Mild Peace! from Albion's fairest bowersPure spirit! cull with snowy hands,The buds that drink the morning showers,And bind the realms in flow'ry bands:Thy smiles the angry passions chase,Thy glance is pleasure's native grace;Around thy form th' exulting virtues move,And thy soft call awakes the strain of love.
Bless, all ye powers! the patriot nameThat courts fair Peace, thy gentle stay;Ah! gild with glory's light, his fame,And glad his life with pleasure's ray!While, like th' affrighted dove, thy formStill shrinks, and fears some latent storm,His cares shall sooth thy panting soul to rest,And spread thy vernal couch on Albion's breast.
Ye, who have mourn'd the parting hour,Which love in darker horrors drew,Ye, who have vainly tried to pourWith falt'ring voice the last adieu!When the pale cheek, the bursting sigh,The soul that hov'ring in the eye,Express'd the pains it felt, the pains it fear'd—Ah! paint the youth's return, by grief endear'd.
Yon hoary form, with aspect mild,Deserted kneels by anguish prest,And seeks from Heav'n his long-lost child,To smooth the path that leads to rest!—He comes!—to close the sinking eye,To catch the faint, expiring sigh;A moment's transport stays the fleeting breath,And sooths the soul on the pale verge of death.
No more the sanguine wreath shall twineOn the lost hero's early tomb,But hung around thy simple shrineFair Peace! shall milder glories bloom.Lo! commerce lifts her drooping headTriumphal, Thames! from thy deep bed;And bears to Albion, on her sail sublime,The riches Nature gives each happier clime.
She fearless prints the polar snows,Mid' horrors that reject the day;Along the burning line she glows,Nor shrinks beneath the torrid ray:She opens India's glitt'ring mine,Where streams of light reflected shine;Wafts the bright gems to Britain's temp'rate vale,And breathes her odours on the northern gale.
While from the far-divided shoreWhere liberty unconquer'd roves,Her ardent glance shall oft' exploreThe parent isle her spirit loves;Shall spread upon the western main—Harmonious concord's golden chain,While stern on Gallia's ever hostile strandFrom Albion's cliff she pours her daring band.
Yet hide the sabre's hideous glareWhose edge is bath'd in streams of blood,The lance that quivers high in air,And falling drinks a purple flood;For Britain! fear shall seize thy foes,While freedom in thy senate glows,While peace shall smile upon thy cultur'd plain,With grace and beauty her attendant train.
Enchanting visions sooth my sight—The finer arts no more oppress'd,Benignant source of pure delight!On her soft bosom love to rest.While each discordant sound expires,Strike harmony! strike all thy wires;The fine vibrations of the spirit moveAnd touch the springs of rapture and of love.
Bright painting's living forms shall rise;And wrapt in Ugolino's woe[A],Shall Reynolds wake unbidden sighs;And Romney's graceful pencil flow,That Nature's look benign pourtrays[B],When to her infant Shakspeare's gazeThe partial nymph "unveil'd her awful face,"And bade his "colours clear" her features trace.
[A] "Ugolino's woe"—a celebrated picture by Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, takenfrom DANTE.[B] "Nature's look benign pourtrays"—a subject Mr. ROMNEY has takenfrom GRAY'S Progress of Poesy.
And poesy! thy deep-ton'd shellThe heart shall sooth, the spirit fire,And all the passion sink, or swell,In true accordance to the lyre.Oh! ever wake its heav'nly sound,Oh! call thy lovely visions round;Strew the soft path of peace with fancy's flowers,With raptures bless the soul that feels thy powers.
While Hayley wakes thy magic string,His shades shall no rude sound profane,But stillness on her folded wing,Enamour'd catch his soothing strain:Tho' genius breathe its purest flame—Around his lyre's enchanting frame;Tho' music there in every period roll,More warm his friendship, and more pure his soul.
While taste refines a polish'd age,While her ownHurdshall bid us traceThe lustre of the finish'd pageWhere symmetry sheds perfect grace;With sober and collected rayTo fancy, judgment shall displayThe faultless model, where accomplish'd artFrom nature draws a charm that leads the heart.
Th' historic Muse illumes the mazeFor ages veil'd in gloomy night,Where empire with meridian blazeOnce trod ambition's giddy height:Tho' headlong from the dang'rous steepIts pageants roll'd with wasteful sweep,Her tablet still records the deeds of fameAnd wakes the patriot's, and the hero's flame.
While meek philosophy exploresCreation's vast stupendous round;Sublime her piercing vision soars,And bursts the system's distant bound.Lo! mid' the dark deep void of spaceA rushing world[A] her eye can trace!—It moves majestic in its ample sphere,Sheds its long light, and rolls its ling'ring year.
[A] Alluding to Mr. Herschel's wonderful discoveries, and particularlyto his discovery of a new planet called the Georgium Sidus.
Ah! still diffuse thy genial ray,Fair Science, on my Albion's plain!And still thy grateful homage payWhere Montagu has rear'd her fane;Where eloquence and wit entwineTheir attic wreath around her shrine;And still, while Learning shall unfold her store,With their bright signet stamp the classic ore.
Enlight'ning Peace! for thine the hoursThat wisdom decks in moral grace,And thine invention's fairy powers,The charm improv'd of nature's face;Propitious come! in silence laidBeneath thy olive's grateful shade,Pour the mild bliss that sooths the tuneful mind,And in thy zone the hostile spirit bind.
While Albion on her parent deepShall rest, may glory light her shore,May honour there his vigils keepTill time shall wing its course no more;Till angels wrap the spheres in fire,Till earth and yon fair orbs expire,While chaos mounted on the wasting flame,Shall spread eternal shade o'er nature's frame.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,And the free maids, that weave their thread with bonesDo use to chant it. It is silly, sooth,And dallies with the innocence of love,Like the old age.SHAKSPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT.
Where the pure Derwent's waters glideAlong their mossy bed,Close by the river's verdant side,A castle rear'd its head.
The ancient pile by time is raz'd,Where Gothic trophies frown'd;Where once the gilded armour blaz'd,And banners wav'd around.
There liv'd a chief, well known to fame,A bold advent'rous knight;Renown'd for victory; his nameIn glory's annals bright.
What time in martial pomp he ledHis gallant, chosen train;The foe, who oft had conquer'd, fled,Indignant fled, the plain.
Yet milder virtues he possest,And gentler passions felt;For in his calm and yielding breastThe soft affections dwelt.
No rugged toils the heart could steel,By nature form'd to proveWhate'er the tender mind can feel,In friendship, or in love.
He lost the partner of his breast,Who sooth'd each rising care;And ever charm'd the pains to restShe ever lov'd to share.
From solitude he hop'd relief.And this lone mansion sought,To cherish there his faithful grief,To nurse the tender thought.
There, to his bosom fondly dear,An infant daughter smil'd,And oft the mourner's falling tearBedew'd his Emma's child.
The tear, as o'er the babe he hung,Would tremble in his eye;While blessings, falt'ring on his tongue,Were breath'd but in a sigh.
Tho' time could never heal the wound,It sooth'd the hopeless pain;And in his child he thought he foundHis Emma liv'd again.
Soft, as the dews of morn arise,And on the pale flower gleam;So soft Eltruda's melting eyesWith love and pity beam.
As drest in charms, the lonely flowerSmiles in the desert vale;With beauty gilds the morning hour,And scents the evening gale;
So liv'd in solitude, unseen,This lovely, peerless maid;So grac'd the wild, sequester'd scene,And blossom'd in the shade.
Yet love could pierce the lone recess,For there he likes to dwell;To leave the noisy crowd, and blessWith happiness the cell.
To wing his sure resistless dart,Where all its force is known;And rule the undivided heartDespotic, and alone.
Young Edwin charm'd her gentle breast,Tho' scanty all his store;No hoarded treasures he possest,Yet he could boast of more.
For he could boast the lib'ral heart;And honour, sense, and truth,Unwarp'd by vanity or art,Adorn'd the gen'rous youth.
The maxims of a servile age,The mean, the selfish care,The sordid views, that now engageThe mercenary pair;
Whom riches can unite, or part,To them were still unknown;For then the sympathetic heartWas join'd by love alone.
They little knew, that wealth had powerTo make the constant rove;They little knew the weighty dowerCould add one bliss to love.
Her virtues every charm improv'd,Or made those charms more dear;For surely virtue to be lov'dHas only to appear.
Domestic bliss, unvex'd by strife,Beguil'd the circling hours;She, who on every path of lifeCan shed perennial flowers.
Eltruda, o'er the distant mead,Would haste, at closing day,And to the bleating mother leadThe lamb, that chanc'd to stray.
For the bruis'd insect on the waste,A sigh would heave her breast;And oft her careful hand replac'dThe linnet's falling nest.
To her, sensations calm as theseCould sweet delight impart;These simple pleasures most can pleaseThe uncorrupted heart.
Full oft with eager step she fliesTo cheer the roofless cot,Where the lone widow breathes her sighs,And wails her desp'rate lot.
Their weeping mother's trembling knees,Her lisping infants clasp;Their meek, imploring look she sees,She feels their tender grasp.
Wild throbs her aching bosom swell—They mark the bursting sigh,(Nature has form'd the soul to feel)They weep, unknowing why.
Her hands the lib'ral boon impart,And much her tear availsTo raise the mourner's drooping heart,Where feeble utterance fails.
On the pale cheek, where hung the tearOf agonizing woe,She bids the cheerful bloom appear,The tear of rapture flow.
Thus on soft wing the moments flew,(Tho' love implor'd their stay)While some new virtue rose to view,And mark'd each fleeting day.
The youthful poet's soothing dreamOf golden ages past;The muse's fond, ideal theme,Was realiz'd at last.
But vainly here we hope, that blissUnchanging will endure;Ah, in a world so vain as this,What heart can rest secure!
For now arose the fatal dayFor civil discord fam'd;WhenYork, fromLancaster'sproud sway,The regal sceptre claim'd.
Each moment now the horrors broughtOf desolating rage;The fam'd atchievements now were wrought,That swell th' historic page.
The good old Albert pants, againTo dare the hostile field,The cause of Henry to maintain,For him, the launce to wield.
But oh, a thousand gen'rous ties,That bind the hero's soul;A thousand tender claims arise,And Edwin's breast controul.
Tho' passion pleads in Henry's cause,And Edwin's heart would sway;Yet honour's stern, imperious laws,The brave will still obey.
Oppress'd with many an anxious care,Full oft Eltruda sigh'd;Complaining that relentless warShould those she lov'd—divide.
At length the parting morn arose,In gloomy vapours drest;The pensive maiden's sorrow flows,And terror heaves her breast.
A thousand pangs the father feels,A thousand rising fears,While clinging at his feet she kneels,And bathes them with her tears.
A pitying tear bedew'd his cheek,—From his lov'd child he flew;O'erwhelm'd; the father could not speak,He could not say—"adieu!"
Arm'd for the field, her loverHe saw her pallid look,And trembling seize her drooping frame,While fault'ring, thus he spoke:
"This cruel tenderness but wounds"The heart it means to bless;"Those falling tears, those mournful sounds"Increase the vain distress."—
"If fate, she answer'd, has decreed"That on the hostile plain,"My Edwin's faithful heart must bleed,"And swell the heap of slain;
"Trust me, my love, I'll not complain,"I'll shed no fruitless tear;"Not one weak drop my cheek shall stain,"Or tell what passes here!
"Oh, let thy fate of others claim"A tear, a mournful sigh;"I'll only murmur thy dear name—Call on my love—and die!"
But ah! how vain for words to tellThe pang their bosoms prov'd;They only will conceive it well,They only, who have lov'd.
The timid muse forbears to sayWhat laurels Edwin gain'd;How Albert long renown'd, that dayHis ancient fame maintain'd.
The bard, who feels congenial fire,May sing of martial strife;And with heroic sounds, inspireThe gen'rous scorn of life;
But ill the theme would suit her reed,Who, wand'ring thro' the grove,Forgets the conq'ring hero's meed,And gives a tear to love.
Tho' long the closing day was fled,The fight they still maintain;While night a deeper horror shedAlong the darken'd plain.
To Albert's breast an arrow flew,He felt a mortal wound;The drops that warm'd his heart, bedewThe cold, and flinty ground.
The foe, who aim'd the fatal dart,Now heard his dying sighs;Compassion touch'd his yielding heart,To Albert's aid he flies.
While round the chief his arms he cast,While oft he deeply sigh'd,And seem'd, as if he mourn'd the past,Old Albert faintly cried;
"Tho' nature heaves these parting groans,"Without complaint I die;"Yet one dear care my heart still owns,"Still feels one tender tie,
"For York, a warriour known to fame,"Uplifts the hostile spear;"Edwin the blooming hero's name,"To Albert's bosom dear.
"Oh, tell him my expiring sigh,"Say my last words implor'd"To my despairing child to fly,"To her he once ador'd"—
He spoke! but oh, what mournful strain,Whose force the soul can melt,What moving numbers shall explainThe pang that Edwin felt?
The pang that Edwin now reveal'd—For he the warriour prest,(Whom the dark shades of night conceal'd)Close to his throbbing breast.
"Fly, fly he cried, my touch profane—"Oh, how the rest impart?"Rever'd old man!—could Edwin stain"With Albert's blood the dart!"
His languid eyes he meekly rais'd,Which seem'd for ever clos'd;On the pale youth with pity gaz'd,And then in death repos'd.
"I'll go, the hapless Edwin said,"And breathe a last adieu!"And with the drops despair will shed,"My mournful love bedew.
"I'll go to her for ever dear,"To catch her melting sigh,"To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,"And at her feet to die."—
And as to her for ever dearThe frantic mourner flew,To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,And breathe a last adieu;
Appall'd his troubled fancy seesEltruda's anguish flow;And hears in every passing breeze,The plaintive sound of woe.
Meanwhile the anxious maid, whose tearsIn vain would heav'n implore;Of Albert's fate despairing hears,But yet had heard no more.
She saw her much-lov'd Edwin near,She saw, and deeply sigh'd;Her cheek was bath'd in many a tear;At length she faintly cried;
"Unceasing grief this heart must prove,"Its dearest ties are broke;—"Oh, say, what ruthless arm, my love,"Could aim the fatal stroke?
"Could not thy hand, my Edwin, thine,"Have warded off the blow?"For oh, he was not only mine,"He wasthyfather too!"
No more the youth could pangs endureHis lips could never tell;From death he vainly hop'd a cure,As cold, on earth he fell.
She flew, she gave her sorrows vent,A thousand tears she pour'd;Her mournful voice, her moving plaint,The youth to life restor'd.
"Why does thy bosom throb with pain"She cried, my Edwin, speak;"Or sure, unable to sustain"This grief, my heart will break.
"Yes, it will break—he fault'ring cried,"For me will life resign—"Then trembling know thy father died—"And know the guilt was mine!"
"It is enough," with short, quick breath,Exclaim'd the fainting maid;She spoke no more, but seem'd from deathTo look for instant aid.
In plaintive accents, Edwin cries,"And have I murder'd thee?"To other worlds thy spirit flies,"And mine this stroke shall free."
His hand the lifted weapon grasp'd,The steel he firmly prest:When wildly she arose, and clasp'dHer lover to her breast.
"Methought, she cried with panting breath,"My Edwin talk'd of peace;"I knew 'twas only found in death,"And fear'd that sad release.
"I clasp him still! 'twas but a dream—"Help yon wide wound to close,"From which a father's spirits stream,"A father's life-blood flows.
"But see, from thee he shrinks, nor would"Be blasted by thy touch;—"Ah, tho' my Edwin spilt thy blood,"Yet once he lov'd thee much.
"My father, yet in pity stay!—"I see his white beard wave;"A spirit beckons him away,"And points to yonder grave.
"Alas, my love, I trembling hear"A father's last adieu;"I see, I see, the falling tear"His wrinkled cheek bedew.
"He's gone, and here his ashes sleep—"I do not heave a sigh,"His child a father does not weep—"For, ah, my brain is dry!
"But come, together let us rove,"At the pale hour of night;"When the moon wand'ring thro' the grove,"Shall pour her faintest light.
"We'll gather from the rosy bow'r"The fairest wreaths that bloom:"We'll cull, my love, each op'ning flower,"To deck his hallow'd tomb.
"We'll thither, from the distant dale,"A weeping willow bear;"And plant a lily of the vale,"A drooping lily there.
"We'll shun the face of glaring day,"Eternal silence keep;"Thro' the dark wood together stray,"And only live to weep.
"But hark, 'tis come—the fatal time"When, Edwin, we must part;"Some angel tells me 'tis a crime"To hold thee to my heart.
"My father's spirit hovers near—"Alas, he comes to chide;"Is there no means, my Edwin dear,"The fatal deed to hide?
"Yet, Edwin, if th' offence be thine,"Too soon I can forgive;"But, oh, the guilt would all be mine,"Could I endure to live.
"Farewel, my love, for, oh, I faint,"Of pale despair I die;"And see, that hoary, murder'd saint"Descends from yon blue sky.
"Poor, weak old man! he comes my love,"To lead to heav'n the way;"He knows not heaven will joyless prove,"If Edwin here must stay!"—
"Oh, who can bear this pang!" he cry'd,Then to his bosom prestThe dying maid, who piteous sigh'd,And sunk to endless rest.
He saw her eyes for ever close,He heard her latest sigh,And yet no tear of anguish flowsFrom his distracted eye.
He feels within his shiv'ring veins,A mortal chillness rise;Her pallid corse he feebly strains—And on her bosom dies.
* * * * *
No longer may their hapless lotThe mournful muse engage;She wipes away the tears, that blotThe melancholy page.
For heav'n in love, dissolves the tiesThat chain the spirit here;And distant far for ever fliesThe blessing held most dear;
To bid the suff'ring soul aspireA higher bliss to prove;To wake the pure, refin'd desire,The hope that rests above!—
While thee I seek, protecting Power!Be my vain wishes still'd;And may this consecrated hourWith better hopes be fill'd.
Thy love the powers of thought bestow'd,To thee my thoughts would soar;Thy mercy o'er my life has flow'd—That mercy I adore.
In each event of life, how clear,Thy ruling hand I see;Each blessing to my soul more dear,Because conferr'd by thee.
In every joy that crowns my days,In every pain I bear,My heart shall find delight in praise,Or seek relief in prayer.
When gladness wings my favour'd hour,Thy love my thoughts shall fill:Resign'd, when storms of sorrow lower,My soul shall meet thy will.
My lifted eye without a tearThe lowring storm shall see;My stedfast heart shall know no fear—That heart will rest on Thee!
The day is thine, the night also is thine; thou hast prepared thelight and the sun.
Thou hast set all the borders of the earth; thou hast made summer and winter.
PSALM lxxiv. 16, 17.
My God! all nature owns thy sway,Thou giv'st the night, and thou the day!When all thy lov'd creation wakes,When morning, rich in lustre breaks,And bathes in dew the op'ning flower,To thee we owe her fragrant hour;And when she pours her choral song,Her melodies to thee belong!
Or when, in paler tints array'd,The evening slowly spreads her shade;That soothing shade, that grateful gloom,Can more than day's enliv'ning bloomStill every fond, and vain desire,And calmer, purer, thoughts inspire;From earth the pensive spirit free,And lead the soften'd heart to Thee.
In every scene thy hands have drest,In every form by thee imprest,Upon the mountain's awful head,Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread;In every note that swells the gale,Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,The cavern's depth, or echoing grove,A voice is heard of praise, and love.
As o'er thy work the seasons roll,And sooth with change of bliss, the soul,Oh never may their smiling trainPass o'er the human scene in vain!But oft as on the charm we gaze,Attune the wond'ring soul to praise;And be the joys that most we prize,The joys that from thy favour rise!
Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee.
ISAIAH xlix. 15.
Heaven speaks! Oh Nature listen and rejoice!Oh spread from pole to pole this gracious voice!"Say every breast of human frame, that proves"The boundless force with which a parent loves;"Say, can a mother from her yearning heart"Bid the soft image of her child depart?"She! whom strong instinct arms with strength to bear"All forms of ill, to shield that dearest care;"She! who with anguish stung, with madness wild,"Will rush on death to save her threaten'd child;"All selfish feelings banish'd from her breast,"Her life one aim to make another's blest."When her vex'd infant to her bosom clings,"When round her neck his eager arms he flings;"Breathes to her list'ning soul his melting sigh,"And lifts suffus'd with tears his asking eye!"Will she for all ambition can attain,"The charms of pleasure, or the lures of gain,"Betray strong Nature's feelings, will she prove"Cold to the claims of duty, and of love?"But should the mother from her yearning heart"Bid the soft image of her child depart;"When the vex'd infant to her bosom clings"When round her neck his eager arms he flings;"Should she unpitying hear his melting sigh,"And view unmov'd the tear that fills his eye;"Should she for all ambition can attain,"The charms of pleasure, or the lures of gain,"Betray strong Nature's feelings—should she prove"Cold to the claims of duty, and of love!"Yet never will the God, whose word gave birth"To yon illumin'd orbs, and this fair earth;"Who thro' the boundless depths of trackless space"Bade new-wak'd beauty spread each perfect grace;"Yet when he form'd the vast stupendous whole,"Shed his best bounties on the human soul;"Which reason's light illumes, which friendship warms,"Which pity softens, and which virtue charms;"Which feels the pure affections gen'rous glow,"Shares others joy, and bleeds for others woe—"Oh never will the gen'ral Father prove"Of man forgetful, man the child of love!"When all those planets in their ample spheresHave wing'd their course, and roll'd their destin'd years;When the vast sun shall veil his golden lightDeep in the gloom of everlasting night;When wild, destructive flames shall wrap the skies,When Chaos triumphs, and when Nature dies;Man shall alone the wreck of worlds survive,Midst falling spheres, immortal man shall live!The voice which bade the last dread thunders roll,Shall whisper to the good, and cheer their soul.God shall himself his favour'd creature guideWhere living waters pour their blissful tide,Where the enlarg'd, exulting, wond'ring mindShall soar, from weakness and from guilt refin'd;Where perfect knowledge, bright with cloudless rays,Shall gild eternity's unmeasur'd days;Where friendship, unembitter'd by distrust,Shall in immortal bands unite the just;Devotion rais'd to rapture breathe her strain,And love in his eternal triumph reign!
Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.
MATT. vii. 12.
Precept divine! to earth in mercy given,O sacred rule of action, worthy heaven!Whose pitying love ordain'd the bless'd commandTo bind our nature in a firmer band;Enforce each human suff'rer's strong appeal,And teach the selfish breast what others feel;Wert thou the guide of life, mankind might knowA soft exemption from the worst of woe;No more the powerful would the weak oppress,But tyrants learn the luxury to bless;No more would slav'ry bind a hopeless train,Of human victims, in her galling chain;Mercy the hard, the cruel heart would moveTo soften mis'ry by the deeds of Jove;And av'rice from his hoarded treasures giveUnask'd, the liberal boon, that want might live!The impious tongue of falshood then would ceaseTo blast, with dark suggestions, virtue's peace;No more would spleen, or passion banish restAnd plant a pang in fond affection's breast;By one harsh word, one alter'd look, destroyHer peace, and wither every op'ning joy;Scarce can her tongue the captious wrong explain,The slight offence which gives so deep a pain!Th' affected ease that slights her starting tear,The words whose coldness kills from lips so dear;The hand she loves, alone can point the dart,Whose hidden sting could wound no other heart—These, of all pains the sharpest we endure,The breast which now inflicts, would spring to cure.—No more deserted genius then, would flyTo breathe in solitude his hopeless sigh;No more would Fortune's partial smile debaseThe spirit, rich in intellectual grace;Who views unmov'd from scenes where pleasures bloom,The flame of genius sunk in mis'ry's gloom;The soul heav'n form'd to soar, by want deprest,Nor heeds the wrongs that pierce a kindred breast.—Thou righteous Law! whose clear and useful lightSheds on the mind a ray divinely bright;Condensing in one rule whate'er the sageHas proudly taught, in many a labour'd page;Bid every heart thy hallow'd voice revere,To justice sacred, and to nature dear!
An Epistle to Dr. Moore, Author of a View of Society and Manners inFrance, Switzerland, and Germany.
Peru.
Sonnet to Mrs. Siddons.
Queen Mary's Complaint.
Euphelia, an Elegy.
Sonnet to Expression.
Whether dispensing hope, and easeTo the pale victim of disease,Or in the social crowd you sit,And charm the group with sense and wit,Moore's partial ear will not disdainAttention to my artless strain.
I mean no giddy heights to climb,And vainly toil to be sublime;While every line with labour wrought,Is swell'd with tropes for want of thought:Nor shall I call the Muse to shedCastalian drops upon my head;Or send me from Parnassian bowersA chaplet wove of fancy's flowers.At present all such aid I slight—My heart instructs me how to write.
That softer glide my hours along,That still my griefs are sooth'd by song,That still my careless numbers flowTo your successful skill I owe;You, who when sickness o'er me hung,And languor had my lyre unstrung,With treasures of the healing art,With friendship's ardor at your heart,From sickness snatch'd her early preyAnd bade fair health—the goddess gay,With sprightly air, and winning grace,With laughing eye, and rosy face,Accustom'd when you call to hear,On her light pinion hasten near,And swift restore with influence kind,My weaken'd frame, my drooping mind.
With like benignity, and zeal,The mental malady to heal,To stop the fruitless, hopeless tear,The life you lengthen'd, render dear,To charm by fancy's powerful vein,"The written troubles of the brain,"From gayer scenes, compassion ledYour frequent footsteps to my shed:And knowing that the Muses' artHas power to ease an aching heart,You sooth'd that heart with partial praise,And I before too fond of lays,While others pant for solid gain,Grasp at a laurel sprig—in vain—You could not chill with frown severeThe madness to my soul so dear;For when Apollo came to storeYour mind with salutary lore,The god I ween, was pleas'd to dartA ray from Pindus on your heart;Your willing bosom caught the fire,And still is partial to the lyre.
But now from you at distance plac'dWhereEppingspreads a woody waste;Tho' unrestrain'd my fancy flies,And views in air her fabrics rise,And paints with brighter bloom the flowers,Bids Dryads people all the bowers,And Echoes speak from every hill,And Naiads pour each little rill,And bands of Sylphs with pride unfoldTheir azure plumage mix'd with gold,My heart remembers with a sighThat you are now no longer nigh.The magic scenes no more engage,I quit them for your various page;Where, with delight I traverse o'erThe foreign paths you trod before:Ah not in vain those paths you trac'd,With heart to feel, with powers to taste!
Amid the ever-jocund trainWho sport upon the banks of Seine,In your light Frenchman pleas'd I seeHis nation's gay epitome;Whose careless hours glide smooth along,Who charms MISFORTUNE with a song.She comes not as on Albion's plain,With death, and madness in her train;For here, her keenest sharpest dartMay raze, but cannot pierce the heart.Yet he whose spirit light as airCalls life a jest, and laughs at care,Feels the strong force of pity's voice,And bids afflicted love rejoice;Love, such as fills the poet's pageLove, such as form'd the golden age—FANCHON, thy grateful look I see—I share thy joys—I weep with thee—What eye has read without a tearA tale to nature's heart so dear!
There, dress'd in each sublimer graceGeneva's happy scene I trace;Her lake, from whose broad bosom thrownRushes the loud impetuous Rhone,And bears his waves with mazy sweepIn rapid torrents to the deep—Oh for a Muse less weak of wing,High on yon Alpine steeps to spring,And tell in verse what they discloseAs well as you have told in prose;How wrapt in snows and icy showers,Eternal winter, horrid lowersUpon the mountain's awful brow,While purple summer blooms below;How icy structures rear their formsPale products of ten thousand storms;Where the full sun-beam powerless fallsOn crystal arches, columns, walls,Yet paints the proud fantastic heightWith all the various hues of light.Why is no poet call'd to birthIn such a favour'd spot of earth?How high his vent'rous Muse might rise,And proudly scorn to ask suppliesFrom the Parnassian hill, the fireOf verse,Mont Blancmight well inspire.O SWITZERLAND! how oft these eyesDesire to view thy mountains rise;How fancy loves thy steeps to climb,So wild, so solemn, so sublime;And o'er thy happy vales to roam,Where freedom rears her humble home.Ah, how unlike each social graceWhich binds in love thy manly race,The HOLLANDERS phlegmatic easeToo cold to love, too dull to please;Who feel no sympathetic woe,Nor sympathetic joy bestow,But fancy words are only madeTo serve the purposes of trade,And when they neither buy, nor sell,Think silence answers quite as well.
Now in his happiest light is seenVOLTAIRE, when evening chas'd his spleen,And plac'd at supper with his friends,The playful flash of wit descends—Of names renown'd you clearly shewThe finer traits we wish to know—To Prussia's martial clime I strayAnd see how FREDERIC spends the day;Behold him rise at dawning lightTo form his troops for future fight;Thro' the firm ranks his glances pierce,Where discipline, with aspect fierce,And unrelenting breast, is seenDegrading man to a machine;My female heart delights to turnWhere GREATNESS seems not quite so stern:Mild on th' IMPERIAL BROW she glows,And lives to soften human woes.
But lo! on ocean's stormy breastI see majestic VENICE rest;While round her spires the billows rave,Inverted splendours gild the wave.Fair liberty has rear'd with toil,Her fabric on this marshy soil.She fled those banks with scornful pride,Where classic Po devolves her tide:Yet here her unrelenting lawsAre deaf to nature's, freedom's cause.Unjust! they seal'd FOSCARI'S doom,An exile in his early bloom.And he, who bore the rack unmov'd,Divided far from those he lov'd,From all the social hour can give,From all that make it bliss to live,These worst of ills refus'd to bear,And died, the victim of despair.
An eye of wonder let me raise,While on imperial ROME I gaze.But oh! no more in glory brightShe fills with awe th' astonish'd sight:Her mould'ring fanes in ruin trac'd,Lie scatter'd onCampania'swaste.Nor only these—alas! we findThe wreck involves the human mind:The lords of earth now drag a chainBeneath a pontiff's feeble reign;The soil that gave aCatobirthNo longer yields heroic worth,Whose image lives but on the bust,Or consecrates the medal's rust:Yet if no heart of modern frameGlows with the antient hero's flame,The direArena'shorrid stageIs banish'd from this milder age;Those savage virtues too are fledAt which the human feelings bled.
While now atVirgil'stomb you bend,O let me on your steps attend!Kneel on the turf that blossoms round,And kiss, with lips devout, the ground.I feel how oft his magic powersShed pleasure on my lonely hours.Tho' hid from me the classic tongue,In which his heav'nly strain was sung,InDryden'stuneful lines, I pierceThe shaded beauties of his verse.
Bright be the rip'ning beam, that shinesFair FLORENCE, on thy purple vines!And ever pure the fanning galeThat pants in Arno's myrtle vale!Here, when the barb'rous northern race,Dire foes to every muse, and grace,Had doom'd the banish'd arts to roamThe lovely wand'rers found a home;And shed roundLeo'striple crownUnfading rays of bright renown.Who e'er has felt his bosom glowWith knowledge, or the wish to know;Has e'er from books with transport caughtThe rich accession of a thought;Perceiv'd with conscious pride, he feelsThe sentiment which taste reveals;Let all who joys like these possess,Thy vale, enchanting FLORENCE bless—O had the arts benignant lightNo more reviv'd from Gothic night,Earth had been one vast scene of strife,Or one drear void had sadden'd life;Lost had been all the sage has taught,The painter's sketch, the poet's thought,The force of sense, the charm of wit,Nor ever had your page been writ;That soothing page, which care beguiles,And dresses truth in fancy's smiles:For not with hostile step you prestEach foreign soil, a thankless guest!While travellers who want the skillTo mark the shapes of good and ill,With vacant stare thro' Europe range,And deem all bad, because 'tis strange;Thro' varying modes of life, you traceThe finer trait, the latent grace,And where thro' every vain disguiseYou view the human follies rise,The stroke of irony you dartWith force to mend, not wound the heart.While intellectual objects shareYour mind's extensive view, you bear,Quite free from spleen's incumb'ring load,The little evils on the road—So, while the path of life I tread,A path to me with briers spread;Let me its tangled mazes spyLike you, with gay, good-humour'd eye;Nor at those thorny tracts repine,The treasure of your friendship, mine.
Grange Hill, Essex.
The following Poem is formed on a very singular and sublime idea. A young gentleman, possessed of an uncommon genius for drawing, on visiting the Tower of London, passing one door of a singular construction, asked what apartment it led to, and expressed a desire to have it opened. The person who shewed the place shook his head, and answered, "Heaven knows what is within that door—it has been shut for ages."—This answer made small impression on the other hearers; but a very deep one on the imagination of this youth. Gracious Heaven! an apartment shut up for ages—and in the Tower!
"Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame,By many a foul and midnight murder fed."
Genius builds on a slight foundation, and rears beautiful structures on "the baseless fabric of a vision." The above transient hint dwelt on the young man's fancy, and conjured into his memory all the murders which history records to have been committed in the Tower; Henry the Sixth, the Duke of Clarence, the two young princes, sons of Edward the Fourth, Sir Thomas Overbury, &c. He supposes all their ghosts assembled in this unexplored apartment, and to these his fertile imagination has added several others. One of the spectres raises an immense pall of black velvet, and discovers the remains of a murdered royal family, whose story is lost in the lapse of time.—The gloomy wildness of these images struck my imagination so forcibly, that endeavouring to catch the fire of the youth's pencil, this Fragment was produced.
Rise, winds of night! relentless tempests rise!Rush from the troubled clouds, and o'er me roll;In this chill pause a deeper horror lies,A wilder fear appals my shudd'ring soul.—'Twas on this day[A], this hour accurst,That Nature starting from reposeHeard the dire shrieks of murder burst—From infant innocence they rose,And shook these solemn towers!—I shudd'ring pass that fatal roomFor ages wrapt in central gloom;—I shudd'ring pass that iron doorWhich Fate perchance unlocks no more;Death, smear'd with blood, o'er the dark portal lowers.
[A] The anniversary of the murder of Edward the Fifth, and his brotherRichard, Duke of York.
How fearfully my step resoundsAlong these lonely bounds:—Spare, savage blast! the taper's quiv'ring fires,Deep in these gath'ring shades its flame expires.Ye host of heaven! the door recedes—It mocks my grasp—what unseen handsHave burst its iron bands?No mortal force this gate unbarr'dWhere danger lives, which terrors guard—Dread powers! its screaming hinges closeOn this dire scene of impious deeds—My feet are fix'd!—Dismay has boundMy step on this polluted ground—But lo! the pitying moon, a line of lightAthwart the horrid darkness dimly throws,And from yon grated window chases night.—
Ye visions that before me roll,That freeze my blood, that shake my soul!Are ye the phantoms of a dream?Pale spectres! are ye what ye seem?They glide more near—Their forms unfold!Fix'd are their eyes, on me they bend—Their glaring look is cold!And hark!—I hearSounds that the throbbing pulse of life suspend.
"No wild illusion cheats thy sight"With shapes that only live in night—"Mark the native glories spread"Around my bleeding brow!"The crown of Albion wreath'd my head,"And Gallia's lilies[A] twin'd below—"When my father shook his spear,"When his banner sought the skies,"Her baffled host recoil'd with fear,"Nor turn'd their shrinking eyes:—"Soon as the daring eagle springs"To bask in heav'n's empyreal light,"The vultures ply their baleful wings,"A cloud of deep'ning colour marks their flight,"Staining the golden day:—"But see! amid the rav'nous brood"A bird of fiercer aspect soar—"The spirits of a rival race[B],"Hang on the noxious blast, and trace,"With gloomy joy his destin'd prey;"Inflame th' ambitious with that thirsts for blood,"And plunge his talons deep in kindred gore.
[A] Henry the Sixth, crowned when an infant, at Paris.[B] Richard the Third, by murdering so many near relations, seemed torevenge the sufferings of Henry the Sixth, and his family, on theHouse of York.
"View the stern form that hovers nigh,"Fierce rolls his dauntless eye"In scorn of hideous death;"Till starting at a brother's[A] name,"Horror shrinks his glowing frame,"Locks the half-utter'd groan,"And chills the parting breath:—"Astonish'd Nature heav'd a moan!"When her affrighted eye beheld the hands"She form'd to cherish, rend her holy bands.
[A] Richard the Third, who murdered his brother the Duke of Clarence.
"Look where a royal infant[A] kneels,"Shrieking, and agoniz'd with fear,"He sees the dagger pointed near"A much-lov'd brother's[B] breast,"And tells an absent mother all he feels:—"His eager eye he casts around;"Where shall her guardian form be found,"On which his eager eye would rest!"On her he calls in accents wild,"And wonders why her step is slow"To save her suff'ring child!—"Rob'd in the regal garb, his brother stands"In more majestic woe—"And meets the impious stroke with bosom bare;"Then fearless grasps the murd'rer's hands,"And asks the minister of hell to spare"The child whose feeble arms sustain"His bleeding form from cruel Death.—"In vain fraternal fondness pleads"For cold is now his livid cheek,"And cold his last, expiring breath:"And now with aspect meek,"The infant lifts his mournful eye,"And asks with trembling voice, to die,"If death will cure his heaving heart of pain—"His heaving heart now bleeds—"Foul tyrant! o'er the gilded hour"That beams with all the blaze of power,"Remorse shall spread her thickest shroud;"The furies in thy tortur'd ear"Shall howl, with curses deep, and loud,"And wake distracting fear!"I see the ghastly spectre rise,"Whose blood is cold, whose hollow eyes"Seem from his head to start—"With upright hair, and shiv'ring heart,Dark o'er thy midnight couch he bends,And clasps thy shrinking frame, thy impious spirit rends."
[A] Richard Duke of York.[B] Edward the Fifth.
Now his thrilling accents die—His shape eludes my searching eye—But who is he[A], convuls'd with pain,That writhes in every swelling vein?Yet in so deep, so wild a groan,A sharper anguish seems to liveThan life's expiring pang can give:—He dies deserted, and alone—If pity can allay thy woesSad spirit they shall find repose—Thy friend, thy long-lov'd friend is near!He comes to pour the parting tear,He comes to catch the parting breath—Ah heaven! no melting look he wears,His alter'd eye with vengeance glares;Each frantic passion at his soul,'Tis he has dash'd that venom'd bowlWith agony, and death.
[A] Sir Thomas Overbury, poisoned in the Tower by Somerset.
But whence arose that solemn call?Yon bloody phantom waves his hand,And beckons me to deeper gloom—Rest, troubled form! I come—Some unknown power my step impelsTo horror's secret cells—"For thee I raise this sable pall,"It shrouds a ghastly band:"Stretch'd beneath, thy eye shall trace"A mangled regal race:"A thousand suns have roll'd, since light"Rush'd on their solid night—"See, o'er that tender frame grim famine hangs,"And mocks a mother's pangs!"The last, last drop which warm'd her veins"That meagre infant drains—"Then gnaws her fond, sustaining breast—"Stretch'd on her feeble knees, behold"Another victim sinks to lasting rest—"Another, yet her matron arms would fold"Who strives to reach her matron arms in vain—"Too weak her wasted form to raise,"On him she bends her eager gaze;"She sees the soft imploring eye"That asks her dear embrace, the cure of pain—"She sees her child at distance die—"But now her stedfast heart can bear"Unmov'd, the pressure of despair—"When first the winds of winter urge their course"O'er the pure stream, whose current smoothly glides,"The heaving river swells its troubled tides;"But when the bitter blast with keener force,"O'er the high wave an icy fetter throws,"The harden'd wave is fix'd in dead repose."—
"Say who that hoary form? alone he stands,"And meekly lifts his wither'd hands—"His white beard streams with blood—"I see him with a smile, deride"The wounds that pierce his shrivel'd side,"Whence flows a purple flood—"But sudden pangs his bosom tear—"On one big drop, of deeper dye,"I see him fix his haggard eye"In dark, and wild despair!"That sanguine drop which wakes his woe—"Say, spirit! whence its source."—"Ask no more its source to know—"Ne'er shall mortal eye explore"Whence flow'd that drop of human gore,"Till the starting dead shall rise,"Unchain'd from earth, and mount the skies,"And time shall end his fated course."—"Now th' unfathom'd depth behold—"Look but once! a second glance"Wraps a heart of human mold"In death's eternal trance."
"That shapeless phantom sinking slow"Deep down the vast abyss below,"Darts, thro' the mists that shroud his frame,"A horror, nature hates to name!"—"Mortal, could thine eyes behold"All those sullen mists enfold,"Thy sinews at the sight accurst"Would wither, and thy heart-strings burst;"Death would grasp with icy hand"And drag thee to our grizly band—"Away! the sable pall I spread,"And give to rest th' unquiet dead—"Haste! ere its horrid shroud enclose"Thy form, benumb'd with wild affright,"And plunge thee far thro' wastes of night,"In yon black gulph's abhorr'd repose!"—As starting at each step, I fly,Why backward turns my frantic eye,That closing portal past?—Two sullen shades half-seen, advance!—On me, a blasting look they cast,And fix my view with dang'rous spells,Where burning frenzy dwells!—Again! their vengeful look—and now a speechless—
While, bending at thy honour'd shrine, the MusePours, MONTAGU, to thee her votive strain,Thy heart will not her simple notes refuse,Or chill her timid soul with cold disdain.
O might a transient spark of genius fireThe fond effusions of her fearful youth;Then should thy virtues live upon her lyre,And give to harmony the charm of truth.
Vain wish! they ask not the imperfect lay,The weak applause her trembling accents breathe;With whose pure radiance glory blends her ray,Whom fame has circled with her fairest wreathe.
Thou, who while seen with graceful step to treadGrandeur's enchanted round, can'st meekly pauseTo rend the veil obscurity had spreadWhere his lone sigh deserted Genius draws;
To lead his drooping spirit to thy fane,Where attic joy the social circle warms;Where science loves to pour her hallow'd strain,Where wit, and wisdom, blend their sep'rate charms.
And lure to cherish intellectual powers,To bid the vig'rous tides of genius roll,Unfold, in fair expansion, fancy's flowers,And wake the latent energies of soul;
Far other homage claims than flatt'ry bringsThe little triumphs of the proud to grace:For deeds like these a purer incense springs,Warm from the swelling heart its source we trace!
Yet not to foster the rich gifts of mindAlone can all thy lib'ral cares employ;Not to the few those gifts adorn, confin'd,They spread an ampler sphere of genuine joy.
While pleasure's lucid star illumes thy bower,Thy pity views the distant storm that bendsWhere want unshelter'd wastes the ling'ring hour;—And meets the blessing that to heav'n ascends!
For this, while fame thro' each successive ageOn her exulting lip thy name shall breathe;While woman, pointing to thy finish'd page,Claims from imperious man the critic wreathe;
Truth on her spotless record shall enrollEach moral beauty to her spirit dear;Paint in bright characters each grace of soul—While admiration pours a gen'rous tear.
London, April the 24th, 1784.
That no readers of the following work may entertain expectations respecting it which it would ill satisfy, it is necessary to acquaint them, that the author has not had the presumption even to attempt a full, historical narration of the fall of the Peruvian empire. To describe that important event with accuracy, and to display with clearness and force the various causes which combined to produce it, would require all the energy of genius, and the most glowing colours of imagination. Conscious of her utter inability to execute such a design, she has only aimed at a simple detail of some few incidents that make a part of that romantic story; where the unparalleled sufferings of an innocent and amiable people, form the most affecting subjects of true pathos, while their climate, totally unlike our own, furnishes new and ample materials for poetic description.
General description of the country of Peru, and of its animal, and vegetable productions—the virtues of the people—character ofAtaliba,their Monarch—his love forAlzira—their nuptials celebrated— character ofZorai,her father—descent of the genius of Peru— prediction of the fate of that empire.
Where the pacific deep in silence lavesThe western shore, with slow and languid waves,There, lost Peruvia, rose thy cultur'd scene,The wave an emblem of thy joy serene:There nature ever in luxuriant showers 5Pours from her treasures, the perennial flowers;In its dark foliage plum'd, the tow'ring pineAscends the mountain, at her call divine;The palm's wide leaf its brighter verdure spreads,And the proud cedars bow their lofty heads; 10The citron, and the glowing orange spring,And on the gale a thousand odours fling;The guava, and the soft ananas bloom,The balsam ever drops a rich perfume:The bark, reviving shrub! Oh not in vain 15Thy rosy blossoms tinge Peruvia's plain;Ye fost'ring gales, around those blossoms blow,Ye balmy dew-drops, o'er the tendrils flow.Lo, as the health-diffusing plant aspires,Disease, and pain, and hov'ring death retires; 20Affection sees new lustre light the eye,And feels her vanish'd joys again are nigh.The Pacos[A], and Vicunnas[B] sport around,And the meek Lamas[C], burden'd, press the ground.Amid the vocal groves, the feather'd throng 25Pour to the list'ning breeze their native song;The mocking-bird her varying note essays,The vain macaw his glitt'ring plume displays.While spring's warm ray the mild suffusion sheds,The plaintive humming-bird his pinion spreads; 30His wings their colours to the sun unfold,The vivid scarlet, and the blazing gold;He sees the flower which morning tears bedew,Sinks on its breast, and drinks th' ambrosial dew:Then seeks with fond delight the social nest 35Parental care has rear'd, and love has blest:The drops that on the blossom's light leaf hung,He bears exulting to his tender young;The grateful joy his happy accents prove,Is nature, smiling on her works of love. 40
Nor less, Peruvia, for thy favour'd climeThe virtues rose, unsullied, and sublime:There melting charity, with ardor warm,Spread her wide mantle o'er th' unshelter'd form;Cheer'd with the festal song, her lib'ral toils, 45While in the lap of age[D] she pour'd the spoils.Simplicity in every vale was found,The meek nymph smil'd, with reeds, and rushes crown'd;And innocence in light, transparent vest,Mild visitant! the gentle region blest: 50As from her lip enchanting accents part,They thrill with pleasure the reponsive heart;And o'er the ever-blooming vales around,Soft echoes waft each undulating sound.
This happy regionAtalibasway'd, 55Whose mild behest the willing heart obey'd;Descendant of a scepter'd, sacred race,Whose origin from glowing suns they trace;And as o'er nature's form, the solar lightDiffuses beauty, and inspires delight; 60So, o'er Peruvia flow'd the lib'ral rayOf mercy, lovelier than the smile of day!In Ataliba's pure and gen'rous heartThe virtues bloom'd without the aid of art.His gentle spirit, love's soft power possest, 65And stamp'd Alzira's image on his breast;Alzira, form'd each tenderness to prove,That sooths in friendship, and that charms in love.But, ah! in vain the drooping muse would paint(Her accents languid, and her colours faint,) 70How dear the joys love's early wishes sought,How mild his spirit, and how pure his thought,Ere wealth in sullen pomp was seen to rise,And break the artless bosom's holy ties;Blast with his touch affection's op'ning flower, 75And chill the hand that rear'd her blissful bower.Fortune, light nymph! still bless the sordid heart,Still to thy venal slave thy gifts impart;Bright in his view may all thy meteors shine,And lost Peruvia open every mine; 80For him the robe of eastern pomp display,The gems that ripen in the torrid ray;Collected may their guilty lustre streamFull on the eye that courts the partial beam:But Love, oh Love! should haply this late hour, 85One softer mind avow thy genuine power;Breathe at thy altar nature's simple strain,And strew the heart's pure incense on thy fane;Give to that bosom scorning fortune's toys,Thy sweet enchantments, and thy virtuous joys; 90Bid pleasure bloom thro' many a circling year,Which love shall wing, and constancy endear;Far from this happy clime avert the woes,The heart from alienated fondness knows;And from that agony the spirit save, 95When unrelenting yawns the op'ning grave;When death dissolves the ties for ever dear;When frantic passion pours her parting tear;With all the cherish'd pains affection feels,Hangs on the quiv'ring lip, that silence seals; 100Views fondness struggling in the closing eye,And marks it mingling in the falt'ring sigh;As the lov'd form, while folded to her breast,On earth's cold bosom seeks more lasting rest!Leave her fond soul in hopeless griefs to mourn, 105Clasp the pale corse, and bathe th' unconscious urn;—Mild, to the wounds that pierce her bleeding heart,Nature's expiring pang, and death's keen dart.
Pure was the lustre of the orient ray,That joyful wak'd Alzira's nuptial day: 110Her auburn hair, spread loosely to the wind,The virgin train, with rosy chaplets bind;The scented flowers that form her bridal wreathe,A deeper hue, a richer fragrance breathe.The gentle tribe now sought the hallow'd fane, 115Where warbling vestals pour'd the choral strain:There aged Zorai, his Alzira prestWith love parental, to his anxious breast:Priest of the sun, within the sacred shrineHis fervent spirit breath'd the strain divine; 120With glowing hand, the guiltless off'ring spread,With pious zeal the pure libation shed;Nor vain the incense of erroneous praiseWhen meek devotion's soul the tribute pays;On wings of purity behold it rise, 125While bending mercy wafts it to the skies!