Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breastThe glow of genius never could inspire;Who never, by the future song possest,Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre.Let him invoke the Muses from their grove,Who never felt the inspiring touch of love.If I would sing how beauty's beamy blazeThrills through the bosom at the lightning view,Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise,Where only from the minstrel praise is due,I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays,My Muse,Ariste, would be found in you!And need I court the goddess when I moveThe warbling lute to sound the soul of love?
Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breastThe glow of genius never could inspire;Who never, by the future song possest,Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre.Let him invoke the Muses from their grove,Who never felt the inspiring touch of love.If I would sing how beauty's beamy blazeThrills through the bosom at the lightning view,Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise,Where only from the minstrel praise is due,I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays,My Muse,Ariste, would be found in you!And need I court the goddess when I moveThe warbling lute to sound the soul of love?
BION.
Vignette
Let ancient stories sound the painter's art,Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms,'Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart,And every bosom bounded with alarms.He cull'd the beauties of his native isle,From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes,From some the lovely look, the winning smile,From some the languid lustre of the eyes.Low to the finish'd form the nations roundIn adoration bent the pious knee;With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd,Whose skill,Ariste, only imaged thee.Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seekThe charms that blossom onAriste's cheek!
Let ancient stories sound the painter's art,Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms,'Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart,And every bosom bounded with alarms.He cull'd the beauties of his native isle,From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes,From some the lovely look, the winning smile,From some the languid lustre of the eyes.Low to the finish'd form the nations roundIn adoration bent the pious knee;With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd,Whose skill,Ariste, only imaged thee.Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seekThe charms that blossom onAriste's cheek!
BION.
Vignette
I Praise thee not,Ariste, that thine eyeKnows each emotion of the soul to speak;That lillies with thy face might fear to vie,And roses can but emulate thy cheek.I praise thee not because thine auburn hairIn native tresses wantons on the wind;Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair,Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind:'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won,That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest;Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast,As the soft radiance of the setting sun,When varying through the purple hues of light,The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.
I Praise thee not,Ariste, that thine eyeKnows each emotion of the soul to speak;That lillies with thy face might fear to vie,And roses can but emulate thy cheek.I praise thee not because thine auburn hairIn native tresses wantons on the wind;Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair,Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind:'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won,That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest;Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast,As the soft radiance of the setting sun,When varying through the purple hues of light,The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.
BION.
Vignette
Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile,Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyreFirst breath'd the voice of music on our isle;Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire,OldChaucerslowly sunk at last to night;Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain,A firmer, nobler monument remain,When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site;And yet the cankering tooth of envious ageHas sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme;Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page,And piercing through the shadowy mist of time,The festive Bard ofEdward's court recall,As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall.
Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile,Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyreFirst breath'd the voice of music on our isle;Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire,OldChaucerslowly sunk at last to night;Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain,A firmer, nobler monument remain,When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site;And yet the cankering tooth of envious ageHas sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme;Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page,And piercing through the shadowy mist of time,The festive Bard ofEdward's court recall,As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall.
BION.
Vignette
As slow and solemn yonder deepening knellTolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom,Alone and pensive, in my silent room,On man and on mortality I dwell.And as the harbinger of death I hearFrequent and full, much do I love to museOn life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear;And passion varying her camelion hues,And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade,'Till death dissolves the vision. So the childIn youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd,As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd;Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play,Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away.
As slow and solemn yonder deepening knellTolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom,Alone and pensive, in my silent room,On man and on mortality I dwell.And as the harbinger of death I hearFrequent and full, much do I love to museOn life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear;And passion varying her camelion hues,And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade,'Till death dissolves the vision. So the childIn youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd,As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd;Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play,Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away.
BION.
Vignette
As o'er the lengthen'd plain the traveller goes,Weary and sad, his wayward fancy straysTo scenes which late he pass'd, haply to raiseThe transient joy which memory bestows;And oft, while hope dispels the gathering gloom,He paints the approaching scene in colours gay:So I, to cheer me in life's rugged way,Or glance o'er pleasures past, or think of bliss to come.But ah! reflection vainly we employOn pleasures past, and fugitive the joyWhen the mind rests on hope's delusive power;Blest only they who present joys can taste,Nor fear the future, nor regret the past,But happy, as it flies, enjoy the present hour.
As o'er the lengthen'd plain the traveller goes,Weary and sad, his wayward fancy straysTo scenes which late he pass'd, haply to raiseThe transient joy which memory bestows;And oft, while hope dispels the gathering gloom,He paints the approaching scene in colours gay:So I, to cheer me in life's rugged way,Or glance o'er pleasures past, or think of bliss to come.But ah! reflection vainly we employOn pleasures past, and fugitive the joyWhen the mind rests on hope's delusive power;Blest only they who present joys can taste,Nor fear the future, nor regret the past,But happy, as it flies, enjoy the present hour.
MOSCHUS.
Vignette
Say, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell?Desir'd of all, and sought through every scene,In pomp of courts, and in the rural green,Life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell.Thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few,We seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go;Tir'd of the chace, man ceases to pursue,And sighing, says, thou dwellest not below.Does he not after fairy shadows run?Follows he not some wild illusive dream,Like children who would catch the radiant sun,Grasp at its image in the glittering stream?If right he sought, then man would meet success,For surely "Virtue leads to happiness."
Say, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell?Desir'd of all, and sought through every scene,In pomp of courts, and in the rural green,Life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell.Thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few,We seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go;Tir'd of the chace, man ceases to pursue,And sighing, says, thou dwellest not below.Does he not after fairy shadows run?Follows he not some wild illusive dream,Like children who would catch the radiant sun,Grasp at its image in the glittering stream?If right he sought, then man would meet success,For surely "Virtue leads to happiness."
MOSCHUS.
Vignette
Mark'st thou yon streamlet in its onward course?Mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats?Lightly it drifts along, and well denotesThe light impression on the youthful breast,Which, in life's summer, transiently imprest,Glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force:But o'er the fading year, when winter reigns,Chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd,And on its bosom, where of late it play'd,Frolic and light the reed infix'd remains.Thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar,Freezes the genial flow of mental power,The mind, tenacious of its gather'd store,Detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal hour.
Mark'st thou yon streamlet in its onward course?Mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats?Lightly it drifts along, and well denotesThe light impression on the youthful breast,Which, in life's summer, transiently imprest,Glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force:But o'er the fading year, when winter reigns,Chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd,And on its bosom, where of late it play'd,Frolic and light the reed infix'd remains.Thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar,Freezes the genial flow of mental power,The mind, tenacious of its gather'd store,Detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal hour.
MOSCHUS.
Vignette
On the high summit of yon rocky hill,Proud Fame! thy temple stands, and see aroundWhat thronging thousands press; and hark! the soundThat fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill.Amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd,And oft intwin'd around the wreath they claim;And many spurn at justice' sacred name,And "wade to glory through a sea of blood."Be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd,And, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloudUpon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice,I'll court fair virtue in her humbler sphere,More pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to hearThe approving whispers of her still small voice.
On the high summit of yon rocky hill,Proud Fame! thy temple stands, and see aroundWhat thronging thousands press; and hark! the soundThat fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill.Amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd,And oft intwin'd around the wreath they claim;And many spurn at justice' sacred name,And "wade to glory through a sea of blood."Be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd,And, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloudUpon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice,I'll court fair virtue in her humbler sphere,More pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to hearThe approving whispers of her still small voice.
MOSCHUS.
Vignette
My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright,Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame;Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night,Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame.I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,I love to pause in meditation's sway;And whilst each object gives reflection birth,Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay:And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer;And wish at last, in life's declining scene,As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear:So might my children ponder o'er my shrine,And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.
My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright,Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame;Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night,Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame.I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,I love to pause in meditation's sway;And whilst each object gives reflection birth,Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay:And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer;And wish at last, in life's declining scene,As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear:So might my children ponder o'er my shrine,And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.
BION.
Vignette
Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk,Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way,Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk,Then past along, and left thee to decay.Thou melancholy emblem! had I seenThy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem,I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem,But left thy blossom still to grace the green;And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my sideDeep-sighing, points the fair frailEmma's tomb;"Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride!O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joyTasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy."
Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk,Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way,Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk,Then past along, and left thee to decay.Thou melancholy emblem! had I seenThy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem,I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem,But left thy blossom still to grace the green;And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my sideDeep-sighing, points the fair frailEmma's tomb;"Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride!O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joyTasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy."
BION.
Vignette
I'll court thy lone bow'r, Sensibility!And mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair,Thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye,And all those charms which blend to make thee fair.Far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to strayRecluse, and listen at the silent hour,When wildly warbling from her secret bow'rThe pensive night-bird pours her evening lay.'Tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard,And as her sad song, by the moon's still beam,Dies softly on mine ear, more sweet I deemHer mournful note than song of blither bird;So more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dyeCharms thy soft downcast mein and tear-dew'd eye.
I'll court thy lone bow'r, Sensibility!And mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair,Thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye,And all those charms which blend to make thee fair.Far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to strayRecluse, and listen at the silent hour,When wildly warbling from her secret bow'rThe pensive night-bird pours her evening lay.'Tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard,And as her sad song, by the moon's still beam,Dies softly on mine ear, more sweet I deemHer mournful note than song of blither bird;So more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dyeCharms thy soft downcast mein and tear-dew'd eye.
MOSCHUS.
Vignette
Nymph of the splendent eye and rosy cheek,Who erst from courts and luxury didst speed,And with thine elder sister, Temperance, seekThe woodbin'd cottage on the daisied mead;There will I woo thee, for thou dwellest thereAmid the sons of industry; thy smileSoothes every sorrow, cheers the hour of toil,And, blest by thee, sweet is their frugal fare.When the woods echo with the early hornThou trip'st the wild heath, clad in flowing vest,(While youthful zephyr wantons o'er thy breast)And, with blithe song, dost greet the blushing morn;The airy sprite, who o'er thy fair form roves,Thy beauty tastes, and, as he tastes, improves.
Nymph of the splendent eye and rosy cheek,Who erst from courts and luxury didst speed,And with thine elder sister, Temperance, seekThe woodbin'd cottage on the daisied mead;There will I woo thee, for thou dwellest thereAmid the sons of industry; thy smileSoothes every sorrow, cheers the hour of toil,And, blest by thee, sweet is their frugal fare.When the woods echo with the early hornThou trip'st the wild heath, clad in flowing vest,(While youthful zephyr wantons o'er thy breast)And, with blithe song, dost greet the blushing morn;The airy sprite, who o'er thy fair form roves,Thy beauty tastes, and, as he tastes, improves.
MOSCHUS.
Vignette
Sad songstress of the night, no more I hearThy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear,As by thy wonted haunts again I rove;Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay?For faintly fades the sinking orb of day,And yet thy music charms no more the grove.The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark towerThe shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour;Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along,The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd broodNo longer need thy care to cull their food,And nothing now remains to prompt the song:But drear and sullen seems the silent grove,No more responsive to the lay of love.
Sad songstress of the night, no more I hearThy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear,As by thy wonted haunts again I rove;Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay?For faintly fades the sinking orb of day,And yet thy music charms no more the grove.The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark towerThe shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour;Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along,The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd broodNo longer need thy care to cull their food,And nothing now remains to prompt the song:But drear and sullen seems the silent grove,No more responsive to the lay of love.
BION.
Vignette
Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eyeRevert again to many a sorrow past?Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly,Those who have never seen the sun o'ercastBy one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam,Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam,As the last splendour of the summer sky.Let them look back on pleasure, ere they knowTo mourn its absence; let them contemplateThe thorny windings of our mortal state,Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe;Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow,Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom,In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb.
Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eyeRevert again to many a sorrow past?Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly,Those who have never seen the sun o'ercastBy one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam,Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam,As the last splendour of the summer sky.Let them look back on pleasure, ere they knowTo mourn its absence; let them contemplateThe thorny windings of our mortal state,Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe;Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow,Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom,In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb.
BION.
Vignette
The Muse who struck to moral strains the lyre,Now turns to court a visionary theme,To frame the wish which flattering hopes inspire,When fancy revels in her golden dream.I ask no lone retreat, no shady grove,Nor grove nor bower can boast a charm for me;I muse on Justice, Liberty, and Love,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?I bend, great Justice! at thine awful throne,Eternal arbiter of good and ill,The sons of soul shall make thy laws their own,And form their dictates by thy sov'reign will.But oft perverted is thy high behest,And oft I'm doom'd oppression's rod to see;I see wealth triumph, and the poor opprest,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?How bounds the soul at freedom's sacred call?How shrinks from slavery's heart-appalling train?But still her victims avarice will inthral,Afric's sad sons still wear the accursed chain.Still, power despotic, with ambition join'd,Would crush the soul determin'd to be free;I see debas'd man's dignity of mind,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?Were justice follow'd, then would man be good,Were freedom guarded, then would man be blest;No generous impulse of the soul subdu'd,But love, unfraught with anguish, fill the breast.I felt the magic ofLucinda's eye,I thought her charms were of no mean degree;Lucinda's name inspir'd the secret sigh,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?One only wish remain'd! oh! might I find,Amid this scene of danger and of strife,Some kindred spirit, some congenial mind,To cheer my journey through the vale of life.Indulgent heav'n vouchsafed the boon to send,A youth I found, and just and mild was he;My heart sprang mutual to embrace its friend,And, need I,Orson! name that friend to thee?
The Muse who struck to moral strains the lyre,Now turns to court a visionary theme,To frame the wish which flattering hopes inspire,When fancy revels in her golden dream.
I ask no lone retreat, no shady grove,Nor grove nor bower can boast a charm for me;I muse on Justice, Liberty, and Love,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?
I bend, great Justice! at thine awful throne,Eternal arbiter of good and ill,The sons of soul shall make thy laws their own,And form their dictates by thy sov'reign will.
But oft perverted is thy high behest,And oft I'm doom'd oppression's rod to see;I see wealth triumph, and the poor opprest,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?
How bounds the soul at freedom's sacred call?How shrinks from slavery's heart-appalling train?But still her victims avarice will inthral,Afric's sad sons still wear the accursed chain.
Still, power despotic, with ambition join'd,Would crush the soul determin'd to be free;I see debas'd man's dignity of mind,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?
Were justice follow'd, then would man be good,Were freedom guarded, then would man be blest;No generous impulse of the soul subdu'd,But love, unfraught with anguish, fill the breast.
I felt the magic ofLucinda's eye,I thought her charms were of no mean degree;Lucinda's name inspir'd the secret sigh,And, need I,Orson! tell my wish to thee?
One only wish remain'd! oh! might I find,Amid this scene of danger and of strife,Some kindred spirit, some congenial mind,To cheer my journey through the vale of life.
Indulgent heav'n vouchsafed the boon to send,A youth I found, and just and mild was he;My heart sprang mutual to embrace its friend,And, need I,Orson! name that friend to thee?
MOSCHUS.
Vignette
On yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what formBeats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair?Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm?Why glare her full-fix'd eyes in stern despair?The deep dull groan I hear,I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear.Ah! fly her dreadful reign,For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain;For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower,For oft the ill-omen'd owlYells loud the dreadful howl,And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour.Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know,I know the horrors of thy barren plain,I know the dreadful force of woe,I know the weight of thy soul-binding chain;But I have fled thy drear domains,Have broke thy agonizing chains,Drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl,Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my soul.Fair smiles the morn along the azure sky,Calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by,And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain;As down the dale, with perfumes sweet,The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet,His thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain;And every bird that loves to singThe choral song to coming spring,Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove,Heaven, earth, and nature, all incite to love.Ah, pilgrim! stay thy heedless feet,Distrust each soul-subduing sweet,Dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl,For thro' thy frame the venom'd juice will creep,Lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep,And stain with sable hue the spotless soul;For soon the valley's charms decay,In haggard griefs ill omen'd sway,And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day:Then reason strives in vain,Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye,And virtue sinks beneath the galling chain,And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl,And sullen fix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul.Yet on the summit of yon craggy steepStands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light;She bids the wretch no more despondent weep,Or linger in the loathly realms of night;And Science comes, celestial maid!As mild as good she comes to aid,To smooth the rugged steep with magic power,And fill with many a wile the longly-lingering hour.Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of dayArray'd, the wide horizon streams with light;Anon the dull mists blot the living ray,And darksome clouds presage the stormy night:Yet may the sun anew extend his ray,Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright;Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain,And nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain.And what, my friend, is life?What but the many weather'd April day!Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife,Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray;Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form,For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm.If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roamO'er distant hill or plain,Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home,Whilst heaven drops down the rain?Or will thy hope expect the coming day,When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray?Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time,In sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore,Or shake off grief, and "build the lofty rhyme,"And live 'till time himself shall be no more?If thy light bark have met the storm,If threatening clouds the sky deform,Let honest truth be vain; look back on me,Have I been "sailing on a summer's sea?"Have only zephyrs fill'd my swelling sails,As smooth the gentle vessel glides along?Lycon, I met unscar'd the wintry gales,And sooth'd the dangers with the song:So shall the vessel sail sublime,And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time.
On yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what formBeats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair?Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm?Why glare her full-fix'd eyes in stern despair?The deep dull groan I hear,I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear.
Ah! fly her dreadful reign,For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain;For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower,For oft the ill-omen'd owlYells loud the dreadful howl,And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour.
Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know,I know the horrors of thy barren plain,I know the dreadful force of woe,I know the weight of thy soul-binding chain;But I have fled thy drear domains,Have broke thy agonizing chains,Drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl,Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my soul.
Fair smiles the morn along the azure sky,Calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by,And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain;As down the dale, with perfumes sweet,The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet,His thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain;And every bird that loves to singThe choral song to coming spring,Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove,Heaven, earth, and nature, all incite to love.
Ah, pilgrim! stay thy heedless feet,Distrust each soul-subduing sweet,Dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl,For thro' thy frame the venom'd juice will creep,Lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep,And stain with sable hue the spotless soul;For soon the valley's charms decay,In haggard griefs ill omen'd sway,And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day:Then reason strives in vain,Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye,And virtue sinks beneath the galling chain,And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl,And sullen fix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul.
Yet on the summit of yon craggy steepStands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light;She bids the wretch no more despondent weep,Or linger in the loathly realms of night;And Science comes, celestial maid!As mild as good she comes to aid,To smooth the rugged steep with magic power,And fill with many a wile the longly-lingering hour.
Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of dayArray'd, the wide horizon streams with light;Anon the dull mists blot the living ray,And darksome clouds presage the stormy night:Yet may the sun anew extend his ray,Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright;Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain,And nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain.
And what, my friend, is life?What but the many weather'd April day!Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife,Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray;Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form,For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm.
If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roamO'er distant hill or plain,Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home,Whilst heaven drops down the rain?Or will thy hope expect the coming day,When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray?
Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time,In sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore,Or shake off grief, and "build the lofty rhyme,"And live 'till time himself shall be no more?If thy light bark have met the storm,If threatening clouds the sky deform,Let honest truth be vain; look back on me,Have I been "sailing on a summer's sea?"Have only zephyrs fill'd my swelling sails,As smooth the gentle vessel glides along?Lycon, I met unscar'd the wintry gales,And sooth'd the dangers with the song:So shall the vessel sail sublime,And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time.
BION.
Vignette
And does my friend again demand the strain,Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay?Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain,When melancholy loads the lingering day?Shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye,No fault behold, but every charm descry;And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny?"No single pleasure shall your pen bestow:"Ah,Lycon! 'tis that thought affords delight;'Tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe,When memory reigns amid the gloom of night:For fancy loves the distant scene to see,Far from the gloom of solitude to flee,And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me.Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade,What time the pale moon glimmering on the plainJust mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade,Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain:Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow,Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow,Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe.Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay,The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear,When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day,And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear;For staid reflection loves the doubtful light,When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night,And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight.Fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar,And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain,When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore,The exil'dOvidpour'd his plaintive strain;He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome,He mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home,And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom.Oh! could my lays, likeSulmo's minstrel, flow,Eternity might love herBion's name;The muse might give a dignity to woe,And grief's steep path should prove the path to fame:But I have pluck'd no bays fromPhoebus' bower,My fading garland, form'd of many a flower,May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour.To please that little hour is all I crave,Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame;High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave,Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name:There never may the pensive pilgrim go,Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe,For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below.Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road alongO'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go,To hail the hour of pleasure with the song,Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe;The song each passing moment shall beguile,Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile,Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while.Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life,Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away,And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife,And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway:Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to seeThe lisping children climb their grandsire's knee,And train the future race to live and act like me.Then, when the inexorable hour shall comeTo tell my death, let no deep requiem toll,No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb,Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul;But let my children, near their little cot,Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot:So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot.
And does my friend again demand the strain,Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay?Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain,When melancholy loads the lingering day?Shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye,No fault behold, but every charm descry;And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny?
"No single pleasure shall your pen bestow:"Ah,Lycon! 'tis that thought affords delight;'Tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe,When memory reigns amid the gloom of night:For fancy loves the distant scene to see,Far from the gloom of solitude to flee,And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me.
Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade,What time the pale moon glimmering on the plainJust mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade,Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain:Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow,Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow,Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe.
Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay,The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear,When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day,And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear;For staid reflection loves the doubtful light,When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night,And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight.
Fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar,And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain,When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore,The exil'dOvidpour'd his plaintive strain;He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome,He mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home,And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom.
Oh! could my lays, likeSulmo's minstrel, flow,Eternity might love herBion's name;The muse might give a dignity to woe,And grief's steep path should prove the path to fame:But I have pluck'd no bays fromPhoebus' bower,My fading garland, form'd of many a flower,May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour.
To please that little hour is all I crave,Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame;High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave,Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name:There never may the pensive pilgrim go,Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe,For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below.
Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road alongO'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go,To hail the hour of pleasure with the song,Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe;The song each passing moment shall beguile,Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile,Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while.
Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life,Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away,And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife,And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway:Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to seeThe lisping children climb their grandsire's knee,And train the future race to live and act like me.
Then, when the inexorable hour shall comeTo tell my death, let no deep requiem toll,No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb,Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul;But let my children, near their little cot,Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot:So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot.
BION.
Vignette
Henry, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er,Thy love, thyRosamund, exists no more:She lives, but lives no longer now for you;She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu.Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye?Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh?Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer;Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair:Ah, no! still, still the lurking sin I see,My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee.Yes,Henry! through the vestal's guilty veins,With burning sway the furious passion reigns;For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall,And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall.Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes,Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes.Ah,Henry! fled are all those fatal charmsThat led their victim to the monarch's arms;No more responsive to the evening airIn wanton ringlets waves my golden hair;No more amid the dance my footsteps move,No more the languid eye dissolves with love;Fades on the cheek ofRosamundthe rose,And penitence awakes from sin's repose.Harlot! adultress!Henry! can I bearSuch aggravated guilt, such full despair!By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by meThe laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee!Dishonour fix'd onClifford's ancient name,A father sinking to the grave with shame;These are the crimes that harrow up my heart,These are the crimes that poison memory's dart;For these each pang of penitence I prove,Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love.Yes, even here amid the sacred pile,The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle;Even here, when pausing on the silent air,The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer;As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee,Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee:All day the penitent but wakes to weep,'Till nature and the woman sink in sleep;Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair,And morning wakes to sorrow and despair!Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease,Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace;Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath,And sink to slumber in the arms of death.To slumber! oh, that I might slumber there!Oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair!That death's chill dews might quench this vital flame,And life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame!Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow,Then rush to mingle with the dead below.Oh, agonizing hour! when round my headDark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread;When conscience from herself shall seek to fly,And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die!Already vengeance lifts his iron rod,Already conscience sees an angry God!No virtue now to shield my soul I boast,No hope protects, for innocence is lost!Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose layTrills through the ether, and awakes the day!Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest lightShot through the fading curtain of the night;Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eyeThat met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why.At evening hour I struck the melting lyre,Whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire,'Till he would press me to his aged breast,And cry, "My child, in thee my age is blest!Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of lifeTo see my lovelyRosamunda wife;To view her children climb their grandsire's knee,To see her husband love, and love like me!Then, gracious heaven, decree oldClifford's end,Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend."The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view,The buds of hope are blasted all by you;Thy child, OClifford! bears a mother's name,A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame;Even when her darling children climb her kneeFeels the full force of guilt and infamy!Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know,Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe;Curst be this form, accurst these fatal charmsThat buried virtue in seduction's arms;Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour,WhenHenryfirst beheld and felt their power;When my too-partial brother's doating tongueOn each perfection of a sister hung;Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek,The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak,The golden locks, that shadowing half the faceDisplay'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace:'Twas at that hour when night's englooming swaySteals on the fiercer glories of the day;Sad all around, as silence stills the whole,And pensive fancy melts the softening soul;These hands upon the pictur'd arras woveThe mournful tale ofEdwy's hapless love;When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride,From the young monarch tore his blushing bride:Loud rung the horn, I heard the coursers' feet,My brothers came, o'erjoy'd I ran to meet;But when my sovereign met my wandering eye,I blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why;O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran,Nor knew the monarch, 'till I lov'd the man:Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I sawEach look obey'd, and every word a law;Too soon I felt the secret flame advance,Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance;And still I ply'd my pleasing task, nor knewIn shadowingEdwyI had pourtray'd you.Thine,Henry, is the crime! 'tis thine to bearThe aggravated weight of full despair;To wear the day in woe, the night in tears,And pass in penitence the joyless years:Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyesKnew not the monarch in the knight's disguise;Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch cameTo blast his faithful subject's spotless name;To pay each service of oldClifford's raceWith all the keenest anguish of disgrace!Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eyeNor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly;Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily artTold not his rank 'till victor o'er my heart:Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove,Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love.How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh?How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye?When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongueTalk'd of its truth, andCliffordwas undone.Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway,Guilt which a life of tears must wash away!Gay as the morning lark no more I rose,No more each evening sunk to calm repose;No more in fearless innocence mine eye,Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why;No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre,No more I ran with joy to meet my sire;But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein,But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign;Still vainly seeking from myself to fly,In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye;A thousand torments still my steps pursue,And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you.Harlot, adultress, each detested name,Stamps everlasting blots onClifford's fame!How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven?How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven?And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art,Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart;Paints thee most wretched in domestick strife,Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife;And vainly whispers comfort to my breast—"I curst myself thatHenrymight be blest."Too fond deluder! impotent thy powerTo whisper comfort in the mournful hour;Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breathTo soothe Reflection on the bed of death;To calm stern Conscience' self-afflicting care,Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair.Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face?Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace?Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move?Why form the melting soul too apt for love?Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast,Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest;Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains,Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains!Oh! had fate plac'd amidst EarlClifford's hallOf menial vassals, me most mean of all;Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face,Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place;How happy,Rosamund, had been thy lot,In peace to live unknown, and die forgot!Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting,Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king;Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame,Nor infamy debas'd aClifford's name.Oh,Clifford! oh, my sire! thy honours nowThy child has blasted on thine ancient brow;Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name,And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame!Still busy fancy bids the scene arise,Still paints the father to these wretched eyes;Methinks I see him now, with folded arms,Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms;Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days,With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise:Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung lowIn all the silent energy of woe;Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild,He prays forgiveness for his sinful child.And yet I live! if this be life, to knowThe agonizing weight of hopeless woe:Thus far, remote from every friendly eye,To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh;Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove,To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love:Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome,A living victim in the cloyster'd tomb,To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive,Scorn'd by myself—if this be life—I live!Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour,Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower:Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view,And give the soul again to guilt and you.Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around,And heard the forest echoRosamund;Have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye,Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh;Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan,I live—but live to penitence alone;Depriv'd of every joy which life can give,Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live.Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known,Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own!Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life,The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife;One who, with every virtue, only knewThe fault, if fault it be, of loving you;One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to shareThine every joy, and solace every care;For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to knowThe aggravated weight of guilt and woe.Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee,Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me!Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know,Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe:Henry! by all the love my life has shown,By all the sinful raptures we have known,By all the parting pangs that rend my breast,Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request;And, when the last tremendous hour shall come,When all my woes are buried in the tomb,Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave—Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave;Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe,And think who lies so cold and pale below!Think from the grave she speaks the last decree,"What I am now—soon,Henry, thou must be!"Then be this voice of wonted power possest,To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast:So should my prayers with just success be crown'd,ShouldHenrylearn remorse fromRosamund;Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove,That even death was weak to end our love.
Henry, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er,Thy love, thyRosamund, exists no more:She lives, but lives no longer now for you;She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu.
Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye?Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh?Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer;Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair:Ah, no! still, still the lurking sin I see,My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee.Yes,Henry! through the vestal's guilty veins,With burning sway the furious passion reigns;For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall,And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall.
Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes,Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes.Ah,Henry! fled are all those fatal charmsThat led their victim to the monarch's arms;No more responsive to the evening airIn wanton ringlets waves my golden hair;No more amid the dance my footsteps move,No more the languid eye dissolves with love;Fades on the cheek ofRosamundthe rose,And penitence awakes from sin's repose.
Harlot! adultress!Henry! can I bearSuch aggravated guilt, such full despair!By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by meThe laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee!Dishonour fix'd onClifford's ancient name,A father sinking to the grave with shame;These are the crimes that harrow up my heart,These are the crimes that poison memory's dart;For these each pang of penitence I prove,Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love.
Yes, even here amid the sacred pile,The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle;Even here, when pausing on the silent air,The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer;As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee,Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee:All day the penitent but wakes to weep,'Till nature and the woman sink in sleep;Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair,And morning wakes to sorrow and despair!Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease,Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace;Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath,And sink to slumber in the arms of death.
To slumber! oh, that I might slumber there!Oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair!That death's chill dews might quench this vital flame,And life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame!Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow,Then rush to mingle with the dead below.Oh, agonizing hour! when round my headDark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread;When conscience from herself shall seek to fly,And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die!Already vengeance lifts his iron rod,Already conscience sees an angry God!No virtue now to shield my soul I boast,No hope protects, for innocence is lost!
Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose layTrills through the ether, and awakes the day!Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest lightShot through the fading curtain of the night;Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eyeThat met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why.At evening hour I struck the melting lyre,Whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire,'Till he would press me to his aged breast,And cry, "My child, in thee my age is blest!Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of lifeTo see my lovelyRosamunda wife;To view her children climb their grandsire's knee,To see her husband love, and love like me!Then, gracious heaven, decree oldClifford's end,Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend."
The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view,The buds of hope are blasted all by you;Thy child, OClifford! bears a mother's name,A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame;Even when her darling children climb her kneeFeels the full force of guilt and infamy!Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know,Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe;Curst be this form, accurst these fatal charmsThat buried virtue in seduction's arms;Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour,WhenHenryfirst beheld and felt their power;When my too-partial brother's doating tongueOn each perfection of a sister hung;Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek,The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak,The golden locks, that shadowing half the faceDisplay'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace:'Twas at that hour when night's englooming swaySteals on the fiercer glories of the day;Sad all around, as silence stills the whole,And pensive fancy melts the softening soul;These hands upon the pictur'd arras woveThe mournful tale ofEdwy's hapless love;When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride,From the young monarch tore his blushing bride:Loud rung the horn, I heard the coursers' feet,My brothers came, o'erjoy'd I ran to meet;But when my sovereign met my wandering eye,I blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why;O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran,Nor knew the monarch, 'till I lov'd the man:Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I sawEach look obey'd, and every word a law;Too soon I felt the secret flame advance,Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance;And still I ply'd my pleasing task, nor knewIn shadowingEdwyI had pourtray'd you.
Thine,Henry, is the crime! 'tis thine to bearThe aggravated weight of full despair;To wear the day in woe, the night in tears,And pass in penitence the joyless years:Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyesKnew not the monarch in the knight's disguise;Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch cameTo blast his faithful subject's spotless name;To pay each service of oldClifford's raceWith all the keenest anguish of disgrace!Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eyeNor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly;Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily artTold not his rank 'till victor o'er my heart:Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove,Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love.
How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh?How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye?When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongueTalk'd of its truth, andCliffordwas undone.Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway,Guilt which a life of tears must wash away!Gay as the morning lark no more I rose,No more each evening sunk to calm repose;No more in fearless innocence mine eye,Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why;No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre,No more I ran with joy to meet my sire;But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein,But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign;Still vainly seeking from myself to fly,In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye;A thousand torments still my steps pursue,And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you.Harlot, adultress, each detested name,Stamps everlasting blots onClifford's fame!How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven?How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven?
And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art,Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart;Paints thee most wretched in domestick strife,Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife;And vainly whispers comfort to my breast—"I curst myself thatHenrymight be blest."Too fond deluder! impotent thy powerTo whisper comfort in the mournful hour;Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breathTo soothe Reflection on the bed of death;To calm stern Conscience' self-afflicting care,Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair.
Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face?Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace?Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move?Why form the melting soul too apt for love?Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast,Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest;Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains,Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains!
Oh! had fate plac'd amidst EarlClifford's hallOf menial vassals, me most mean of all;Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face,Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place;How happy,Rosamund, had been thy lot,In peace to live unknown, and die forgot!Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting,Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king;Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame,Nor infamy debas'd aClifford's name.
Oh,Clifford! oh, my sire! thy honours nowThy child has blasted on thine ancient brow;Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name,And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame!Still busy fancy bids the scene arise,Still paints the father to these wretched eyes;Methinks I see him now, with folded arms,Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms;Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days,With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise:Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung lowIn all the silent energy of woe;Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild,He prays forgiveness for his sinful child.And yet I live! if this be life, to knowThe agonizing weight of hopeless woe:Thus far, remote from every friendly eye,To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh;Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove,To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love:Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome,A living victim in the cloyster'd tomb,To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive,Scorn'd by myself—if this be life—I live!
Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour,Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower:Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view,And give the soul again to guilt and you.Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around,And heard the forest echoRosamund;Have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye,Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh;Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan,I live—but live to penitence alone;Depriv'd of every joy which life can give,Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live.
Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known,Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own!Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life,The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife;One who, with every virtue, only knewThe fault, if fault it be, of loving you;One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to shareThine every joy, and solace every care;For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to knowThe aggravated weight of guilt and woe.
Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee,Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me!Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know,Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe:Henry! by all the love my life has shown,By all the sinful raptures we have known,By all the parting pangs that rend my breast,Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request;And, when the last tremendous hour shall come,When all my woes are buried in the tomb,Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave—Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave;Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe,And think who lies so cold and pale below!Think from the grave she speaks the last decree,"What I am now—soon,Henry, thou must be!"Then be this voice of wonted power possest,To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast:So should my prayers with just success be crown'd,ShouldHenrylearn remorse fromRosamund;Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove,That even death was weak to end our love.
BION.