,Where Giant Skiddow shuts the scene.Supreme of mountains, Skiddow, hail!To whom all Britain sinks a vale!Lo, his imperial brow I seeFrom foul usurping vapours free!'Twere glorious now his side to climb,Boldly to scale his top sublime,And thence—My Muse, these flights forbear,Nor with wild raptures tire the fair.
I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking,Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day:But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning;The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning;The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae;Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking,Women and bairns are heartless and wae;Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul.Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears,Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers,With the same cast of features he is seenTo chide the libertine and court the queen.From the tame scene which without passion flows,With just desert his reputation rose.Nor less he pleased when, on some surly plan,He was at once the actor and the man.In Brute he shone unequalled: all agreeGarrick's not half so great a brute as he.When Cato's laboured scenes are brought to view,With equal praise the actor laboured too;For still you'll find, trace passions to their root,Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the brute.In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan,He could not for a moment sink the man.In whate'er cast his character was laid,Self still, like oil, upon the surface played.Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in:Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff—still 'twas Quin.
Pomposo, insolent and loud,Vain idol of a scribbling crowd,Whose very name inspires an awe,Whose every word is sense and law,For what his greatness hath decreed,Like laws of Persia and of Mede,Sacred through all the realm of wit,Must never of repeal admit;Who, cursing flattery, is the toolOf every fawning, flattering fool;Who wit with jealous eye surveys,And sickens at another's praise;Who, proudly seized of learning's throne,Now damns all learning but his own;Who scorns those common wares to trade in,Reasoning, convincing, and persuading,But makes each sentence current passWith 'puppy,' 'coxcomb,' 'scoundrel,' 'ass,'For 'tis with him a certain rule,The folly's proved when he calls 'fool';Who, to increase his native strength,Draws words six syllables in length,With which, assisted with a frownBy way of club, he knocks us down.
'King of Lochlin,' said Fingal, 'thy blood flows in the veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast in the hall, and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy face brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp. Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared thee in the halls of Starno, when my sword was red with slaughter, when my eye was full of tears for the maid. Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat which thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart renowned, like the sun setting in the west!'
'King of the race of Morven!' said the chief of resounding Lochlin, 'never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno: few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? We have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let the bards send his name who overcame to future years, for noble was the strife of Malmour! But many of the ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran! When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.'
'Nor ship' replied the king, 'shall Fingal take, nor land of many hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou noble friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam of the morning; return to the echoing hills of Gormal.' 'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the dark-brown shield. 'In peace thou art the gale of spring. In war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that the children of the north hereafter may behold the place where their fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran fought, the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say, and our fame shall last for ever!'
'Swaran,' said the king of hills, 'to-day our fame is greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the song of other years. Let the night pass away on the sound, and morning return with joy.'
We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened, like the full moon of heaven: when the clouds vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst of the sky.
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn on the hill of winds.
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!
Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah, they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay. Oh! from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm!
I sit in my grief? I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona [Ossian], the first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear at times the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! They say as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast that roars lonely on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!
Strong is the lion-like a coalHis eyeball, like a bastion's moleHis chest against the foes;Strong the gier-eagle on his sail;Strong against tide th' enormous whaleEmerges as he goes:
But stronger still, in earth and airAnd in the sea, the man of prayer,And far beneath the tide,And in the seat to faith assigned,Where ask is have, where seek is find,Where knock is open wide.
Beauteous the fleet before the gale;Beauteous the multitudes in mail,Ranked arms and crested heads;Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild,Walk, water, meditated wild,And all the bloomy beds;
Beauteous the moon full on the lawn;And beauteous when the veil's withdrawnThe virgin to her spouse;Beauteous the temple, decked and filled,When to the heaven of heavens they buildTheir heart-directed vows:
Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these,The shepherd King upon his knees,For his momentous trust;With wish of infinite conceitFor man, beast, mute, the small and great,And prostrate dust to dust.
Precious the bounteous widow's mite;And precious, for extreme delight,The largess from the churl;Precious the ruby's blushing blaze,And Alba's blest imperial rays,And pure cerulean pearl;
Precious the penitential tear;And precious is the sigh sincere,Acceptable to God;And precious are the winning flowers,In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers,Bound on the hallowed sod:
More precious that diviner partOf David, even the Lord's own heart,Great, beautiful, and new;In all things where it was intent,In all extremes, in each event,Proof—answering true to true.
Glorious the sun in mid career;Glorious th' assembled fires appear;Glorious the comet's train;Glorious the trumpet and alarm;Glorious th' Almighty's stretched-out arm;Glorious th' enraptured main;
Glorious the northern lights a-stream;Glorious the song, when God's the theme;Glorious the thunder's roar;Glorious, Hosannah from the den;Glorious the catholic amen;Glorious the martyr's gore:
Glorious, more glorious, is the crownOf Him that brought salvation down,By meekness called Thy son;Thou that stupendous truth believed,And now the matchless deed's achieved,Determined, dared, and done.
As some lone miser, visiting his store,Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts It o'er,Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,To see the hoard of human bliss so small,And oft I wish amidst the scene to findSome spot to real happiness consigned,Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest.May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.But where to find that happiest spot below,Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
* * * * *
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,I turn; and France displays her bright domain.Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,How often have I led thy sportive choir,With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire,Where shading elms along the margin grew,And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew!And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's skill,Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,And dance forgetful of the noontide hour.Alike all ages: dames of ancient daysHave led their children through the mirthful maze;And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore,
So blessed a life these thoughtless realms display;Thus idly busy rolls their world away.
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,For honour forms the social temper here:Honour, that praise which real merit gains,Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,It shifts in splendid traffic round the land;From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,And all are taught an avarice of praise;They pleased, are pleased; they give, to get, esteem,Till, seeming blessed, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,It gives their follies also room to rise;For praise, too dearly loved or warmly sought,Enfeebles all internal strength of thought,And the weak soul, within itself unblessed,Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art,Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace,And trims her robes of frieze with copper-lace;Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer,To boast one splendid banquet once a year:The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
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Vain, very vain, my weary search to findThat bliss which only centres in the mind.Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose,To seek a good each government bestows?In every government, though terrors reign,Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,How small, of all that human hearts endure,That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!Still to ourselves in every place consigned,Our own felicity we make or find:With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,To men remote from power but rarely known,Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loitered o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endeared each scene!How often have I paused on every charm,The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shadeFor talking age and whispering lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old surveyed;And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter tittered round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,With sweet succession, taught even toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawnAmidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,And desolation saddens all thy green:One only master grasps the whole domain,And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;Along the glades, a solitary guest,The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest;Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;A breath can make them, as a breath has made:But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,When every rood of ground maintained its man;For him light labour spread her wholesome store,Just gave what life required, but gave no more:His best companions, innocence and health;And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling trainUsurp the land and dispossess the swain;Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,And every want to opulence allied,And every pang that folly pays to pride.These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,Those calm desires that asked but little room,Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.Here, as I take my solitary roundsAmidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,And, many a year elapsed, return to viewWhere once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs—and God has given my share—I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out life's taper at the close,And keep the flame from wasting by repose:I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursuePants to the place from whence at first she flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations past,Here to return—and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,Retreats from care, that never must be mine,How happy he who crowns in shades like theseA youth of labour with an age of ease;Who quits a world where strong temptations try,And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!For him no wretches, born to work and weep,Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;No surly porter stands in guilty state,To spurn imploring famine from the gate;But on he moves to meet his latter end,Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,While resignation gently slopes the way;And, all his prospects brightening to the last,His Heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's closeUp yonder hill the village murmur rose.There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,The mingling notes came softened from below;The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,The playful children just let loose from school,The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;—These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.All but yon widowed, solitary thing,That feebly bends beside the plashy spring:She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;She only left of all the harmless train,The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,And still where many a garden flower grows wild;There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,The village preacher's modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.His house was known to all the vagrant train;He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:The long-remembered beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,Sate by his fire, and talked the night away,Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forget their vices in their woe;Careless their merits or their faults to scan,His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side;But in his duty prompt at every call,He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment triesTo tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,The reverend champion stood. At his controlDespair and anguish fled the struggling soul;Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorned the venerable place;Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.The service past, around the pious man,With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;Even children followed with endearing wile,And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed:To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,The village master taught his little school.A man severe he was, and stern to view;I knew him well, and every truant knew;Well had the boding tremblers learned to traceThe days' disasters in his morning face;Full well they laughed with counterfeited gleeAt all his jokes, for many a joke had he;Full well the busy whisper circling roundConveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault:The village all declared how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,And even the story ran that he could gauge;In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,For, even though vanquished, he could argue still;While words of learned length and thundering soundAmazed the gazing rustics ranged around;And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spotWhere many a time he triumphed is forgot.Wear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired,Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,And news much older than their ale went round.Imagination fondly stoops to traceThe parlour splendours of that festive place:The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,The varnished clock that clicked behind the door:The chest contrived a double debt to pay,A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;The pictures placed for ornament and use,The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay;While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendours could not allReprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impartAn hour's importance to the poor man's heart.Thither no more the peasant shall repairTo sweet oblivion of his daily care;No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;The host himself no longer shall be foundCareful to see the mantling bliss go round;Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed,Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,These simple blessings of the lowly train;To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art.Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed—In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who surveyThe rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits standBetween a splendid and an happy land.Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound,And rich men flock from all the world around.Yet count our gains! This wealth is but a nameThat leaves our useful products still the same.Not so the loss. The man of wealth and prideTakes up a space that many poor supplied;Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:The robe that wraps his limbs in silken slothHas robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;His seat, where solitary sports are seen,Indignant spurns the cottage from the green:Around the world each needful product flies,For all the luxuries the world supplies;While thus the land adorned for pleasure allIn barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female unadorned and plain,Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies,Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail,When time advances, and when lovers fail,She then, shines forth, solicitous to bless,In all the glaring impotence of dress.Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed:In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed,But verging to decline, its splendours rise,Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;While, scourged by famine from the smiling landThe mournful peasant leads his humble band,And while he sinks, without one arm to save,The country blooms—a garden and a grave.
Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside,To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?If to some common's fenceless limits strayed,He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,And even the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped—what waits him there?To see profusion that he must not share;To see ten thousand baneful arts combinedTo pamper luxury, and thin mankind;To see those joys the sons of pleasure knowExtorted from his fellow-creature's woe.Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reignHere, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train:Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!Sure these denote one universal joy!Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyesWhere the poor houseless shivering female lies.She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed,Has wept at tales of innocence distressed;Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn:Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower,With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn,—thine, the loveliest train,—Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,Where half the convex world intrudes between,Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.Far different there from all that charmed beforeThe various terrors of that horrid shore;Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,And fiercely shed intolerable day;Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing,But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;Where at each step the stranger fears to wakeThe rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,And savage men more murderous still than they;While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.Far different these from every former scene,The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,The breezy covert of the warbling grove,That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day,That called them from their native walks away;When the poor exiles, every pleasure passed,Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,And took a long farewell, and wished in vainFor seats like these beyond the western main,And shuddering still to face the distant deep,Returned and wept, and still returned to weep,The good old sire the first prepared to goTo new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,The fond companion of his helpless years,Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,And left a lover's for a father's arms.With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,And blest the cot where every pleasure rose,And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear,Whilst her fond husband strove to lend reliefIn all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree,How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!How do thy potions, with insidious joy,Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy!Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,Boast of a florid vigour not their own.At every draught more large and large they grow,A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound,Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,And half the business of destruction done;Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,I see the rural Virtues leave the land.Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,That idly waiting flaps with every gale,Downward they move, a melancholy band,Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.Contented Toil, and hospitable Care,And kind connubial Tenderness, ate there;And Piety with wishes placed above,And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love.And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;Unfit in these degenerate times of shameTo catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;Teach him, that states of native strength possessed,Though very poor, may still be very blessed;That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;While self-dependent power can time defy,As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was suchWe scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throatTo persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;Though equal to all things, for all things unfit—Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit,For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient,And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient:In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir,To eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor.
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Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;A flattering painter, who made it his careTo draw men as they ought to be, not as they are:His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,And Comedy wonders at being so fine—Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened her out,Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout;His fools have their follies so lost in a crowdOf virtues and feelings that folly grows proud;And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.Say, where has our poet this malady caught,Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?Say, was it that, vainly directing his viewTo find out men's virtues, and finding them few,Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,He grew lazy at last and drew from himself?
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Here lies David Garrick: describe me, who can,An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;As an actor, confessed without rival to shine;As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart,The man had his failings, a dupe to his art:Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread,And beplastered with rouge his own natural red;On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting—'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.With no reason on earth to go out of his way,He turned and he varied full ten times a day:Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sickIf they were not his own by finessing and trick;He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease,Who peppered the highest was surest to please.But let us be candid, and speak out our mind:If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind;Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave!How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised!But peace to his spirit, wherever it fliesTo act as an angel and mix with the skies!Those poets who owe their best fame to his skillShall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
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Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,He has not left a better or wiser behind.His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;Still born to improve us in every part—His pencil oar faces, his manners our heart.To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing;When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.