THE COMPARISON.

Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts,The full design, complete in all its parts,Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells thesoul—When swell'd too much the judgment tocontrol—The happy ear that feels the flowing forceOf the smooth line's uninterrupted course;Give me, oh give, if not in vain the prayer,That sacred wealth, poetic worth, toshare—Be it my boast to please and to improve,10To warm the soul to virtue and to love;To paint the passions, and to teach mankindOur greatest pleasures are the most refined;The cheerful tale with fancy to rehearse,And gild the moral with the charm of verse.

Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts,

The full design, complete in all its parts,

Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells thesoul—

When swell'd too much the judgment tocontrol—

The happy ear that feels the flowing force

Of the smooth line's uninterrupted course;

Give me, oh give, if not in vain the prayer,

That sacred wealth, poetic worth, toshare—

Be it my boast to please and to improve,

10

To warm the soul to virtue and to love;

To paint the passions, and to teach mankind

Our greatest pleasures are the most refined;

The cheerful tale with fancy to rehearse,

And gild the moral with the charm of verse.

Parham, 1778.

Friendship is like the gold refined,And all may weigh its worth;Love like the ore, brought undesign'dIn virgin beauty forth.Friendship may pass from age to age,And yet remain the same;Love must in many a toil engage,And melt in lambent flame.

Friendship is like the gold refined,And all may weigh its worth;Love like the ore, brought undesign'dIn virgin beauty forth.

Friendship is like the gold refined,

And all may weigh its worth;

Love like the ore, brought undesign'd

In virgin beauty forth.

Friendship may pass from age to age,And yet remain the same;Love must in many a toil engage,And melt in lambent flame.

Friendship may pass from age to age,

And yet remain the same;

Love must in many a toil engage,

And melt in lambent flame.

Aldborough, 1778.

Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.

You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true,When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you?Readfirst—if my lectures your fancydelight—Your taste is diseased, can your cure be towrite?You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engageThe attention of wits and the smiles of the age:Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,Why—every man thinks just the same of his own.You imagine that Pope—but yourself youbeguile—10Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style.Delude not yourself with so fruitless ahope—Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.You think ofmymuse with a friendly regard,And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward:But let not his glory your spirits elate,When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.

You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true,When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you?Readfirst—if my lectures your fancydelight—Your taste is diseased, can your cure be towrite?

You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true,

When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you?

Readfirst—if my lectures your fancydelight—

Your taste is diseased, can your cure be towrite?

You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engageThe attention of wits and the smiles of the age:Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,Why—every man thinks just the same of his own.

You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engage

The attention of wits and the smiles of the age:

Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,

Why—every man thinks just the same of his own.

You imagine that Pope—but yourself youbeguile—10Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style.Delude not yourself with so fruitless ahope—Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.

You imagine that Pope—but yourself youbeguile—

10

Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style.

Delude not yourself with so fruitless ahope—

Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.

You think ofmymuse with a friendly regard,And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward:But let not his glory your spirits elate,When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.

You think ofmymuse with a friendly regard,

And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward:

But let not his glory your spirits elate,

When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.

Aldborough, 1778.

Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him?

Proud, little Man, opinion's slave.Error's fond child, too duteous to be free,Say, from the cradle to the grave,Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee?This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheelMoves by deep springs, which thou canst never feel;Her day and night, her centre and her sun,Untraced by thee, their annual courses run.A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine,10And flattering fancy calls the motion thine;Untaught how soon some hanging grave may burst,And join thy flimsy substance to the dust.

Proud, little Man, opinion's slave.

Error's fond child, too duteous to be free,

Say, from the cradle to the grave,

Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee?

This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheel

Moves by deep springs, which thou canst never feel;

Her day and night, her centre and her sun,

Untraced by thee, their annual courses run.

A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine,

10

And flattering fancy calls the motion thine;

Untaught how soon some hanging grave may burst,

And join thy flimsy substance to the dust.

Aldborough, 1778.

The wintry winds have ceased to blow,And trembling leaves appear;And fairest flowers succeed the snow,And hail the infant year.So, when the world and all its woesAre vanish'd far away,Fair scenes and wonderful reposeShall bless the new-bornday—When, from the confines of the grave,10The body too shall rise,No more precarious passion's slave,Nor error's sacrifice.'Tis but a sleep—and Sion's kingWill call the many dead;'Tis but a sleep—and then we singO'er dreams of sorrow fled.Yes!—wintry winds have ceased to blow,And trembling leaves appear,And Nature has her types to show20Throughout the varying year.

The wintry winds have ceased to blow,And trembling leaves appear;And fairest flowers succeed the snow,And hail the infant year.

The wintry winds have ceased to blow,

And trembling leaves appear;

And fairest flowers succeed the snow,

And hail the infant year.

So, when the world and all its woesAre vanish'd far away,Fair scenes and wonderful reposeShall bless the new-bornday—

So, when the world and all its woes

Are vanish'd far away,

Fair scenes and wonderful repose

Shall bless the new-bornday—

When, from the confines of the grave,10The body too shall rise,No more precarious passion's slave,Nor error's sacrifice.

When, from the confines of the grave,

10

The body too shall rise,

No more precarious passion's slave,

Nor error's sacrifice.

'Tis but a sleep—and Sion's kingWill call the many dead;'Tis but a sleep—and then we singO'er dreams of sorrow fled.

'Tis but a sleep—and Sion's king

Will call the many dead;

'Tis but a sleep—and then we sing

O'er dreams of sorrow fled.

Yes!—wintry winds have ceased to blow,And trembling leaves appear,And Nature has her types to show20Throughout the varying year.

Yes!—wintry winds have ceased to blow,

And trembling leaves appear,

And Nature has her types to show

20

Throughout the varying year.

Aldborough, December 24, 1778.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread,The toiling year has pass'd and fled:And, lo! in sad and pensive strain,I sing my birth-day date again.Trembling and poor, I saw the light,New waking from unconscious night;Trembling and poor I still remain,To meet unconscious night again.Time in my pathway strews few flowers,10To cheer or cheat the weary hours;And those few strangers, dear indeed,Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread,The toiling year has pass'd and fled:And, lo! in sad and pensive strain,I sing my birth-day date again.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread,

The toiling year has pass'd and fled:

And, lo! in sad and pensive strain,

I sing my birth-day date again.

Trembling and poor, I saw the light,New waking from unconscious night;Trembling and poor I still remain,To meet unconscious night again.

Trembling and poor, I saw the light,

New waking from unconscious night;

Trembling and poor I still remain,

To meet unconscious night again.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers,10To cheer or cheat the weary hours;And those few strangers, dear indeed,Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers,

10

To cheer or cheat the weary hours;

And those few strangers, dear indeed,

Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.

Beccles, 1779.

The Hebrew king, with spleen possest,By David's harp was soothed to rest;Yet, when the magic song was o'er,The soft delusion charm'd no more;The former fury fired the brain,And every care return'd again.But had he known Eliza's skillTo bless the sense and bind the will,To bid the gloom of care retire,10And fan the flame of fond desire,Remembrance then had kept the strain,And not a care return'd again.

The Hebrew king, with spleen possest,By David's harp was soothed to rest;Yet, when the magic song was o'er,The soft delusion charm'd no more;The former fury fired the brain,And every care return'd again.

The Hebrew king, with spleen possest,

By David's harp was soothed to rest;

Yet, when the magic song was o'er,

The soft delusion charm'd no more;

The former fury fired the brain,

And every care return'd again.

But had he known Eliza's skillTo bless the sense and bind the will,To bid the gloom of care retire,10And fan the flame of fond desire,Remembrance then had kept the strain,And not a care return'd again.

But had he known Eliza's skill

To bless the sense and bind the will,

To bid the gloom of care retire,

10

And fan the flame of fond desire,

Remembrance then had kept the strain,

And not a care return'd again.

Aldborough, 1779.

Think ye, the joys that fill our early day,Are the poor prelude to some full repast?Think you, theypromise?—ah! believe theypay;The purest ever, they are oft the last.The jovial swain that yokes the morning team,And all the verdure of the field enjoys,See him, how languid, when the noon-tide beamPlays on his brow, and all his force destroys.So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled,10We at the summit of our hill arrive:Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past—are dead,But what still deepening clouds of Care survive!

Think ye, the joys that fill our early day,

Are the poor prelude to some full repast?

Think you, theypromise?—ah! believe theypay;

The purest ever, they are oft the last.

The jovial swain that yokes the morning team,

And all the verdure of the field enjoys,

See him, how languid, when the noon-tide beam

Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys.

So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled,

10

We at the summit of our hill arrive:

Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past—are dead,

But what still deepening clouds of Care survive!

Aldborough, 1779.

O sacred gift of God to man,A faith that looks above,And sees the deep amazing planOf sanctifying love.Thou dear and yet tremendous God,Whose glory pride reviles;How did'st thou change thy awful rodTo pard'ning grace and smiles!Shut up with sin, with shame below,10I trust, this bondage past,A great, a glorious change to know,And to be bless'd at last.Idobelieve, that, God of light!Thou didst to earth descend,With Satan and with Sin tofight—Our great, our only friend.Iknowthou did'st ordain for me,Thy creature, bread and wine;The depth of grace I cannot see,20But worship the design.

O sacred gift of God to man,A faith that looks above,And sees the deep amazing planOf sanctifying love.

O sacred gift of God to man,

A faith that looks above,

And sees the deep amazing plan

Of sanctifying love.

Thou dear and yet tremendous God,Whose glory pride reviles;How did'st thou change thy awful rodTo pard'ning grace and smiles!

Thou dear and yet tremendous God,

Whose glory pride reviles;

How did'st thou change thy awful rod

To pard'ning grace and smiles!

Shut up with sin, with shame below,10I trust, this bondage past,A great, a glorious change to know,And to be bless'd at last.

Shut up with sin, with shame below,

10

I trust, this bondage past,

A great, a glorious change to know,

And to be bless'd at last.

Idobelieve, that, God of light!Thou didst to earth descend,With Satan and with Sin tofight—Our great, our only friend.

Idobelieve, that, God of light!

Thou didst to earth descend,

With Satan and with Sin tofight—

Our great, our only friend.

Iknowthou did'st ordain for me,Thy creature, bread and wine;The depth of grace I cannot see,20But worship the design.

Iknowthou did'st ordain for me,

Thy creature, bread and wine;

The depth of grace I cannot see,

20

But worship the design.

Aldborough, 1779.

The sober stillness of the nightThat fills the silent air,And all that breathes along the shore,Invite to solemn prayer.Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!Which points the sacred way,And let thy creatures here belowInstruct me how to pray.

The sober stillness of the nightThat fills the silent air,And all that breathes along the shore,Invite to solemn prayer.

The sober stillness of the night

That fills the silent air,

And all that breathes along the shore,

Invite to solemn prayer.

Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!Which points the sacred way,And let thy creatures here belowInstruct me how to pray.

Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!

Which points the sacred way,

And let thy creatures here below

Instruct me how to pray.

Aldborough, 1779.

Oh, great Apollo! by whose equal aidThe verse is written and the med'cine made,Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers,In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours?Insulting quack! on thy sad business go,And land the stranger on this world of woe.Still I pass on, and now before me findThe restless ocean, emblem of my mind;There wave on wave, here thought on thought succeeds,10Their produce idle works and idle weeds.Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea,But not more dark than my sad views to me;Yet from the rising moon the light beams danceIn troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse;So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright,The Muse pours comfort in a flood oflight.—Shine out, fair flood! until the day-star flingsHis brighter rays on all sublunar things."Why in such haste? by all the powers of wit,20I have against thee neither bond nor writ.If thou'rt a poet, now indulge the flightOf thy fine fancy in this dubious light;Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme,And all things meet to form the truesublime."—"Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place,With abject rhymes a doctor's name disgrace?Nor doctor solely, in the healing artI'm all in all, and all in every part;Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be30Which gave me right to claim the golden fee.Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due,For mine th' advice and operation too;And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe,I make myself the med'cines I prescribe.Mine, too, the chemic art; and not a dropGoes to my patients from a vulgar shop.But chief my fame and fortune I commandFrom the rare skill of this obstetric hand:This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow,40With her who calls me from thy wonder now."

Oh, great Apollo! by whose equal aid

The verse is written and the med'cine made,

Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers,

In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours?

Insulting quack! on thy sad business go,

And land the stranger on this world of woe.

Still I pass on, and now before me find

The restless ocean, emblem of my mind;

There wave on wave, here thought on thought succeeds,

10

Their produce idle works and idle weeds.

Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea,

But not more dark than my sad views to me;

Yet from the rising moon the light beams dance

In troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse;

So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright,

The Muse pours comfort in a flood oflight.—

Shine out, fair flood! until the day-star flings

His brighter rays on all sublunar things.

"Why in such haste? by all the powers of wit,

20

I have against thee neither bond nor writ.

If thou'rt a poet, now indulge the flight

Of thy fine fancy in this dubious light;

Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme,

And all things meet to form the truesublime."—

"Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place,

With abject rhymes a doctor's name disgrace?

Nor doctor solely, in the healing art

I'm all in all, and all in every part;

Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be

30

Which gave me right to claim the golden fee.

Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due,

For mine th' advice and operation too;

And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe,

I make myself the med'cines I prescribe.

Mine, too, the chemic art; and not a drop

Goes to my patients from a vulgar shop.

But chief my fame and fortune I command

From the rare skill of this obstetric hand:

This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow,

40

With her who calls me from thy wonder now."

A POEM.

[About 1779.]

Life is a Dream;—it steals upon the Man,He knows not how, but thinks himself awake;'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep,That turns its glossy surface to the Sun,Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proudOf momentary Being—then itbreaks—To some tremendous Billow drops a prey,And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care,10How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream,And some—hard Fortune theirs—of Care alone.Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake,A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep;While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad,And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive FlightThrough Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her,Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose TouchGrief borrows Charm, and Expectation sitsOn the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.20Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shinesThe sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the GraveOf the departed Lover; nor more mildSits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,The Song shall please; and I will paint the DreamThat Midnight gave thee, when with wintry WingShe swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew30Upon the frozen Garment of the pool;And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine,And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale,And dress me in the Livery of the Dead;And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee;Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares,And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons,Who feed on Adulation—let them feed,Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash,And sickens withRepletion.—I will ask,40No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song,Nor Court Applause—Meonides had Fame,And with her poverty and pain and Care,Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph,Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note;From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key,And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries;Ambition started when he sang of War,In Language all her own; and o'er his LyreHung Devastation, glowing at the Sound,50And frantic for the Field; and there Distress,As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man,With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse;And chiding Fame, by whispering to the SoulDomestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise,And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World,Led the blind Bard in Sadness to theTomb.—I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver WingTo bear me in some rapid even flightThro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard60That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang,Transported, [wanders], feeling power divineNew-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.Imagination turns the Tide of Time,Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear,And falling Rome works back, till Nature smilesAnd [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene,And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen BoughsThat Shade the [Nereids] listning from theirStreams.—70Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the MornAnd all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,Dipping his fiery Tresses in the StreamOf Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,80That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom,Shot devious o'er the fervent Page ofYoung—Young, Thought's Œconomist, who wove reproofHer [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone;Whose Invitation was assault: he foundThe World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream,The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blendWith his Creation; when he led the EyeThrough the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring;90And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream,And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her LeafUnfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rillsUnmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace.Ah! who with mingled Modesty and LoveSo paints the bathing Maid; who so describesThe new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb?Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's WingOf Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm;But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,100And led thy weary plowman from the field,And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough,And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds,Rustling along the golden [Valley], bearThe Grain just dropping from its withering Glume.And Winter too was thine! permit me thereTo bear a part, for mine are wintryThoughts.—Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire,Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd110Imagination's pleasures to its Eye;His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine;His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns;And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike,At that dread Hour when the officious Friend,Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss,May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul,And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies,Whisper a noble [Challenge] to theTomb.—Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same,120And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls,Both sentenc'd to Contempt—unletter'dpride—Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to himWho soars above or labours in the Clouds,Who travels the sublime, or dives profoundIn the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream:He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rillThat owns him Lord untasted steals away,Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down130The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesyAnd dream your pretty Dreams, permit my SongCold inspiration from a Winter's Night.This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,To dive into the Depths of your profound,And with a vile assemblage gather'd thereWhip the pale Moonshine from your with'ringBays.—Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,140In repetition mawkish, or who tir'dThinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the HandOf [Disappointment] snatches from the ViceThat waits on power? or who has lost a friend,And mingles with the dew that wets his TombA frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mildAnd melancholy Bias from the WombWas fashioned for the View of serious Things,And with the sober chiding of his eye,Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek,150And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity?Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul,EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and giveThe Living Youth the Manners of my Friend.From the Enshrouded Tenant of the SodI'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart,The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the FormThat, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile,That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt,Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear.160Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound,Halting in frozen regions of the Air,Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'nFor as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,To grasp Delusion in her Guise ofGold.—The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the HillSlopes the faint Shadow; now in other RealmsShe drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets LipSlept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart170Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View.In other Climates, from the rays of NoonEmbower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palmDrinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the BrowOf shadied Weariness; and distant nowDraws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow,The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun,Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths,The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light.'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim180And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gildThe restless Bosom of the briny Deep.The fiery Meteor in the foggy AirRides emulous of Fame and apes the Star,Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish,It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream,Within the bosom of Oblivion.The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff,Unconscious of the Surge that grates belowThe frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds,190As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul,The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is nowThe awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's GraveRolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of LightImprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,200And now escaping, when the parent SunFlings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy netThe wintry Fern, and throws along the HeathA Hoary Garment, nor less fair than SpringDrops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd AirShed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece210The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak,Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,With [age's] stern and touching EloquenceThe ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.The winds that in converging Furrows ploughThe freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings.In Winter's Livery sleeps this earthlyScene—And, save where Ocean rolls his restless Flood,The horizontal Eye grasps all thingsgrey.—220Eugenio, see—for thou shalt bear His NameWho sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was myFriend—The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thouA Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb;For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead,Where Vanity amid the Mouldring ScrollsOf Genealogy and mingled BonesMoves in a formal join'd Solemnity,House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man;And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell,230Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth,Stirs busy Memory to con o'er DeedsOf high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love;Which in th' eternal Records of the Just,Are written with an Angels pen, and sungWith [Symphony] of Harp, and there is JoyAnd Gratulation with the Sons ofGod.—Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene],How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade!No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale240With Fragrance, nor invites the roving BeeTo taste its Sweets—and why this direful wasteOf Verdure? why this Vegetable Death?Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin?All in rebellion rise?—and tepid Meads,And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field,And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods,SpurnGod'sCommand and drink forbidden Dew?—There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair,(A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race)250A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love:Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care,The Sward was not—and Desolation sleptTill by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en SongWore Semblatude of War;—Eternal SpringFrom the unfurrow'd Field the heavy EarDrew smiling, and the undistinguish'd yearBrought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she thenA Common Call, enamour'd of her plough.The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm260E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant LapThe tributary Grape, yet growing, laid.The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay;Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside,The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains,And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride.Eugenio, thus they taught; and after thisA silver age arose, and hers the ScenesNot Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid,Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night,270And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye.The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow,And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care beganTo plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age,And Falshood from the female Eye to stealThe silent Tear; then prudence took her SeatWithin the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room.Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bendThe ready Ear to tales of her own praise;Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery,280But was, as Modesty is now, afraidThe Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much.Then young Ambition wore his Russet GownOnly in better Form, and Infant pompBut saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom,And propt his Cottage with a tallerpier.—Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of SinAnd foul Deformity, the Breast of ManAnd the Sad Surface of the Earthenrobes.—From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt290Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first,Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood;And treachery, breaking up the League of FriendsAnd rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ,With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale,A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care.Hence War, in all her guilty MajestyIn slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land,With all the murderous Whispers of the CampAnd shout of Ambush, castigates theNight.—300And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell,That prey upon Mankind.—Eugenio, giveThy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things,To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air,And we will mark the dreary Train that vexThe mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp,Frowning upon the Midnight's murkyWing.—And who is he, from yonder antient roof,With Horror in his Eye, who steals aroundEach hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace310Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the FoeOf Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night,And Superstition call'd, a Giant fondOf Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness],Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel,And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a GroanResounding loud, affright the Coward SoulFrom Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he MournsThe fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure,With Indolence and Folly, social pair,320Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who builtThe Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'dThe drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or EveHail'd the arising or descending SunWith gothic Note, harmoniously sad.But now no more the Votive Maiden claspsThe clay cold Saint, and mingles with her VowThe Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realmsNo more the power-compelling Bigot plucksThe robe from Kings, and consecrates the Tomb330That hides a Brother-Saint with Zeal-enforc'dAnd ceremoniousSolemnity.—O'er the Opaque of Nature and of NightFair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born ArtThat shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprestWithin the Volumes' varied Character,Where to the wondering Eye the Soul revealsHer Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shoneAnd Newton thro' the World, and Light on LightPour'd on the human Breast, as when of old,340From the Eternal Fountains of the God,Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass;Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'dThe first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things,Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'dWithout a Station, and without a Name.Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the armOf Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke350The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword,Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,And oft drew back, his silver wing born downBy the foul Breath of Malice; till at lengthThe Monster, rousing in Collected Might,Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the SoundRed Tyranny, and Torture, with his LimbsDisjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blastFor every Fire, prepar'd each bloody FormOf Death, and woo'd Destruction for herWheel.—360Then on the Father dead the dying SonImplor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrillShot from the lurid Flame, and to the SkiesSail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's EyeMet the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's FearOf Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply,Forbidding Hope, on the affrightned SoulFlung Terror; till, in pity to the World,Came Wisdom, whispering to the Ear of power,And peace arose; and then the Brother wept370A Brother's Death, for distant seem'd his own.And now the Spirit of uneasy Man,That weds Extreme, and, ever on the WingFor Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the CellsOf monkish Zeal, built with the base remainsThe tow'ring Palace of Impiety.There Jest profane, and Quibbling MockeryOf all divine grew fast, as from the EarthEnrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools,Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth,380And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene.To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success,A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form,And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a LyeWith Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth;They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite,With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man,Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal,Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!—And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view390Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind,And heedless of its Force. Upon the BrowOf yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels,And urges the departed Saints who sleep,To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth,Her Son, but late th' adopted of her darkAnd gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the CrimeOf Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed!And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep,Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind400A thousand sooty Images of Death,All horrible, and making Guilt's reposeLike to the fearfull rest the Vessel feelsIn the dread Chasm of the tempestuous Sea,Arch'd by the Wave that pauses o'er the Gulph,While Sea-men urge their momentary prayer,And with Heart-shrinking Horror view their Grave.But hark, he speaks—attend the WretchesTale—Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night,And seeking peace by giving Themes of painTo the rude Air:410"Come, all ye little Ills,Contempt, and poverty, and pale DiseaseWith Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applauseThat sickens on the World, and all of CareThat shed your daily Drops of bitter DewUpon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike,That I may feel your force, and call it Joy,So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt,With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart,And when a momentary Comfort strives,420Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing,Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought,And nips the still-bornJoy.—"To me no moreThe Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace,Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard;And did I think a base and sordid HeapHad in it the Ability to pluckThe Sting from Guilt, and smother how it cameIn the vile Knowledge that it came to me?It was a Madman's Dream—O ye good Gods!430If Envy knew her Mark, she would besetThe poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut,Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast,Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep,At their still howling North; and leave the Throne,The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plantThe Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State,On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep,And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinklethere.—"When shall I rest—O! let me, Night, [besiege]440Thy drowsy Ear with wailing, but be thou[Tenacious] of my Guilt; and with her BandLet everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue;The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leapMurder's Discretion, and with fearfull SpeechTo free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death:[Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man,The base assassin, gives, and after longsWith Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine,And I will yield all Hope of After-Life,450All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung—Elysium water'd with immortal Streams,And gifted with Eternity of peace,Balm-breathing Fields, and Bowers of soft repose,Walks amaranthine, and the pillowy Moss,On Banks where Harpers, to celestial StringsAttuning Nature, warble Notes of Love,The Anodyne to all-rebelliousThought.—"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with theseForegoing pain eternal. Why then strive460From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care,When Life and Care may be remov'd together?—If I were not a very Coward Wretch,A very Shadow of the Man, a thingMade to feel Burdens of my Fear, and dragA hated Being on—'twere but to leapFrom this rough [Eminence], and all isdone—All that is done on this Side of the Bier.But there, surrounded with impervious Fog,Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come;470Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes,Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease,Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride,Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice,Slay in thy path; within thy SepulchreMould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs,Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity!But what comes then? O for a Seraph's EyeThat, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things,Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light,480And in its Immaterial Robe detectThe Spirit, stript of the encumbringClay."—Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;The rest we seek in our reflecting ViewOf Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,Meets—may he not?—the jovial Eye of Day,490With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek,Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the FatesCull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy StoresThat ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,But, take it patient with a sober hope,That soon Distress may vary his assault,Or soon the Welcome Tomb excludeDistress.—But see another Son of Night and Care,500A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold,Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feelsThe gentler Blows of Nature, and receivesThe Common Visit of Calamity.

Life is a Dream;—it steals upon the Man,He knows not how, but thinks himself awake;'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep,That turns its glossy surface to the Sun,Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proudOf momentary Being—then itbreaks—To some tremendous Billow drops a prey,And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.

Life is a Dream;—it steals upon the Man,

He knows not how, but thinks himself awake;

'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep,

That turns its glossy surface to the Sun,

Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proud

Of momentary Being—then itbreaks—

To some tremendous Billow drops a prey,

And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.

But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care,10How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream,And some—hard Fortune theirs—of Care alone.

But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care,

10

How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream,

And some—hard Fortune theirs—of Care alone.

Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake,A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep;While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad,And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive FlightThrough Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her,Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose TouchGrief borrows Charm, and Expectation sitsOn the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.20Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shinesThe sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the GraveOf the departed Lover; nor more mildSits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,The Song shall please; and I will paint the DreamThat Midnight gave thee, when with wintry WingShe swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew30Upon the frozen Garment of the pool;And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine,And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale,And dress me in the Livery of the Dead;And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee;Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares,And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons,Who feed on Adulation—let them feed,Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash,And sickens withRepletion.—

Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake,

A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep;

While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad,

And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive Flight

Through Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her,

Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose Touch

Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits

On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.

20

Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines

The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave

Of the departed Lover; nor more mild

Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,

That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,

Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,

Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,

The Song shall please; and I will paint the Dream

That Midnight gave thee, when with wintry Wing

She swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew

30

Upon the frozen Garment of the pool;

And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine,

And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale,

And dress me in the Livery of the Dead;

And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee;

Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares,

And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons,

Who feed on Adulation—let them feed,

Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash,

And sickens withRepletion.—

I will ask,40No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song,Nor Court Applause—Meonides had Fame,And with her poverty and pain and Care,Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph,Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note;From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key,And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries;Ambition started when he sang of War,In Language all her own; and o'er his LyreHung Devastation, glowing at the Sound,50And frantic for the Field; and there Distress,As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man,With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse;And chiding Fame, by whispering to the SoulDomestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise,And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World,Led the blind Bard in Sadness to theTomb.—

I will ask,

40

No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song,

Nor Court Applause—Meonides had Fame,

And with her poverty and pain and Care,

Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph,

Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note;

From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key,

And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries;

Ambition started when he sang of War,

In Language all her own; and o'er his Lyre

Hung Devastation, glowing at the Sound,

50

And frantic for the Field; and there Distress,

As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man,

With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse;

And chiding Fame, by whispering to the Soul

Domestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise,

And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World,

Led the blind Bard in Sadness to theTomb.—

I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver WingTo bear me in some rapid even flightThro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard60That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang,Transported, [wanders], feeling power divineNew-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.Imagination turns the Tide of Time,Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear,And falling Rome works back, till Nature smilesAnd [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene,And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen BoughsThat Shade the [Nereids] listning from theirStreams.—

I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver Wing

To bear me in some rapid even flight

Thro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard

60

That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang,

Transported, [wanders], feeling power divine

New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.

Imagination turns the Tide of Time,

Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,

And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear,

And falling Rome works back, till Nature smiles

And [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene,

And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen Boughs

That Shade the [Nereids] listning from theirStreams.—

70Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the MornAnd all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,Dipping his fiery Tresses in the StreamOf Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.

70

Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn

And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,

Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream

Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,

Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,

And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,

From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,

Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,

Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.

Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,80That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom,Shot devious o'er the fervent Page ofYoung—Young, Thought's Œconomist, who wove reproofHer [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone;Whose Invitation was assault: he foundThe World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.

Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,

80

That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom,

Shot devious o'er the fervent Page ofYoung—

Young, Thought's Å’conomist, who wove reproof

Her [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone;

Whose Invitation was assault: he found

The World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.

Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream,The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blendWith his Creation; when he led the EyeThrough the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring;90And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream,And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her LeafUnfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rillsUnmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace.Ah! who with mingled Modesty and LoveSo paints the bathing Maid; who so describesThe new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb?Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's WingOf Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm;But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,100And led thy weary plowman from the field,And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough,And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds,Rustling along the golden [Valley], bearThe Grain just dropping from its withering Glume.And Winter too was thine! permit me thereTo bear a part, for mine are wintryThoughts.—

Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream,

The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blend

With his Creation; when he led the Eye

Through the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring;

90

And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream,

And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her Leaf

Unfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rills

Unmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace.

Ah! who with mingled Modesty and Love

So paints the bathing Maid; who so describes

The new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb?

Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's Wing

Of Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm;

But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,

100

And led thy weary plowman from the field,

And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,

And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough,

And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds,

Rustling along the golden [Valley], bear

The Grain just dropping from its withering Glume.

And Winter too was thine! permit me there

To bear a part, for mine are wintryThoughts.—

Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire,Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd110Imagination's pleasures to its Eye;His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine;His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns;And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike,At that dread Hour when the officious Friend,Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss,May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul,And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies,Whisper a noble [Challenge] to theTomb.—Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same,120And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls,Both sentenc'd to Contempt—unletter'dpride—Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to himWho soars above or labours in the Clouds,Who travels the sublime, or dives profoundIn the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream:He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rillThat owns him Lord untasted steals away,Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.

Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire,

Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd

110

Imagination's pleasures to its Eye;

His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine;

His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns;

And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike,

At that dread Hour when the officious Friend,

Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss,

May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul,

And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies,

Whisper a noble [Challenge] to theTomb.—

Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same,

120

And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls,

Both sentenc'd to Contempt—unletter'dpride—

Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to him

Who soars above or labours in the Clouds,

Who travels the sublime, or dives profound

In the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream:

He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill

That owns him Lord untasted steals away,

Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.

Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down130The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesyAnd dream your pretty Dreams, permit my SongCold inspiration from a Winter's Night.This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,To dive into the Depths of your profound,And with a vile assemblage gather'd thereWhip the pale Moonshine from your with'ringBays.—

Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down

130

The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy

And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song

Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night.

This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,

Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,

Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,

To dive into the Depths of your profound,

And with a vile assemblage gather'd there

Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ringBays.—

Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,140In repetition mawkish, or who tir'dThinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the HandOf [Disappointment] snatches from the ViceThat waits on power? or who has lost a friend,And mingles with the dew that wets his TombA frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mildAnd melancholy Bias from the WombWas fashioned for the View of serious Things,And with the sober chiding of his eye,Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek,150And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity?Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul,EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and giveThe Living Youth the Manners of my Friend.From the Enshrouded Tenant of the SodI'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart,The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the FormThat, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile,That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt,Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear.

Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,

140

In repetition mawkish, or who tir'd

Thinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the Hand

Of [Disappointment] snatches from the Vice

That waits on power? or who has lost a friend,

And mingles with the dew that wets his Tomb

A frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mild

And melancholy Bias from the Womb

Was fashioned for the View of serious Things,

And with the sober chiding of his eye,

Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek,

150

And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity?

Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul,

EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and give

The Living Youth the Manners of my Friend.

From the Enshrouded Tenant of the Sod

I'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart,

The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the Form

That, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile,

That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt,

Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear.

160Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound,Halting in frozen regions of the Air,Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'nFor as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,To grasp Delusion in her Guise ofGold.—

160

Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound,

Halting in frozen regions of the Air,

Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,

Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n

For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,

To grasp Delusion in her Guise ofGold.—

The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the HillSlopes the faint Shadow; now in other RealmsShe drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets LipSlept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart170Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View.In other Climates, from the rays of NoonEmbower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palmDrinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the BrowOf shadied Weariness; and distant nowDraws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow,The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun,Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths,The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light.'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim180And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gildThe restless Bosom of the briny Deep.The fiery Meteor in the foggy AirRides emulous of Fame and apes the Star,Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish,It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream,Within the bosom of Oblivion.

The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill

Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms

She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip

Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart

170

Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View.

In other Climates, from the rays of Noon

Embower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palm

Drinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the Brow

Of shadied Weariness; and distant now

Draws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow,

The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun,

Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths,

The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light.

'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim

180

And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gild

The restless Bosom of the briny Deep.

The fiery Meteor in the foggy Air

Rides emulous of Fame and apes the Star,

Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish,

It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream,

Within the bosom of Oblivion.

The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff,Unconscious of the Surge that grates belowThe frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds,190As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul,The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is nowThe awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's GraveRolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of LightImprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,200And now escaping, when the parent SunFlings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.

The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff,

Unconscious of the Surge that grates below

The frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds,

190

As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul,

The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,

Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is now

The awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's Grave

Rolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,

That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,

Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,

Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;

Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of Light

Imprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,

200

And now escaping, when the parent Sun

Flings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,

Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.

Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy netThe wintry Fern, and throws along the HeathA Hoary Garment, nor less fair than SpringDrops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd AirShed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece210The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak,Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,With [age's] stern and touching EloquenceThe ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.The winds that in converging Furrows ploughThe freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings.In Winter's Livery sleeps this earthlyScene—And, save where Ocean rolls his restless Flood,The horizontal Eye grasps all thingsgrey.—

Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,

Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy net

The wintry Fern, and throws along the Heath

A Hoary Garment, nor less fair than Spring

Drops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.

The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd Air

Shed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece

210

The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak,

Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,

With [age's] stern and touching Eloquence

The ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.

The winds that in converging Furrows plough

The freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,

Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings.

In Winter's Livery sleeps this earthlyScene—

And, save where Ocean rolls his restless Flood,

The horizontal Eye grasps all thingsgrey.—

220Eugenio, see—for thou shalt bear His NameWho sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was myFriend—The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thouA Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb;For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead,Where Vanity amid the Mouldring ScrollsOf Genealogy and mingled BonesMoves in a formal join'd Solemnity,House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man;And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell,230Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth,Stirs busy Memory to con o'er DeedsOf high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love;Which in th' eternal Records of the Just,Are written with an Angels pen, and sungWith [Symphony] of Harp, and there is JoyAnd Gratulation with the Sons ofGod.—

220

Eugenio, see—for thou shalt bear His Name

Who sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was myFriend—

The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thou

A Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb;

For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead,

Where Vanity amid the Mouldring Scrolls

Of Genealogy and mingled Bones

Moves in a formal join'd Solemnity,

House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man;

And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell,

230

Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth,

Stirs busy Memory to con o'er Deeds

Of high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love;

Which in th' eternal Records of the Just,

Are written with an Angels pen, and sung

With [Symphony] of Harp, and there is Joy

And Gratulation with the Sons ofGod.—

Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene],How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade!No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale240With Fragrance, nor invites the roving BeeTo taste its Sweets—and why this direful wasteOf Verdure? why this Vegetable Death?Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin?All in rebellion rise?—and tepid Meads,And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field,And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods,SpurnGod'sCommand and drink forbidden Dew?—

Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene],

How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade!

No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale

240

With Fragrance, nor invites the roving Bee

To taste its Sweets—and why this direful waste

Of Verdure? why this Vegetable Death?

Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin?

All in rebellion rise?—and tepid Meads,

And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field,

And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods,

SpurnGod'sCommand and drink forbidden Dew?—

There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair,(A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race)250A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love:Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care,The Sward was not—and Desolation sleptTill by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en SongWore Semblatude of War;—Eternal SpringFrom the unfurrow'd Field the heavy EarDrew smiling, and the undistinguish'd yearBrought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she thenA Common Call, enamour'd of her plough.The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm260E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant LapThe tributary Grape, yet growing, laid.The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay;Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside,The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains,And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride.

There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair,

(A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race)

250

A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love:

Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care,

The Sward was not—and Desolation slept

Till by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en Song

Wore Semblatude of War;—Eternal Spring

From the unfurrow'd Field the heavy Ear

Drew smiling, and the undistinguish'd year

Brought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she then

A Common Call, enamour'd of her plough.

The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm

260

E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant Lap

The tributary Grape, yet growing, laid.

The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay;

Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside,

The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains,

And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride.

Eugenio, thus they taught; and after thisA silver age arose, and hers the ScenesNot Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid,Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night,270And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye.The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow,And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care beganTo plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age,And Falshood from the female Eye to stealThe silent Tear; then prudence took her SeatWithin the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room.Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bendThe ready Ear to tales of her own praise;Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery,280But was, as Modesty is now, afraidThe Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much.Then young Ambition wore his Russet GownOnly in better Form, and Infant pompBut saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom,And propt his Cottage with a tallerpier.—

Eugenio, thus they taught; and after this

A silver age arose, and hers the Scenes

Not Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid,

Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night,

270

And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye.

The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow,

And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care began

To plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age,

And Falshood from the female Eye to steal

The silent Tear; then prudence took her Seat

Within the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room.

Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bend

The ready Ear to tales of her own praise;

Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery,

280

But was, as Modesty is now, afraid

The Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much.

Then young Ambition wore his Russet Gown

Only in better Form, and Infant pomp

But saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom,

And propt his Cottage with a tallerpier.—

Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of SinAnd foul Deformity, the Breast of ManAnd the Sad Surface of the Earthenrobes.—

Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of Sin

And foul Deformity, the Breast of Man

And the Sad Surface of the Earthenrobes.—

From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt290Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first,Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood;And treachery, breaking up the League of FriendsAnd rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ,With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale,A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care.Hence War, in all her guilty MajestyIn slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land,With all the murderous Whispers of the CampAnd shout of Ambush, castigates theNight.—

From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt

290

Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first,

Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood;

And treachery, breaking up the League of Friends

And rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ,

With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale,

A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care.

Hence War, in all her guilty Majesty

In slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land,

With all the murderous Whispers of the Camp

And shout of Ambush, castigates theNight.—

300And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell,That prey upon Mankind.—Eugenio, giveThy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things,To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air,And we will mark the dreary Train that vexThe mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp,Frowning upon the Midnight's murkyWing.—

300

And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell,

That prey upon Mankind.—Eugenio, give

Thy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things,

To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air,

And we will mark the dreary Train that vex

The mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp,

Frowning upon the Midnight's murkyWing.—

And who is he, from yonder antient roof,With Horror in his Eye, who steals aroundEach hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace310Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the FoeOf Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night,And Superstition call'd, a Giant fondOf Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness],Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel,And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a GroanResounding loud, affright the Coward SoulFrom Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he MournsThe fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure,With Indolence and Folly, social pair,320Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who builtThe Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'dThe drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or EveHail'd the arising or descending SunWith gothic Note, harmoniously sad.But now no more the Votive Maiden claspsThe clay cold Saint, and mingles with her VowThe Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realmsNo more the power-compelling Bigot plucksThe robe from Kings, and consecrates the Tomb330That hides a Brother-Saint with Zeal-enforc'dAnd ceremoniousSolemnity.—

And who is he, from yonder antient roof,

With Horror in his Eye, who steals around

Each hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace

310

Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the Foe

Of Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night,

And Superstition call'd, a Giant fond

Of Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness],

Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel,

And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a Groan

Resounding loud, affright the Coward Soul

From Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he Mourns

The fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure,

With Indolence and Folly, social pair,

320

Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who built

The Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'd

The drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or Eve

Hail'd the arising or descending Sun

With gothic Note, harmoniously sad.

But now no more the Votive Maiden clasps

The clay cold Saint, and mingles with her Vow

The Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realms

No more the power-compelling Bigot plucks

The robe from Kings, and consecrates the Tomb

330

That hides a Brother-Saint with Zeal-enforc'd

And ceremoniousSolemnity.—

O'er the Opaque of Nature and of NightFair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born ArtThat shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprestWithin the Volumes' varied Character,Where to the wondering Eye the Soul revealsHer Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shoneAnd Newton thro' the World, and Light on LightPour'd on the human Breast, as when of old,340From the Eternal Fountains of the God,Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass;Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'dThe first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things,Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'dWithout a Station, and without a Name.Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the armOf Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke350The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword,Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,And oft drew back, his silver wing born downBy the foul Breath of Malice; till at lengthThe Monster, rousing in Collected Might,Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the SoundRed Tyranny, and Torture, with his LimbsDisjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blastFor every Fire, prepar'd each bloody FormOf Death, and woo'd Destruction for herWheel.—

O'er the Opaque of Nature and of Night

Fair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born Art

That shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprest

Within the Volumes' varied Character,

Where to the wondering Eye the Soul reveals

Her Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shone

And Newton thro' the World, and Light on Light

Pour'd on the human Breast, as when of old,

340

From the Eternal Fountains of the God,

Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass;

Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'd

The first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things,

Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'd

Without a Station, and without a Name.

Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,

To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the arm

Of Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,

Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke

350

The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword,

Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,

And oft drew back, his silver wing born down

By the foul Breath of Malice; till at length

The Monster, rousing in Collected Might,

Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the Sound

Red Tyranny, and Torture, with his Limbs

Disjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blast

For every Fire, prepar'd each bloody Form

Of Death, and woo'd Destruction for herWheel.—

360Then on the Father dead the dying SonImplor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrillShot from the lurid Flame, and to the SkiesSail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's EyeMet the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's FearOf Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply,Forbidding Hope, on the affrightned SoulFlung Terror; till, in pity to the World,Came Wisdom, whispering to the Ear of power,And peace arose; and then the Brother wept370A Brother's Death, for distant seem'd his own.

360

Then on the Father dead the dying Son

Implor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrill

Shot from the lurid Flame, and to the Skies

Sail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's Eye

Met the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's Fear

Of Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply,

Forbidding Hope, on the affrightned Soul

Flung Terror; till, in pity to the World,

Came Wisdom, whispering to the Ear of power,

And peace arose; and then the Brother wept

370

A Brother's Death, for distant seem'd his own.

And now the Spirit of uneasy Man,That weds Extreme, and, ever on the WingFor Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the CellsOf monkish Zeal, built with the base remainsThe tow'ring Palace of Impiety.There Jest profane, and Quibbling MockeryOf all divine grew fast, as from the EarthEnrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools,Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth,380And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene.

And now the Spirit of uneasy Man,

That weds Extreme, and, ever on the Wing

For Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the Cells

Of monkish Zeal, built with the base remains

The tow'ring Palace of Impiety.

There Jest profane, and Quibbling Mockery

Of all divine grew fast, as from the Earth

Enrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools,

Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth,

380

And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene.

To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success,A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form,And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a LyeWith Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth;They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite,With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man,Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal,Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!—

To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success,

A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form,

And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a Lye

With Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth;

They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite,

With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man,

Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal,

Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!—

And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view390Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind,And heedless of its Force. Upon the BrowOf yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels,And urges the departed Saints who sleep,To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth,Her Son, but late th' adopted of her darkAnd gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the CrimeOf Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed!And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep,Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind400A thousand sooty Images of Death,All horrible, and making Guilt's reposeLike to the fearfull rest the Vessel feelsIn the dread Chasm of the tempestuous Sea,Arch'd by the Wave that pauses o'er the Gulph,While Sea-men urge their momentary prayer,And with Heart-shrinking Horror view their Grave.

And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view

390

Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind,

And heedless of its Force. Upon the Brow

Of yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels,

And urges the departed Saints who sleep,

To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth,

Her Son, but late th' adopted of her dark

And gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the Crime

Of Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed!

And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep,

Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind

400

A thousand sooty Images of Death,

All horrible, and making Guilt's repose

Like to the fearfull rest the Vessel feels

In the dread Chasm of the tempestuous Sea,

Arch'd by the Wave that pauses o'er the Gulph,

While Sea-men urge their momentary prayer,

And with Heart-shrinking Horror view their Grave.

But hark, he speaks—attend the WretchesTale—Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night,And seeking peace by giving Themes of painTo the rude Air:

But hark, he speaks—attend the WretchesTale—

Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night,

And seeking peace by giving Themes of pain

To the rude Air:

410"Come, all ye little Ills,Contempt, and poverty, and pale DiseaseWith Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applauseThat sickens on the World, and all of CareThat shed your daily Drops of bitter DewUpon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike,That I may feel your force, and call it Joy,So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt,With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart,And when a momentary Comfort strives,420Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing,Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought,And nips the still-bornJoy.—

410

"Come, all ye little Ills,

Contempt, and poverty, and pale Disease

With Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applause

That sickens on the World, and all of Care

That shed your daily Drops of bitter Dew

Upon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike,

That I may feel your force, and call it Joy,

So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt,

With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart,

And when a momentary Comfort strives,

420

Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing,

Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought,

And nips the still-bornJoy.—

"To me no moreThe Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace,Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard;And did I think a base and sordid HeapHad in it the Ability to pluckThe Sting from Guilt, and smother how it cameIn the vile Knowledge that it came to me?It was a Madman's Dream—O ye good Gods!430If Envy knew her Mark, she would besetThe poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut,Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast,Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep,At their still howling North; and leave the Throne,The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plantThe Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State,On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep,And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinklethere.—"When shall I rest—O! let me, Night, [besiege]440Thy drowsy Ear with wailing, but be thou[Tenacious] of my Guilt; and with her BandLet everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue;The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leapMurder's Discretion, and with fearfull SpeechTo free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death:[Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man,The base assassin, gives, and after longsWith Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine,And I will yield all Hope of After-Life,450All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung—Elysium water'd with immortal Streams,And gifted with Eternity of peace,Balm-breathing Fields, and Bowers of soft repose,Walks amaranthine, and the pillowy Moss,On Banks where Harpers, to celestial StringsAttuning Nature, warble Notes of Love,The Anodyne to all-rebelliousThought.—

"To me no more

The Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace,

Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard;

And did I think a base and sordid Heap

Had in it the Ability to pluck

The Sting from Guilt, and smother how it came

In the vile Knowledge that it came to me?

It was a Madman's Dream—O ye good Gods!

430

If Envy knew her Mark, she would beset

The poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut,

Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast,

Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep,

At their still howling North; and leave the Throne,

The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plant

The Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State,

On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep,

And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinklethere.—

"When shall I rest—O! let me, Night, [besiege]

440

Thy drowsy Ear with wailing, but be thou

[Tenacious] of my Guilt; and with her Band

Let everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue;

The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leap

Murder's Discretion, and with fearfull Speech

To free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death:

[Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man,

The base assassin, gives, and after longs

With Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine,

And I will yield all Hope of After-Life,

450

All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung—

Elysium water'd with immortal Streams,

And gifted with Eternity of peace,

Balm-breathing Fields, and Bowers of soft repose,

Walks amaranthine, and the pillowy Moss,

On Banks where Harpers, to celestial Strings

Attuning Nature, warble Notes of Love,

The Anodyne to all-rebelliousThought.—

"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with theseForegoing pain eternal. Why then strive460From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care,When Life and Care may be remov'd together?—If I were not a very Coward Wretch,A very Shadow of the Man, a thingMade to feel Burdens of my Fear, and dragA hated Being on—'twere but to leapFrom this rough [Eminence], and all isdone—All that is done on this Side of the Bier.But there, surrounded with impervious Fog,Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come;470Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes,Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease,Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride,Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice,Slay in thy path; within thy SepulchreMould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs,Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity!But what comes then? O for a Seraph's EyeThat, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things,Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light,480And in its Immaterial Robe detectThe Spirit, stript of the encumbringClay."—

"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with these

Foregoing pain eternal. Why then strive

460

From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care,

When Life and Care may be remov'd together?—

If I were not a very Coward Wretch,

A very Shadow of the Man, a thing

Made to feel Burdens of my Fear, and drag

A hated Being on—'twere but to leap

From this rough [Eminence], and all isdone—

All that is done on this Side of the Bier.

But there, surrounded with impervious Fog,

Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come;

470

Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes,

Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease,

Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride,

Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice,

Slay in thy path; within thy Sepulchre

Mould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs,

Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity!

But what comes then? O for a Seraph's Eye

That, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things,

Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light,

480

And in its Immaterial Robe detect

The Spirit, stript of the encumbringClay."—

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;The rest we seek in our reflecting ViewOf Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,Meets—may he not?—the jovial Eye of Day,490With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek,Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,

Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;

The rest we seek in our reflecting View

Of Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.

How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!

Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,

Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,

Meets—may he not?—the jovial Eye of Day,

490

With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek,

Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the FatesCull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy StoresThat ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,But, take it patient with a sober hope,That soon Distress may vary his assault,Or soon the Welcome Tomb excludeDistress.—

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates

Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores

That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,

And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,

But, take it patient with a sober hope,

That soon Distress may vary his assault,

Or soon the Welcome Tomb excludeDistress.—

But see another Son of Night and Care,500A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold,Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feelsThe gentler Blows of Nature, and receivesThe Common Visit of Calamity.

But see another Son of Night and Care,

500

A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold,

Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.

Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feels

The gentler Blows of Nature, and receives

The Common Visit of Calamity.

[1779?]

The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said,How soon the happiest hours are fled!On wings of down they lately flew,But then their moments pass'd with you;And still with you could I but be,On downy wings they'd always flee.Say, did you not, the way you went,Feel the soft balm of gay content?Say, did you not all pleasures find,10Of which you left so few behind?I think you did: for well I knowMy parting prayer would make it so."May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake;Those, late in life, for nobler stillforsake—The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live,With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said,How soon the happiest hours are fled!On wings of down they lately flew,But then their moments pass'd with you;And still with you could I but be,On downy wings they'd always flee.

The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said,

How soon the happiest hours are fled!

On wings of down they lately flew,

But then their moments pass'd with you;

And still with you could I but be,

On downy wings they'd always flee.

Say, did you not, the way you went,Feel the soft balm of gay content?Say, did you not all pleasures find,10Of which you left so few behind?I think you did: for well I knowMy parting prayer would make it so.

Say, did you not, the way you went,

Feel the soft balm of gay content?

Say, did you not all pleasures find,

10

Of which you left so few behind?

I think you did: for well I know

My parting prayer would make it so.

"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake;Those, late in life, for nobler stillforsake—The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live,With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake;

Those, late in life, for nobler stillforsake—

The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live,

With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

London, February, 1780.

"The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time,"Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme.All big with vision, we despise the powersThat vulgar beings link to days andhours—Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts,And cut our lives in momentary parts.That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young.Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue:What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew,10How much in little space they have to do;To bid the busy world resign their breath,And beat each moment a soft call fordeath—To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man."Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can.It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait;It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate;It tells my heart the paralysing taleOf hours to come, when Misery must prevail.

"The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time,"

Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme.

All big with vision, we despise the powers

That vulgar beings link to days andhours—

Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts,

And cut our lives in momentary parts.

That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young.

Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue:

What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew,

10

How much in little space they have to do;

To bid the busy world resign their breath,

And beat each moment a soft call fordeath—

To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man."

Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can.

It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait;

It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate;

It tells my heart the paralysing tale

Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail.

London, February, 1780.

What vulgar title thus salutes the eye,The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy?The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse;The dull description of a scribbler's brain,And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain;A glowing chart of fairy-land estate,Romantic scenes, and visions out of date,Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers,10Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers?Not thus! too long have I in fancy woveMy slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love;Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant;Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again,And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain!"Gain by the Muse!"—alas! thou might'st as soonPluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon;As soon grow rich by ministerial nods,20As soon divine by dreaming of the gods,As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,Or preaching moral documents to youth;To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires,As Tully's flourishes to country squires;As simple truth within St. James's state,Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate."Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope!Who ever gain'd by poetry—but Pope?And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part;30No potent Dean commends thy head or heart!What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor?They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say?What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay?For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give?Or how did Johnson—how did Otway live?Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good,Their thin revénue never understood;40Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know;Like thee, repining at each puny blow;Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,Upon their wits—but with a larger stock.No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,With supple acts to supple minds repair;Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,And deck thee with the livery genteel;Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.50Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar sawGive nations language, and great cities law;Whom gods, they said—and surely gods—inspired,Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired,Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,But vassals are, who judges were before.Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste;Though still some good the trial may produce,To shape the useful to a nobler use.60Some few of these a statue and a stoneHas Fame decreed—but deals out bread to none.Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,And wily sergeants by the craft within:Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led,Starve by the means they use to gain their bread?70Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fateOf garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;Of children stinted in their dailymeal,—The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel.Portentous spoke that pity in my breast,And pleaded self—who ever pleads the best.No! thank my stars, my misery's all myown—To friends, to family, to foes unknown;Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine.80One trial past, let sober Reason speak:Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek?Rest here, if our relenting stars ordainA placid harbour from the stormy main;Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep,And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

What vulgar title thus salutes the eye,The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy?The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse;The dull description of a scribbler's brain,And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain;A glowing chart of fairy-land estate,Romantic scenes, and visions out of date,Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers,10Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers?

What vulgar title thus salutes the eye,

The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy?

The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,

For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse;

The dull description of a scribbler's brain,

And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain;

A glowing chart of fairy-land estate,

Romantic scenes, and visions out of date,

Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers,

10

Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers?

Not thus! too long have I in fancy woveMy slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love;Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant;Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again,And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain!"Gain by the Muse!"—alas! thou might'st as soonPluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon;As soon grow rich by ministerial nods,20As soon divine by dreaming of the gods,As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,Or preaching moral documents to youth;To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires,As Tully's flourishes to country squires;As simple truth within St. James's state,Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate."Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope!Who ever gain'd by poetry—but Pope?And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part;30No potent Dean commends thy head or heart!What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor?They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say?What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay?For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give?Or how did Johnson—how did Otway live?Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good,Their thin revénue never understood;40Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know;Like thee, repining at each puny blow;Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,Upon their wits—but with a larger stock.No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,With supple acts to supple minds repair;Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,And deck thee with the livery genteel;Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.50Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar sawGive nations language, and great cities law;Whom gods, they said—and surely gods—inspired,Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired,Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,But vassals are, who judges were before.Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste;Though still some good the trial may produce,To shape the useful to a nobler use.60Some few of these a statue and a stoneHas Fame decreed—but deals out bread to none.Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,And wily sergeants by the craft within:Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led,Starve by the means they use to gain their bread?70Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fateOf garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;Of children stinted in their dailymeal,—The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel.Portentous spoke that pity in my breast,And pleaded self—who ever pleads the best.No! thank my stars, my misery's all myown—To friends, to family, to foes unknown;Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine.80One trial past, let sober Reason speak:Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek?Rest here, if our relenting stars ordainA placid harbour from the stormy main;Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep,And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

Not thus! too long have I in fancy wove

My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love;

Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,

And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant;

Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again,

And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain!

"Gain by the Muse!"—alas! thou might'st as soon

Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon;

As soon grow rich by ministerial nods,

20

As soon divine by dreaming of the gods,

As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,

Or preaching moral documents to youth;

To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires,

As Tully's flourishes to country squires;

As simple truth within St. James's state,

Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate.

"Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope!

Who ever gain'd by poetry—but Pope?

And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part;

30

No potent Dean commends thy head or heart!

What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor?

They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,

They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.

What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say?

What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay?

For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give?

Or how did Johnson—how did Otway live?

Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good,

Their thin revénue never understood;

40

Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know;

Like thee, repining at each puny blow;

Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,

Upon their wits—but with a larger stock.

No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,

With supple acts to supple minds repair;

Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,

And deck thee with the livery genteel;

Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,

Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.

50

Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw

Give nations language, and great cities law;

Whom gods, they said—and surely gods—inspired,

Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired,

Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,

But vassals are, who judges were before.

Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,

As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste;

Though still some good the trial may produce,

To shape the useful to a nobler use.

60

Some few of these a statue and a stone

Has Fame decreed—but deals out bread to none.

Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,

Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;

Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,

Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:

Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,

And wily sergeants by the craft within:

Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led,

Starve by the means they use to gain their bread?

70

Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fate

Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;

Of children stinted in their dailymeal,—

The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel.

Portentous spoke that pity in my breast,

And pleaded self—who ever pleads the best.

No! thank my stars, my misery's all myown—

To friends, to family, to foes unknown;

Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,

Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine.

80

One trial past, let sober Reason speak:

Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek?

Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain

A placid harbour from the stormy main;

Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep,

And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

[1780.]

Back to IndexNext