TO URBAN.

[1]Fictions of Romance, popular in Scandinavia at an early period.

[2]Heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of his see than burn his Ethiopics. The bishop's name would have slept with his fathers, the romancer is remembered.

[3]First exploit of the celebrated Regner Lodbrog.

[4]Knights of the round table.

[5]The Paladines of France.

[6]Instead of forging the life of a saint, Archbishop Turpin was better employed in falsifying the history of Charlemagne.

[7]A bull was issued, commanding all good citizens to believe Ariosto's poem, founded upon Turpin's history.

[8]Arabian fictions ingrafted on the Gothic romance.

[9]Romance of the Rose, written soon after the Crusades.

[10]Early prose Romances, originally Spanish.

[11]Fictions of Romance, allegorized by Spenser.

Vignette

Lo! where the livid lightning fliesWith transient furious force,A moment's splendour streaks the skies,Where ruin marks its course:Then see how mild the font of dayExpands the stream of light;Whilst living by the genial ray,All nature smiles delight.So boisterous riot, on his courseUncurb'd by reason, flies;And lightning, like its fatal force,Soon lightning-like it dies:Whilst sober Temperance, still the same,Shall shun the scene of strife;And, like the sun's enlivening flame,Shall beam the lamp of life.Let noise and folly seek the reignWhere senseless riot rules;Let them enjoy the pleasures vainEnjoy'd alone by fools.Urban! those better joys be ours,Which virtuous science knows,To pass in milder bliss the hours,Nor fear the future woes.So when stern time their frames shall seize,When sorrow pays for sin;When every nerve shall feel disease,And conscience shrink within;Shall health's best blessings all be ours,The soul serene at ease,Whilst science gilds the passing hours,And every hour shall please.Even now from solitude they fly,To drown each thought in noise;Even now they shun Reflection's eye,Depriv'd of man's best joys.So, when Time's unrelenting doomShall bring the seasons' course,The busy monitor shall comeWith aggravated force.Friendship is ours: best friend, who knowsEach varied hour to employ;To share the lighted load of woes,And double every joy:And Science too shall lend her aid,The friend that never flies,But shines amid misfortune's shadeAs stars in midnight skies.Each joy domestic bliss can knowShall deck the future hour;Or if we taste the cup of woe,The cup has lost its power:Thus, may we live, 'till death's keen spear,Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come;Then sink, without one guilty fear,To slumber in the tomb.

So boisterous riot, on his courseUncurb'd by reason, flies;And lightning, like its fatal force,Soon lightning-like it dies:Whilst sober Temperance, still the same,Shall shun the scene of strife;And, like the sun's enlivening flame,Shall beam the lamp of life.

Let noise and folly seek the reignWhere senseless riot rules;Let them enjoy the pleasures vainEnjoy'd alone by fools.Urban! those better joys be ours,Which virtuous science knows,To pass in milder bliss the hours,Nor fear the future woes.

So when stern time their frames shall seize,When sorrow pays for sin;When every nerve shall feel disease,And conscience shrink within;Shall health's best blessings all be ours,The soul serene at ease,Whilst science gilds the passing hours,And every hour shall please.

Even now from solitude they fly,To drown each thought in noise;Even now they shun Reflection's eye,Depriv'd of man's best joys.So, when Time's unrelenting doomShall bring the seasons' course,The busy monitor shall comeWith aggravated force.

Friendship is ours: best friend, who knowsEach varied hour to employ;To share the lighted load of woes,And double every joy:And Science too shall lend her aid,The friend that never flies,But shines amid misfortune's shadeAs stars in midnight skies.

Each joy domestic bliss can knowShall deck the future hour;Or if we taste the cup of woe,The cup has lost its power:Thus, may we live, 'till death's keen spear,Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come;Then sink, without one guilty fear,To slumber in the tomb.

BION.

Vignette

Thou mouldering mansion, whose embattled sideShakes as about to fall at every blast;Once the gay pile of splendor, wealth, and pride,But now the monument of grandeur past.Fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time-trac'd walls,Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state;Each object, to the musing mind, recallsThe sad vicissitudes of varying fate.Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time,The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts;Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime,Where battening, undisturb'd, the foul toad sports.Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl,The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat;And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl,Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat.'Twas hereAvarodwelt, who daily toldHis useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy;Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold,And hid those stores he dreaded to employ.In vain to him benignant heaven bestow'dThe golden heaps to render thousands blest;Smooth aged penury's laborious road,And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast.For, like the serpent of romance, he laySleepless and stern to guard the golden sight;With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day,With causeless fears he agoniz'd by night.Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toilEnrich'd the ample fields this churl possest;Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil,With all his riches, wasAvaroblest?Rose he, like you, at morn devoid of fear,His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep?Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near,As calmly on his couch of down to sleep?Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul,What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave?What boots thy wealth above the world's controul,If riches doom their churlish lord a slave?Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls,Nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth;The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls,Nor blaz'd with hospitable fires the hearth.On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more,Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet;Nor when the accustom'd guest draws near the door,Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet.Sullen and sternAvarosat aloneIn anxious wealth amid the joyless hall,Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown,Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall.For desolation o'er the fabric dwells,And time, on restless pinion, hurried by;Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells,And thro' the shatter'd roof descends the sky.Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eyeDelights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom,And mark the daw from yonder turret fly,And muse how man himself creates his doom.For here had Justice reign'd, had Pity knownWith genial power to swayAvaro's breast,These treasur'd heaps which fortune made his own,By aiding misery might himself have blest.And Charity had oped her golden storeTo work the gracious will of heaven intent,Fed from her superflux the craving poor,And paid adversity what heaven had lent.Then had thy turrets stood in all their state,Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall,Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate,And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall.Then had the village youth at vernal hourHung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate,And blest in gratitude that sovereign powerThat made the man of mercy good as great.The traveller then to view thy towers had stood,Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name,And call'd on heaven to give thee every good,And told abroad thy hospitable fame.In every joy of life the hours had fled,Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by,'Till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head,Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die.And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd aroundThe ample wealth by lavish fortune given,Thy parted spirit had that justice found,And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven.

Thou mouldering mansion, whose embattled sideShakes as about to fall at every blast;Once the gay pile of splendor, wealth, and pride,But now the monument of grandeur past.

Fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time-trac'd walls,Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state;Each object, to the musing mind, recallsThe sad vicissitudes of varying fate.

Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time,The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts;Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime,Where battening, undisturb'd, the foul toad sports.

Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl,The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat;And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl,Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat.

'Twas hereAvarodwelt, who daily toldHis useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy;Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold,And hid those stores he dreaded to employ.

In vain to him benignant heaven bestow'dThe golden heaps to render thousands blest;Smooth aged penury's laborious road,And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast.

For, like the serpent of romance, he laySleepless and stern to guard the golden sight;With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day,With causeless fears he agoniz'd by night.

Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toilEnrich'd the ample fields this churl possest;Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil,With all his riches, wasAvaroblest?

Rose he, like you, at morn devoid of fear,His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep?Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near,As calmly on his couch of down to sleep?

Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul,What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave?What boots thy wealth above the world's controul,If riches doom their churlish lord a slave?

Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls,Nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth;The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls,Nor blaz'd with hospitable fires the hearth.

On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more,Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet;Nor when the accustom'd guest draws near the door,Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet.

Sullen and sternAvarosat aloneIn anxious wealth amid the joyless hall,Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown,Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall.

For desolation o'er the fabric dwells,And time, on restless pinion, hurried by;Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells,And thro' the shatter'd roof descends the sky.

Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eyeDelights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom,And mark the daw from yonder turret fly,And muse how man himself creates his doom.

For here had Justice reign'd, had Pity knownWith genial power to swayAvaro's breast,These treasur'd heaps which fortune made his own,By aiding misery might himself have blest.

And Charity had oped her golden storeTo work the gracious will of heaven intent,Fed from her superflux the craving poor,And paid adversity what heaven had lent.

Then had thy turrets stood in all their state,Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall,Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate,And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall.

Then had the village youth at vernal hourHung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate,And blest in gratitude that sovereign powerThat made the man of mercy good as great.

The traveller then to view thy towers had stood,Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name,And call'd on heaven to give thee every good,And told abroad thy hospitable fame.

In every joy of life the hours had fled,Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by,'Till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head,Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die.

And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd aroundThe ample wealth by lavish fortune given,Thy parted spirit had that justice found,And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven.

BION.

Vignette

'Mid mighty ruins mould'ring to decay,The letter'd traveller delights to roam;The antique pile or column to survey,And trace faint legends on the crumbling dome.They court proud cities of historic name,By desolation's giant arm subdu'd,And meditate the spot once dear to fame,Where Balbec flourish'd, or Palmyra stood.The muse delights to court a lone retreat,And far from these illustrious scenes to stray;Uprear'd by folly for ambition's seat,By vice and folly fall'n, now tottering to decay.She loves to meditate the humbler spot,Where untrick'd nature pours the rude sublime;Where rural hands have rear'd the rural cot,Decaying now beneath the touch of time."Yon farm-house totters, by the tempest beat,The marks of age its antique chimnies bear;Sure no sad master owns the cheerless seat,Say, passing shepherd, who has sojourn'd there?"'Forgive the sigh,' the rustic swain reply'd,'These desert scenes my happier days recall;Forgive the tears which down my cheeks yglide,For when I view this spot, my tears will fall.'Stranger!' said he, 'here late didGratiodwell,Hast thou not heard of good oldGratio's fame?Through all our village he was known full well,And even lisping infants spoke his name.'Twice twenty years I serv'd him as his hind,Twice twenty years for him I till'd the soil;I lov'd my master, for I found him kind,My task was easy, and I blest my toil.'He seem'd not master, but an equal friend;He join'd our labours in the field by day,And when the evening bade our labours end,He mingled freely in our rustic play.'Ah! well I knew him from his mother's arms,No youth so fair, so innocent, as he;His spring of life was deck'd with spring's best charms,His opening mind was like the blossom'd tree.'His riper years with riper fruits were crown'd,His mellow autumn blest with genial skies;His age, like winter's frost-ymantled ground,Where vigour still beneath the hoary surface lies.'For wealth or pow'r he breath'd no prayer to heav'n,Life's every blessing industry supplied;To him health, peace, and competence, were giv'n,And say, can virtue form a wish beside?'This once-lov'd spot recalls full many a joy,What cheer'd in youth old age will ne'er forget;But still must doat on memory's fond employ,And what it lov'd the most, the most regret.'The spreading elm that shadows o'er the yard,Its parted master to my view can call;And every object claims a soft regard,SinceGratio's memory sanctifies them all.'The shady bower in yonder elmy meads,The vocal thicket where the throstle sung,The little gate that through the garden leads,The fork now useless where the milk-pail hung.'ButGratio's dead, and desert is the scene,Gratio's no more, and every charm's decay'd;Those joys are fled which gladden'd once the green;But still fond fancy courts the fleeting shade,'Still dwells tenacious on those happier hours,When this lov'd spot with social joys was crown'd;When health, content, and innocence were ours,And pour'd the song of happiness around.'Then the glad houshold his return would greet,And winning welcome smil'd with accents bland;The faithful house-dog gambol'd round his feet,To court attention from his master's hand.'To clasp his knees the prattling infants ran,Proud from their sire to catch the earliest kiss;Oh! I have seen the parent bless the man,When only tears could speak his secret bliss.'But now he's dead, the thought demands a tear,I saw the good man yield his latest breath;He fell full ripen'd as the autumnal ear,Swept by the sickle of relentless death.'"Shepherd," said he, "my day of life is flown;"'Methinks ev'n now the faultering sound I hear:'"Lay my cold corse beneath some humble stone,And let no useless pomp attend my bier."'We try'd each healing art, but could not save;We bore his bier, the last sad debt to pay;No plumy hearse boreGratioto the grave,No pompous pile was rear'd around his clay.'All the sad village followed in the train,We laid his bones beneath yon yew-tree's shade;Our village curate grav'd the elegiac strain,And lo! the stone, the spot in which he's laid.'

'Mid mighty ruins mould'ring to decay,The letter'd traveller delights to roam;The antique pile or column to survey,And trace faint legends on the crumbling dome.

They court proud cities of historic name,By desolation's giant arm subdu'd,And meditate the spot once dear to fame,Where Balbec flourish'd, or Palmyra stood.

The muse delights to court a lone retreat,And far from these illustrious scenes to stray;Uprear'd by folly for ambition's seat,By vice and folly fall'n, now tottering to decay.

She loves to meditate the humbler spot,Where untrick'd nature pours the rude sublime;Where rural hands have rear'd the rural cot,Decaying now beneath the touch of time.

"Yon farm-house totters, by the tempest beat,The marks of age its antique chimnies bear;Sure no sad master owns the cheerless seat,Say, passing shepherd, who has sojourn'd there?"

'Forgive the sigh,' the rustic swain reply'd,'These desert scenes my happier days recall;Forgive the tears which down my cheeks yglide,For when I view this spot, my tears will fall.

'Stranger!' said he, 'here late didGratiodwell,Hast thou not heard of good oldGratio's fame?Through all our village he was known full well,And even lisping infants spoke his name.

'Twice twenty years I serv'd him as his hind,Twice twenty years for him I till'd the soil;I lov'd my master, for I found him kind,My task was easy, and I blest my toil.

'He seem'd not master, but an equal friend;He join'd our labours in the field by day,And when the evening bade our labours end,He mingled freely in our rustic play.

'Ah! well I knew him from his mother's arms,No youth so fair, so innocent, as he;His spring of life was deck'd with spring's best charms,His opening mind was like the blossom'd tree.

'His riper years with riper fruits were crown'd,His mellow autumn blest with genial skies;His age, like winter's frost-ymantled ground,Where vigour still beneath the hoary surface lies.

'For wealth or pow'r he breath'd no prayer to heav'n,Life's every blessing industry supplied;To him health, peace, and competence, were giv'n,And say, can virtue form a wish beside?

'This once-lov'd spot recalls full many a joy,What cheer'd in youth old age will ne'er forget;But still must doat on memory's fond employ,And what it lov'd the most, the most regret.

'The spreading elm that shadows o'er the yard,Its parted master to my view can call;And every object claims a soft regard,SinceGratio's memory sanctifies them all.

'The shady bower in yonder elmy meads,The vocal thicket where the throstle sung,The little gate that through the garden leads,The fork now useless where the milk-pail hung.

'ButGratio's dead, and desert is the scene,Gratio's no more, and every charm's decay'd;Those joys are fled which gladden'd once the green;But still fond fancy courts the fleeting shade,

'Still dwells tenacious on those happier hours,When this lov'd spot with social joys was crown'd;When health, content, and innocence were ours,And pour'd the song of happiness around.

'Then the glad houshold his return would greet,And winning welcome smil'd with accents bland;The faithful house-dog gambol'd round his feet,To court attention from his master's hand.

'To clasp his knees the prattling infants ran,Proud from their sire to catch the earliest kiss;Oh! I have seen the parent bless the man,When only tears could speak his secret bliss.

'But now he's dead, the thought demands a tear,I saw the good man yield his latest breath;He fell full ripen'd as the autumnal ear,Swept by the sickle of relentless death.'

"Shepherd," said he, "my day of life is flown;"'Methinks ev'n now the faultering sound I hear:'"Lay my cold corse beneath some humble stone,And let no useless pomp attend my bier."

'We try'd each healing art, but could not save;We bore his bier, the last sad debt to pay;No plumy hearse boreGratioto the grave,No pompous pile was rear'd around his clay.

'All the sad village followed in the train,We laid his bones beneath yon yew-tree's shade;Our village curate grav'd the elegiac strain,And lo! the stone, the spot in which he's laid.'

Vignette

HereGratiomingles with his kindred clay,Who liv'd contented, and who died resign'd;He let no slavish rules his actions sway,But the warm impulse of an honest mind.Of heav'n's free blessings he bestow'd a part,And open'd wide his hospitable gate;He fed the poor, for gen'rous was his heart;He sooth'd the sad, for pity was his mate.To him the boon of good old age was giv'n,And now, when parted from this world of woe,He rests in holy faith of God and heav'n,To meet that mercy which he gave below.

HereGratiomingles with his kindred clay,Who liv'd contented, and who died resign'd;He let no slavish rules his actions sway,But the warm impulse of an honest mind.

Of heav'n's free blessings he bestow'd a part,And open'd wide his hospitable gate;He fed the poor, for gen'rous was his heart;He sooth'd the sad, for pity was his mate.

To him the boon of good old age was giv'n,And now, when parted from this world of woe,He rests in holy faith of God and heav'n,To meet that mercy which he gave below.

MOSCHUS.

Vignette

How loves the mind to muse o'er long-past hours,While o'er the scene the swift ideas dance;How sweet absorb'd in memory's pleasing pow'rs,To wing the soul in retrospective glance!But nought avails the retrospective view,If calm reflection turn it not to good;In vain shall thought the backward theme pursue,If mind not profit by the theme pursu'd.Thus o'er some antique ruin, time-defac'd,The sons of science oft delight to stray,To trace the inscription on the desert waste,And pierce time's dark veil by its lucid ray.But vain the labours of the enquiring sage,If thence the mind no moral truth sublimes;Nor learns from heroes of a distant age,To love their virtues, and to shun their crimes.Beneath yon hillock, by the embow'ring grove,The once-fam'd convent's mouldering walls arise;Come, pensive muse, that lov'st these scenes to rove,Now rising vesper rules the evening skies!Explore the gloom with silent step, and slow,While musing melancholy hovers near;Haply from hence some moral truth may flow,And frame a song that virtue's self may hear.This sacred pile, for solitude design'd,To pious age might form a still retreat;But bigot zeal here rankled in the mind,And superstition fix'd her baneful seat.Yon pending column, moss ygrown and rude,Now torn by time, and faithless to its trust;Once mark'd the proud spot where a temple stood,And mystic rites made consecrate its dust.'Twere impious thought these cloister'd shades to roam,Or wake dull echo with one cheerful sound;No stranger eye might meditate the dome,No foot unhallow'd tread the sacred ground.But now ev'n here the slimy serpent crawls,And hence the gloom-born owlet wheels her way;Loud shrieks the hoarse bat from the hollow walls,And the gaunt night-wolf meditates his prey.As o'er the mind these varied visions steal,They speak instruction to the musing bard;From these vain efforts of religious zeal,How clear the moral, yet how few regard.In vain may priests their mystic rites repeat,The dome still moulders with th' unhallow'd dust;For virtue only consecrates her seat,Her sacred temple is the heart that's just.How dark the times when wily monks combin'd,And shrouded truth in superstitious gloom;Represt the noblest energies of mind,Prescrib'd man's path, and fix'd his final doom.If crimes untold some parting spirit felt,Persuasive gold to holy friar was giv'n;Low at the altar brib'd devotion knelt,And mammon wing'd the venal pray'r to heav'n.Succeeding ages saw their wealth increase,While self-denying poverty they feign'd;Secure they liv'd in luxury and ease,Nor kept those vigils which themselves ordain'd.Now the eighth Henry rul'd our rising isle,He saw their treasure, and he burnt t' enjoy;Destruction rag'd o'er each devoted pile,And wealth, that rais'd them, serv'd but to destroy.Thus burst one link of superstition's chain,The mind unfetter'd dar'd a nobler flight;Fair truth and reason reassum'd their reign,And pour'd a flood of intellectual light.How blest were man, had this diffusive beamSpread o'er the general world its lambent ray;Illum'd the shores where Volga pours its stream,And where the classic Tiber rolls its way.For there no gleam shot through th' impervious night,And there their seat the monkish zealots made;As the dull earth-worm shuns the realms of light,And courts in gloom obscure its native shade.Still in those regions superstition sways,In cloister'd shades see youth and beauty shrin'd;There unexcited energy decays,And genius dies that might have blest mankind.But soon ev'n here the illusive shade shall fail,And truth omnipotent assert its power;How joys the muse the coming dawn to hail,Oh! might her line facilitate the hour.Say, what is virtue, sages? Is it this?To quit the public weal, and guard our own:Is life's sole object individual bliss?Does man exist to bless himself alone?Have we no duties of a social kind?Is self-regard creation's noblest end?How then shall age its wonted succour find;The blind a leader, and the poor a friend?Say, ye recluse, who shun life's public road,Have ye not powers to mitigate distress;To ease affliction's bosom of its load,And make the sum of human misery less?This duty teaches to the human breast,And virtue bids us still her fires relume;Nor waste the flame, unblessing and unblest,As lamps that glimmer in sepulchral gloom.Who hides those talents bounteous heav'n bestow'dIn lone retreat, perverts great nature's plan,The path of duty is the social road,The sphere for action is the sphere for man.

How loves the mind to muse o'er long-past hours,While o'er the scene the swift ideas dance;How sweet absorb'd in memory's pleasing pow'rs,To wing the soul in retrospective glance!

But nought avails the retrospective view,If calm reflection turn it not to good;In vain shall thought the backward theme pursue,If mind not profit by the theme pursu'd.

Thus o'er some antique ruin, time-defac'd,The sons of science oft delight to stray,To trace the inscription on the desert waste,And pierce time's dark veil by its lucid ray.

But vain the labours of the enquiring sage,If thence the mind no moral truth sublimes;Nor learns from heroes of a distant age,To love their virtues, and to shun their crimes.

Beneath yon hillock, by the embow'ring grove,The once-fam'd convent's mouldering walls arise;Come, pensive muse, that lov'st these scenes to rove,Now rising vesper rules the evening skies!

Explore the gloom with silent step, and slow,While musing melancholy hovers near;Haply from hence some moral truth may flow,And frame a song that virtue's self may hear.

This sacred pile, for solitude design'd,To pious age might form a still retreat;But bigot zeal here rankled in the mind,And superstition fix'd her baneful seat.

Yon pending column, moss ygrown and rude,Now torn by time, and faithless to its trust;Once mark'd the proud spot where a temple stood,And mystic rites made consecrate its dust.

'Twere impious thought these cloister'd shades to roam,Or wake dull echo with one cheerful sound;No stranger eye might meditate the dome,No foot unhallow'd tread the sacred ground.

But now ev'n here the slimy serpent crawls,And hence the gloom-born owlet wheels her way;Loud shrieks the hoarse bat from the hollow walls,And the gaunt night-wolf meditates his prey.

As o'er the mind these varied visions steal,They speak instruction to the musing bard;From these vain efforts of religious zeal,How clear the moral, yet how few regard.

In vain may priests their mystic rites repeat,The dome still moulders with th' unhallow'd dust;For virtue only consecrates her seat,Her sacred temple is the heart that's just.

How dark the times when wily monks combin'd,And shrouded truth in superstitious gloom;Represt the noblest energies of mind,Prescrib'd man's path, and fix'd his final doom.

If crimes untold some parting spirit felt,Persuasive gold to holy friar was giv'n;Low at the altar brib'd devotion knelt,And mammon wing'd the venal pray'r to heav'n.

Succeeding ages saw their wealth increase,While self-denying poverty they feign'd;Secure they liv'd in luxury and ease,Nor kept those vigils which themselves ordain'd.

Now the eighth Henry rul'd our rising isle,He saw their treasure, and he burnt t' enjoy;Destruction rag'd o'er each devoted pile,And wealth, that rais'd them, serv'd but to destroy.

Thus burst one link of superstition's chain,The mind unfetter'd dar'd a nobler flight;Fair truth and reason reassum'd their reign,And pour'd a flood of intellectual light.

How blest were man, had this diffusive beamSpread o'er the general world its lambent ray;Illum'd the shores where Volga pours its stream,And where the classic Tiber rolls its way.

For there no gleam shot through th' impervious night,And there their seat the monkish zealots made;As the dull earth-worm shuns the realms of light,And courts in gloom obscure its native shade.

Still in those regions superstition sways,In cloister'd shades see youth and beauty shrin'd;There unexcited energy decays,And genius dies that might have blest mankind.

But soon ev'n here the illusive shade shall fail,And truth omnipotent assert its power;How joys the muse the coming dawn to hail,Oh! might her line facilitate the hour.

Say, what is virtue, sages? Is it this?To quit the public weal, and guard our own:Is life's sole object individual bliss?Does man exist to bless himself alone?

Have we no duties of a social kind?Is self-regard creation's noblest end?How then shall age its wonted succour find;The blind a leader, and the poor a friend?

Say, ye recluse, who shun life's public road,Have ye not powers to mitigate distress;To ease affliction's bosom of its load,And make the sum of human misery less?

This duty teaches to the human breast,And virtue bids us still her fires relume;Nor waste the flame, unblessing and unblest,As lamps that glimmer in sepulchral gloom.

Who hides those talents bounteous heav'n bestow'dIn lone retreat, perverts great nature's plan,The path of duty is the social road,The sphere for action is the sphere for man.

MOSCHUS.

Vignette

God of the torch, whose soul-illuming flameBeams brightest radiance o'er the human heart;Of every woe the cure,Of every joy the source;To thee I sing: if haply may the musePour forth the song unblam'd from these dull haunts,Where never beams thy torchTo cheer the sullen scene;From these dull haunts, where monkish science holds,In sullen gloom her solitary reign;And spurns the reign of love,And spurns thy genial sway.God of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye,Whose soft sweet gaze thrills thro' the bounding heart,With no unholy joyI pour the lay to thee.I pour the lay to thee, though haply doom'dIn solitary woe to waste my years;Though doom'd perchance to dieUnlov'd and unbewail'd.Yet will the lark, in iron cage inthrall'd,Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun,As wide his brilliant beamIllumes the landskip round;As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heardThe feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn,And hails the beam of joy,Of joy to her denied.Friend to each noblest feeling of the soul,To thee I hymn, for every joy is thine;And every virtue comesTo join thy generous train.Lur'd by the splendor of thy beamy torch,Beacon of bliss, young love expands his plumes,And leads his willing slavesTo wear thy flowery bands;And then he yields the follies of his reign,Throws down the torch that scorches up the soul,And lights the purer flameThat glows serene with thee.And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest swayShall cheer the hour of age, when fainter beamThe fading flame of love,The fading flame of life.Parent of every bliss! the busy soulOf Fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues,How calm, how clear, thy torchIllumes the wintry hour;Will paint the wearied labourer, at that hourWhen friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,Returning blithely homeTo each domestic joy;Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal mealPrepar'd by fond solicitude to please,The ruddy children roundThat climb the father's knee:And oft will Fancy rise above the lotOf honest poverty, oft paint the stateWhere happiest man is blestWith mediocrity;When toil, no longer irksome and constrain'dBy hard necessity, but comes to please,To vary the still hourOf tranquil happiness.Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scenePouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet!Soothe sad realityWith visionary bliss?Ah! rather gaze where science' hallow'd lightResplendent shines: ah! rather lead thy sonThrough all her mystic pathsTo drink the sacred spring.Let calm philosophy supply the void,And fill the vacant heart; lead calmly onAlong the unvaried path,To age's drear abode;And teach how dreadful death to happiness,What thousand horrors wait the last adieu,When every tie is broke,And every charm dissolv'd.Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretchWho wanes in solitary listlessness,Nor knows the joys of life,Nor knows the dread of death.

God of the torch, whose soul-illuming flameBeams brightest radiance o'er the human heart;Of every woe the cure,Of every joy the source;

To thee I sing: if haply may the musePour forth the song unblam'd from these dull haunts,Where never beams thy torchTo cheer the sullen scene;

From these dull haunts, where monkish science holds,In sullen gloom her solitary reign;And spurns the reign of love,And spurns thy genial sway.

God of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye,Whose soft sweet gaze thrills thro' the bounding heart,With no unholy joyI pour the lay to thee.

I pour the lay to thee, though haply doom'dIn solitary woe to waste my years;Though doom'd perchance to dieUnlov'd and unbewail'd.

Yet will the lark, in iron cage inthrall'd,Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun,As wide his brilliant beamIllumes the landskip round;

As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heardThe feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn,And hails the beam of joy,Of joy to her denied.

Friend to each noblest feeling of the soul,To thee I hymn, for every joy is thine;And every virtue comesTo join thy generous train.

Lur'd by the splendor of thy beamy torch,Beacon of bliss, young love expands his plumes,And leads his willing slavesTo wear thy flowery bands;

And then he yields the follies of his reign,Throws down the torch that scorches up the soul,And lights the purer flameThat glows serene with thee.

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest swayShall cheer the hour of age, when fainter beamThe fading flame of love,The fading flame of life.

Parent of every bliss! the busy soulOf Fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues,How calm, how clear, thy torchIllumes the wintry hour;

Will paint the wearied labourer, at that hourWhen friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,Returning blithely homeTo each domestic joy;

Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal mealPrepar'd by fond solicitude to please,The ruddy children roundThat climb the father's knee:

And oft will Fancy rise above the lotOf honest poverty, oft paint the stateWhere happiest man is blestWith mediocrity;

When toil, no longer irksome and constrain'dBy hard necessity, but comes to please,To vary the still hourOf tranquil happiness.

Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scenePouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet!Soothe sad realityWith visionary bliss?

Ah! rather gaze where science' hallow'd lightResplendent shines: ah! rather lead thy sonThrough all her mystic pathsTo drink the sacred spring.

Let calm philosophy supply the void,And fill the vacant heart; lead calmly onAlong the unvaried path,To age's drear abode;

And teach how dreadful death to happiness,What thousand horrors wait the last adieu,When every tie is broke,And every charm dissolv'd.

Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretchWho wanes in solitary listlessness,Nor knows the joys of life,Nor knows the dread of death.

BION.

Vignette

"Lay low yon impious trappings on the ground,Bend, superstition, bend thy haughty head,Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:"Thus from his firm-establish'd throne,Replete with vengeful fury,Henrysaid.High Reformation lifts her iron rod,But lo! with stern and threatful mien,Fury and rancour desolate the scene,Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod.Ah! hold awhile your angry hands;Ah! here delay your king's commands,For Hospitality will feel the wound!In vain the voice of reason cries,Whilst uncontroul'd the regal mandate flies.Thou,Avalon! in whose polluted wombThe patriot monarch found his narrow tomb;Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique headWith niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread,Stood the memorial of the pious age?Where wont the hospitable fireIn cheering volumes to aspire,And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage.Low lie thy turrets now,The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth;The dome which luxury yrear'd,Though Hospitality was there rever'd,Now, from its shatter'd brow,With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth.Ye minstrel throng,In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire,No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre:The walls, whose trophied sides alongOnce rung the harp's energic sound,Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground;No more the bold romantic loreShall spread from Thule's distant shore;No more intrepid Cambria's hills among,In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song.Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child,Where shall we seek thee now?Genius! no more thy influence mildShall gild Affliction's clouded brow;No more thy cheering smiles impartOne ray of joy to Sorrow's heart;No more within the lordly pileWilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile.Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays,Where hangs the row in sullen showOf heroes and of chiefs of ancient days,The gaudy toil of Turkish loomShall decorate the stately room;Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye,Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by.Not so where o'er the desart waste of sandSpeds the rude Arab wild his wandering way;Leads on to rapine his intrepid band,And claims the wealth of India for his prey;There, when the wilder'd traveller distrestHolds to the robber forth the friendly hand,The generous Arab gives the tent of rest,Guards him as the fond mother guards her child,Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild.Not so amid those climes where rolls alongThe Oroonoko deep his mighty flood;Where rove amid their woods the savage throng,Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood;Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snakeThat sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake,Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear;Patient of hunger, and of pain,Close in their haunts the chiefs remain,And lift in secret stand the deadly spear.Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near,And proffering forth the friendly hand,Claim their protection from the warrior band;The savage Indians bid their anger cease,Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace.Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdrawsTo fashion's circle, far from nature's laws,How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast!Cold Prudence comes, relentless foe!Forbids the pitying tear to flow,And steels the soul of apathy to rest;Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne,And deems of other bosoms by her own.

Thou,Avalon! in whose polluted wombThe patriot monarch found his narrow tomb;Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique headWith niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread,Stood the memorial of the pious age?Where wont the hospitable fireIn cheering volumes to aspire,And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage.Low lie thy turrets now,The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth;The dome which luxury yrear'd,Though Hospitality was there rever'd,Now, from its shatter'd brow,With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth.

Ye minstrel throng,In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire,No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre:The walls, whose trophied sides alongOnce rung the harp's energic sound,Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground;No more the bold romantic loreShall spread from Thule's distant shore;No more intrepid Cambria's hills among,In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song.

Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child,Where shall we seek thee now?Genius! no more thy influence mildShall gild Affliction's clouded brow;No more thy cheering smiles impartOne ray of joy to Sorrow's heart;No more within the lordly pileWilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile.

Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays,Where hangs the row in sullen showOf heroes and of chiefs of ancient days,The gaudy toil of Turkish loomShall decorate the stately room;Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye,Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by.

Not so where o'er the desart waste of sandSpeds the rude Arab wild his wandering way;Leads on to rapine his intrepid band,And claims the wealth of India for his prey;There, when the wilder'd traveller distrestHolds to the robber forth the friendly hand,The generous Arab gives the tent of rest,Guards him as the fond mother guards her child,Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild.

Not so amid those climes where rolls alongThe Oroonoko deep his mighty flood;Where rove amid their woods the savage throng,Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood;Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snakeThat sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake,Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear;Patient of hunger, and of pain,Close in their haunts the chiefs remain,And lift in secret stand the deadly spear.Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near,And proffering forth the friendly hand,Claim their protection from the warrior band;The savage Indians bid their anger cease,Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace.

Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdrawsTo fashion's circle, far from nature's laws,How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast!Cold Prudence comes, relentless foe!Forbids the pitying tear to flow,And steels the soul of apathy to rest;Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne,And deems of other bosoms by her own.

BION.

Sonnets

Ariste! soon to sojourn with the crowd,In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go;Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show,Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud.I go: but still my soul remains with thee,Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms,Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see,And every pulse will vibrate with alarms.When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale,When envy at a rival's beauty sighs,When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail,And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes,I turn my wearied soul to her for ease,Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please.

BION.

Vignette

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