ODE

Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eyeNew joys, anticipated, ever play;Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent swayThe moral elements of life comply;At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease,And settle into order, beauty, peace;How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hourWhich gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power!Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky,Invested with her own all-cheering ray,To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fateWhich long had shrouded this terrestrial state,What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair,Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer:Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide,And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide.From the veil'd awful future, to her viewScenes of immortal bliss thou didst disclose;With faith's rapt eye she hail'd the vision true,Spurn'd the base earth, and smiled upon her woes.Thou Sovereign of the human soulWhose influence rules without controul!Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear,Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrainsThe shuddering spirit in his icy chains:O Hope! be thou for ever near;Keep the dread tyrant far away,And all my willing, grateful bosom sway.Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet,In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet,And fondly passive to thy dictates, deemThose smiling hours all heavenly as they seem:Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood,With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car,And 'gainst me summon all her host to war,Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude,With his well-tempered shieldTo brave the threatening field.Amid that scene of woes and mental strifeLet thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear,Inviting Fancy far from mortal life,To wander, blest, her own-created sphere.Do thou her glowing thought possess,And let her fairy pencil draw,Free, and unconscious of thy law,Fair images of Happiness;Of that celestial form which lives imprestIndelible, eternal, in thy breast.E'en in the dead calm of the mind,When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind;O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play,The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray!

Thou Sovereign of the human soulWhose influence rules without controul!Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear,Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrainsThe shuddering spirit in his icy chains:O Hope! be thou for ever near;Keep the dread tyrant far away,And all my willing, grateful bosom sway.Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet,In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet,And fondly passive to thy dictates, deemThose smiling hours all heavenly as they seem:Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood,With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car,And 'gainst me summon all her host to war,Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude,With his well-tempered shieldTo brave the threatening field.Amid that scene of woes and mental strifeLet thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear,Inviting Fancy far from mortal life,To wander, blest, her own-created sphere.Do thou her glowing thought possess,And let her fairy pencil draw,Free, and unconscious of thy law,Fair images of Happiness;Of that celestial form which lives imprestIndelible, eternal, in thy breast.E'en in the dead calm of the mind,When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind;O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play,The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray!

This, this is inspiration's hour!Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul,Rouses her every sense, her every power,And with a force too mighty to controulInspires the warm, enthusiastic song:Now will I sing, O Wellington! of thee;To thee my plausive strains, of right, belong;For thee my lyre shall pour its choicest harmony.Long have I fondly mused the theme sublime;And from my grateful heart of patriot flameIn secret, offer'd incense to thy name;But dared not with unhallow'd rhymeProfane the British Hero's fame.Thrice welcome this propitious time!Now, joining with my Country's minstrel-band,Thy deeds, O Wellington! will I rehearseIn lofty never-dying verse,To which Britannia's self shall deignTo lend a listening ear,While in thy military, swift careerTriumphantly she leads thee by the hand,And proudly thrones thee high in glory's fane.In yonder eastern climes afarWhat dawning light attracts the Muse's eye?—She feels the influence of her ruling star,And with an eagle's gaze, an eagle's wings,As to Apollo's self, transported, springs—'Tis Wellington in Victory's brilliant car,Who his triumphal progress has begun;Around him honour's sunShoots forth its orient ray:In wondering India's skyHe rises like the God of day.Greet him, O England! greet thy conquering Son!O! could'st thou but foreseeThe events of dark futurity,How would'st thou, then, adore the name of Wellington!Know!—he shall soon thy thunders wieldIn many a European field,Confound thy haughty foes with dread amaze,And fill the dazzled world with his meridian blaze.To Europe's frighten'd eyesWhat scenes of horror rise!See, from the darkness of the infernal world,Where with the rebel demons he was hurl'd,See, Revolution rears his hydra-head!Ill-fated Gallia is his destined prey.Thither the Monster makes his furious way;And with a loud, ferocious yell,That strikes the earth with dread,And spreads delight through hell,He summons all his hideous train,To strengthen and support his reign.Broke are the bonds of social life,All kindred, all domestic ties;Mid scenes of anarchy and civil strife,Mid plots, cabals, and murderous rivalries,Eager for prey, with licence unconfinedRange the fierce Passions of the human mind,Ambition, Avarice, Anger, Vengeance, Hate:With frantic men rejoicing devils howl,And all hell's ravenous blood-hounds barking prowl.O could oblivion veil that direst page of fate!The revolutionary storm subsides.—Lo! now, proud Gallia's Genius towers on high;O'er half Europa he already strides,And glorying in his might threats earth and sky;The neighbouring nations, vanquish'd to his sway,Like abject slaves his tyrant power obey.What conqueror leads the Gallic armies on?Fortune's loved child, Ambition's darling son,'Tis the French Emperor, great Napoleon:And subject to his high imperial will,His warlike marshals his commands fulfil.What can resist their overwhelming force?Has Liberty no succour? no resource?She has! she has! O save her, Wellington!Ere yet unhappy Spain be forced to yield,Fly with Britannic forces to the field,And pluck the noblest palm thou yet hast won.The memory of Talavera's dayStill strikes our foes with wonder and dismay;There did the Briton soldier boldly claimThe honour due to his illustrious name.On Torres-Vedras' height,Like Jove upon the Olympian steep,When he defied the Giant-race to fight,Thy station calmly didst thou keep,Despite the vengeful threats of boasting France.How didst thou long to see her powers advance!But no: the veteran Chief, Massena, fled.Swiftly thy ardent troops his flight pursue;His soldiers fall in crowds; Confusion, Fear,And Slaughter dog them in the rear;Famine and Desolation meet their van.Spaniard with Portuguese in vengeance vies;New toils they still encounter, dangers new,Thus Fortune's Favourite, this unconquer'd manAccomplishes his haughty boast:Home he returns with less than half his host;His baggage, ordnance, thine, brave Wellington!And all his wreaths in former warfare won.So Albion, throned upon her rocky seat,Sees the proud-swelling billows idly beat;Resistance needs not their assaults to foil;Shrinking into themselves, they straight recoil,Leaving foam, dirt, and sea-weed at her feet.On Douro's banksMethinks I view the hostile, threatening ranks;The Lord of war to battle calls:—Hark! through the affrighted skyBursts the dread cannons' roar;While thousand slaughterous ballsIn vollies whizzing fly.See, see, the Gallic Captain falls!His bold achievements now are o'er.The Britons shout, and rush into the field;The French dishearten'd yield:What heaps of wounded, slain,O'er all the encumber'd plain!They now resist no more.—Hail Wellington!The battle's won!The voices of Renown the tidings spread:Exulting England echoes thy applause;Ambitious Gallia hears thy name with dread;While European Freedom lifts her head,And hails the great Defender of her cause.Hero of England, with admiring eyesWe trace in thee the noble qualitiesThat constitute the Chief complete:In others, oft, they singly shine;In thee they all united meet,And in one galaxy their rays combine.Nature has given thee an intrepid heart,That ever glows with patriotic flame,And with the impassion'd love of martial fame.And gifted, too, thou artWith a strong, hardy frame,Patient of toils and hardships. In thy mindDeep judgment with sagacity we find;Coolness and firmness in rare union join'd.In tactics versed, in all the rules of art,By long experience taught, thou play'st the Chieftain's part.Lo, now! in vision rapt, I viewThe far-famed plains of Waterloo.As slowly, dimly dawns the morning-light,Around the battle-field I cast my sight;Thrill'd with delight severe, with awe opprest,My labouring heart throbs wildly in my breast.Hail fellow-countrymen! I trust in you,And in your great Commander too;Hail valiant Britons! hail brave Wellington!Full many a conquest have ye gain'd;O! may another, now, be soon obtain'd!But yonder see the great Napoleon!Secure of victory he proudly stands,Surrounded by his choicest veteran bands,Who welcome with loud shouts their long-loved Chief,From Elba's isle return'd, from exile brief;They idolize him as the warrior-God,And burn with zeal to obey his voice, his nod.The opponent armies on each other gaze,And look defiance though the view dismays.Sudden the French artillery rends the skies;And the Britannic instantly replies;Hundreds of brazen throats shoot forth afarTheir iron globes, those thunderbolts of war;Hundreds of soldiers fall upon the plain;Some shot, expire; more, wounded, writhe in pain.The cavalries to combat fiercely dash,And like two comets 'gainst each other clash;Horses and men roll mingled on the ground,Confusion, slaughter, horror all around.Regiments of infantry form quick the square,And the fierce-charging horsemen firmly dare;In vain to break them every means they try,The troops well-disciplined, the attempts defy.Long time in dread suspense the strife remains,While heaps of dead and wounded load the plains.Angel of Britain! guard our Hero's life!On that, on that depends the upshot of the fight.How does Napoleon's soul indignant burn!Resolving, now, his last resource to try,And urge his desperate way to victory,He straight commands a vast, o'erpowering forceOf infantry, artillery, and horse,The centre of his stubborn foe to turn.Ah! now tremendous grows the strife,On either side they war as Furies now;What deluges of blood! what waste of life!How will the mighty struggle finish?—how?—Thank heaven! 'tis o'er,—the French, driven back, retire;Again I breathe—more freely I respire.Lo! Bulow with the Prussian force appears!The British Chief with joy his cannon hears,And, flush'd with confidence, exulting cries,We'll conquer yet; advance, my friends, advance!Shouting they spring upon their enemies;See, Wellington! the great Napoleon flies!—Britannia, yet again, has triumph'd over France!

In yonder eastern climes afarWhat dawning light attracts the Muse's eye?—She feels the influence of her ruling star,And with an eagle's gaze, an eagle's wings,As to Apollo's self, transported, springs—'Tis Wellington in Victory's brilliant car,Who his triumphal progress has begun;Around him honour's sunShoots forth its orient ray:In wondering India's skyHe rises like the God of day.Greet him, O England! greet thy conquering Son!O! could'st thou but foreseeThe events of dark futurity,How would'st thou, then, adore the name of Wellington!Know!—he shall soon thy thunders wieldIn many a European field,Confound thy haughty foes with dread amaze,And fill the dazzled world with his meridian blaze.

To Europe's frighten'd eyesWhat scenes of horror rise!See, from the darkness of the infernal world,Where with the rebel demons he was hurl'd,See, Revolution rears his hydra-head!Ill-fated Gallia is his destined prey.Thither the Monster makes his furious way;And with a loud, ferocious yell,That strikes the earth with dread,And spreads delight through hell,He summons all his hideous train,To strengthen and support his reign.Broke are the bonds of social life,All kindred, all domestic ties;Mid scenes of anarchy and civil strife,Mid plots, cabals, and murderous rivalries,Eager for prey, with licence unconfinedRange the fierce Passions of the human mind,Ambition, Avarice, Anger, Vengeance, Hate:With frantic men rejoicing devils howl,And all hell's ravenous blood-hounds barking prowl.O could oblivion veil that direst page of fate!The revolutionary storm subsides.—Lo! now, proud Gallia's Genius towers on high;O'er half Europa he already strides,And glorying in his might threats earth and sky;The neighbouring nations, vanquish'd to his sway,Like abject slaves his tyrant power obey.What conqueror leads the Gallic armies on?Fortune's loved child, Ambition's darling son,'Tis the French Emperor, great Napoleon:And subject to his high imperial will,His warlike marshals his commands fulfil.What can resist their overwhelming force?Has Liberty no succour? no resource?She has! she has! O save her, Wellington!Ere yet unhappy Spain be forced to yield,Fly with Britannic forces to the field,And pluck the noblest palm thou yet hast won.

The memory of Talavera's dayStill strikes our foes with wonder and dismay;There did the Briton soldier boldly claimThe honour due to his illustrious name.

On Torres-Vedras' height,Like Jove upon the Olympian steep,When he defied the Giant-race to fight,Thy station calmly didst thou keep,Despite the vengeful threats of boasting France.How didst thou long to see her powers advance!But no: the veteran Chief, Massena, fled.Swiftly thy ardent troops his flight pursue;His soldiers fall in crowds; Confusion, Fear,And Slaughter dog them in the rear;Famine and Desolation meet their van.Spaniard with Portuguese in vengeance vies;New toils they still encounter, dangers new,Thus Fortune's Favourite, this unconquer'd manAccomplishes his haughty boast:Home he returns with less than half his host;His baggage, ordnance, thine, brave Wellington!And all his wreaths in former warfare won.

So Albion, throned upon her rocky seat,Sees the proud-swelling billows idly beat;Resistance needs not their assaults to foil;Shrinking into themselves, they straight recoil,Leaving foam, dirt, and sea-weed at her feet.

On Douro's banksMethinks I view the hostile, threatening ranks;The Lord of war to battle calls:—Hark! through the affrighted skyBursts the dread cannons' roar;While thousand slaughterous ballsIn vollies whizzing fly.See, see, the Gallic Captain falls!His bold achievements now are o'er.The Britons shout, and rush into the field;The French dishearten'd yield:What heaps of wounded, slain,O'er all the encumber'd plain!They now resist no more.—Hail Wellington!The battle's won!The voices of Renown the tidings spread:Exulting England echoes thy applause;Ambitious Gallia hears thy name with dread;While European Freedom lifts her head,And hails the great Defender of her cause.Hero of England, with admiring eyesWe trace in thee the noble qualitiesThat constitute the Chief complete:In others, oft, they singly shine;In thee they all united meet,And in one galaxy their rays combine.

Nature has given thee an intrepid heart,That ever glows with patriotic flame,And with the impassion'd love of martial fame.And gifted, too, thou artWith a strong, hardy frame,Patient of toils and hardships. In thy mindDeep judgment with sagacity we find;Coolness and firmness in rare union join'd.In tactics versed, in all the rules of art,By long experience taught, thou play'st the Chieftain's part.

Lo, now! in vision rapt, I viewThe far-famed plains of Waterloo.As slowly, dimly dawns the morning-light,Around the battle-field I cast my sight;Thrill'd with delight severe, with awe opprest,My labouring heart throbs wildly in my breast.Hail fellow-countrymen! I trust in you,And in your great Commander too;Hail valiant Britons! hail brave Wellington!Full many a conquest have ye gain'd;O! may another, now, be soon obtain'd!But yonder see the great Napoleon!Secure of victory he proudly stands,Surrounded by his choicest veteran bands,Who welcome with loud shouts their long-loved Chief,From Elba's isle return'd, from exile brief;They idolize him as the warrior-God,And burn with zeal to obey his voice, his nod.The opponent armies on each other gaze,And look defiance though the view dismays.

Sudden the French artillery rends the skies;And the Britannic instantly replies;Hundreds of brazen throats shoot forth afarTheir iron globes, those thunderbolts of war;Hundreds of soldiers fall upon the plain;Some shot, expire; more, wounded, writhe in pain.The cavalries to combat fiercely dash,And like two comets 'gainst each other clash;Horses and men roll mingled on the ground,Confusion, slaughter, horror all around.Regiments of infantry form quick the square,And the fierce-charging horsemen firmly dare;In vain to break them every means they try,The troops well-disciplined, the attempts defy.Long time in dread suspense the strife remains,While heaps of dead and wounded load the plains.

Angel of Britain! guard our Hero's life!On that, on that depends the upshot of the fight.How does Napoleon's soul indignant burn!Resolving, now, his last resource to try,And urge his desperate way to victory,He straight commands a vast, o'erpowering forceOf infantry, artillery, and horse,The centre of his stubborn foe to turn.Ah! now tremendous grows the strife,On either side they war as Furies now;What deluges of blood! what waste of life!How will the mighty struggle finish?—how?—Thank heaven! 'tis o'er,—the French, driven back, retire;Again I breathe—more freely I respire.Lo! Bulow with the Prussian force appears!The British Chief with joy his cannon hears,And, flush'd with confidence, exulting cries,We'll conquer yet; advance, my friends, advance!Shouting they spring upon their enemies;See, Wellington! the great Napoleon flies!—Britannia, yet again, has triumph'd over France!

'Tis night:—the busy, ceaseless noise of dayNo more is heard; the now-deserted-streetsLie dark and silent;—London's weary swarmsRest in profound repose. Hark! a loud cryFrightens the silence;—'tis the cry of fire!I hear the dissonance of rattling wheels,The tread of hasty feet, the doleful sighOf sympathy, and terror's thrilling shriek:—O mercy heaven!—Behold the fiery Pest!See, how the flames climb up the lofty walls,Involve their prey, and greedily devour:The crowd exert their efforts to controulThe spreading bane; some labour to supplyThe numerous engines; others bear aloftThe pliant tubes, guiding their watery storeAmid the fiercer fire; on ladders someAscending, scale the walls, and undeterr'd,Their dangerous office ply; some wildly hasteTo save their properties: 'tis bustle all,And noisy tumult. Doubtful for a timeThe strife remains; where'er the Burning windsHis flamy spires, the well-directed streams,Incessant spouting, damp the sickening flames,Repelling their advance; but, oft repulsed,As oft they rally with recruited strength:Alternate in the mind rise hope and fear.Tumbles a roof with clattering noise, the skyLightens, a burst of clamour!—all is hush'dIn awful stillness, save that from beneathThe ruins fall'n is heard a muttering sound,As if the Demon of the elementIn indignation menaced dire revenge.Ah! now, unchain'd by some mysterious Power,Some Fiend of air, in league with That of fire,The wind begins to howl; its breath awakesThe sleepy flames;—loud and more loud it howls,And rushes on them with collected might;Before the driving spirit burst the flamesIn a redoubled tempest, and derideOpposing man. See! how they proudly tossTheir many heads on high, and through the vaultOf darkness fling a sad, malignant day:Look! with what fury, what resistless rage,From street to street the fiery Deluge poursHis rapid billows, swallowing everythingIn horrible destruction; lowly roofs,And gorgeous mansions, lofty spires and domesCapacious, on whose fair, majestic tops,As on her throne exalted, Art assumedHer noblest honours, whose firm pillars bravedStorms, and the still-corroding course of years;These, these with all their wealth, the various storesOf luxury and commerce, to the flamesAbandon'd, sink an undefended prey,Swelling the general wreck; unheeded sinkBy their possessors, flying for their lives:Cries, groans, laments, on every side resound.Sudden a magazine of nitrous grainBursts in a blazing column to the clouds;The dread explosion shakes the solid ground,And through the skies in lengthening thunder rolls:Driven by the furious overwhelming blastTo distance round, the burning fragments fallOn every side; see, see, yon ships catch fire,Their rigging's in a blaze; affrighted ThamesShrinks from the sight; his waters cast a gleamPortentous, dismal, like the light of hell.Before the Conflagration numbers flyFrighted, in throngs precipitate, to seekA refuge in the distant fields secure,Which, cover'd thick with victims of distress,Present a wretched world. There Youth, surprisedBy hard experience, learns, alas! too soonThe destiny of Man; and from those eyesWhere expectation and unclouded joySerenely shone, the streams of sorrow flow:There helpless Age, robb'd of the scanty meansA life of labour earn'd, driven from his homeTo wander, destitute, the vale of years,Yields to despondence, tears his hoary locks,Falls on the ground, and eagerly imploresRest in the grave: there, gazing on the fires,The tender Mother stands,—her frenzied soulGlares from her look, her bosom heaves a groan,She hugs her crying infant to her heart,Despairing, lost: what countless forms of wo!Lethargic some, and mute; some, giving looseTo their distracted feelings, rave aloudIn all the clamorous vehemence of grief.The din subsides;—a voice, distinctly heard,A frantic voice exclaims, my child! my child!My child is in the flames!—Oh! horrible!—What succour? what resource? the roaring windMore fiercely blows, the Burning pours along,The skies are lighten'd, Uproar opens wideHis thousand mouths, Danger and Ruin prowlAt large with boundless license, all is doubtAnd consternation, one tempestuous seaOf wretchedness, one chaos of despair.Seized with wild fear Imagination seesThe elements broke loose, Time on the brinkOf dread Eternity, with all the signsOf that tremendous period when the deadShall rise to judgment—hush'd in solemn awe—Listening the trump of doom.—Thus raged the storm,Till the great God of heaven in mercy badeThe wind be silent, bade the gathering cloudsPour down abundant rain; the raging Fires,In prompt obedience to the sovereign willOf their Creator, dwindled and expired.

Behold the fiery Pest!See, how the flames climb up the lofty walls,Involve their prey, and greedily devour:The crowd exert their efforts to controulThe spreading bane; some labour to supplyThe numerous engines; others bear aloftThe pliant tubes, guiding their watery storeAmid the fiercer fire; on ladders someAscending, scale the walls, and undeterr'd,Their dangerous office ply; some wildly hasteTo save their properties: 'tis bustle all,And noisy tumult. Doubtful for a timeThe strife remains; where'er the Burning windsHis flamy spires, the well-directed streams,Incessant spouting, damp the sickening flames,Repelling their advance; but, oft repulsed,As oft they rally with recruited strength:Alternate in the mind rise hope and fear.Tumbles a roof with clattering noise, the skyLightens, a burst of clamour!—all is hush'dIn awful stillness, save that from beneathThe ruins fall'n is heard a muttering sound,As if the Demon of the elementIn indignation menaced dire revenge.Ah! now, unchain'd by some mysterious Power,Some Fiend of air, in league with That of fire,The wind begins to howl; its breath awakesThe sleepy flames;—loud and more loud it howls,And rushes on them with collected might;Before the driving spirit burst the flamesIn a redoubled tempest, and derideOpposing man. See! how they proudly tossTheir many heads on high, and through the vaultOf darkness fling a sad, malignant day:Look! with what fury, what resistless rage,From street to street the fiery Deluge poursHis rapid billows, swallowing everythingIn horrible destruction; lowly roofs,And gorgeous mansions, lofty spires and domesCapacious, on whose fair, majestic tops,As on her throne exalted, Art assumedHer noblest honours, whose firm pillars bravedStorms, and the still-corroding course of years;These, these with all their wealth, the various storesOf luxury and commerce, to the flamesAbandon'd, sink an undefended prey,Swelling the general wreck; unheeded sinkBy their possessors, flying for their lives:Cries, groans, laments, on every side resound.

Sudden a magazine of nitrous grainBursts in a blazing column to the clouds;The dread explosion shakes the solid ground,And through the skies in lengthening thunder rolls:Driven by the furious overwhelming blastTo distance round, the burning fragments fallOn every side; see, see, yon ships catch fire,Their rigging's in a blaze; affrighted ThamesShrinks from the sight; his waters cast a gleamPortentous, dismal, like the light of hell.

Before the Conflagration numbers flyFrighted, in throngs precipitate, to seekA refuge in the distant fields secure,Which, cover'd thick with victims of distress,Present a wretched world. There Youth, surprisedBy hard experience, learns, alas! too soonThe destiny of Man; and from those eyesWhere expectation and unclouded joySerenely shone, the streams of sorrow flow:There helpless Age, robb'd of the scanty meansA life of labour earn'd, driven from his homeTo wander, destitute, the vale of years,Yields to despondence, tears his hoary locks,Falls on the ground, and eagerly imploresRest in the grave: there, gazing on the fires,The tender Mother stands,—her frenzied soulGlares from her look, her bosom heaves a groan,She hugs her crying infant to her heart,Despairing, lost: what countless forms of wo!Lethargic some, and mute; some, giving looseTo their distracted feelings, rave aloudIn all the clamorous vehemence of grief.

The din subsides;—a voice, distinctly heard,A frantic voice exclaims, my child! my child!My child is in the flames!—Oh! horrible!—What succour? what resource? the roaring windMore fiercely blows, the Burning pours along,The skies are lighten'd, Uproar opens wideHis thousand mouths, Danger and Ruin prowlAt large with boundless license, all is doubtAnd consternation, one tempestuous seaOf wretchedness, one chaos of despair.

Seized with wild fear Imagination seesThe elements broke loose, Time on the brinkOf dread Eternity, with all the signsOf that tremendous period when the deadShall rise to judgment—hush'd in solemn awe—Listening the trump of doom.—

Thus raged the storm,Till the great God of heaven in mercy badeThe wind be silent, bade the gathering cloudsPour down abundant rain; the raging Fires,In prompt obedience to the sovereign willOf their Creator, dwindled and expired.

Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born trainThat o'er the varying year alternate reign;Whose eye, soft-beaming with thy father's fire,Fond Nature woos with ever-fresh desire,Enchanting Spring! O let thy votary's layInvite thy angel smile, thy genial sway!Still do thy beauties, to my partial heart,Whene'er I gaze, superior joys impart:When winter's cloudy veil thou draw'st away}And, vested with the sun's mild, dewy ray,}First to the longing earth thy charms thou dost display;}Or when Aurora, to the lark's gay song,Full of thy spirit, lightly trips along;With joyful kisses greets the first-born flowers,And o'er them breathes thy warm, refreshing showers;Or when, on shadowy pillow in the west,Fann'd by thy gentlest Zephyrs into rest,Eve sweetly dozes, whilst, as in a dream,She sees the glimmerings of the solar beamO'er the dim landscape languishingly stray,On ocean's smiling face reflected play,Fade in the purple ether's darkening hues,And vernal peace and joy o'er earth diffuse.More grateful strains, O Spring! thy favours claim,Shine on thy beauties, and endear thy name.While Winter's winds thy new-born charms deface,And the young Year starves in his cold embrace,The Hours, by stealth advancing, bear away,And on thy lap, with smiles of pleasure, layThe shivering Babe; new vigour there he gains,And spreads thy various treasures o'er the plains.The joyous Naiades, from their icy bandsUnfetter'd, dance and warble o'er the lands;The Dryads feel thy genial breath, and raiseTheir heads, new-crown'd with leaves, and whisper praise;The plumy warblers wake their amorous strains;The herds and flocks sport o'er the fresh, green plains;Fancy and Hope return the mind to bless,A paradise she sees and dreams of happiness.Come, then, indulgent Ruler of the year,Sweet Spring! to grateful Nature ever dear!From the blest regions of Elysian day,Climes favour'd high with thy perennial sway,O deign to come! and let our raptured eyesView thee, as through a veil, in these obscurer skies.Methinks, I see thee coming from afar,Thy beauty decks Apollo's mounting car;The tyrant of the north with dazzled sightBeholds, and, yielding, meditates his flight;His dread, petrific rod he long has broke,And freed glad Nature from his icy yoke;She lifts her head, and hails the approaching hourWhen she shall feel thy more propitious power.O haste thy progress, and exert thy sway!In all thy charms, on some thrice-hallow'd day,When the soft-whispering air to Fancy's earsWafts the celestial music of the spheres,While Pleasures, Loves, and Graces round thee fly,Glide on a sun-beam down the clear, blue sky;Crown'd with a myrtle-wreath, begin thy reign;Bid lingering Winter fly with all his train;Pour forth thy favours o'er this western isle,And let each grateful eye reflect thy smile.

Still do thy beauties, to my partial heart,Whene'er I gaze, superior joys impart:When winter's cloudy veil thou draw'st away}And, vested with the sun's mild, dewy ray,}First to the longing earth thy charms thou dost display;}Or when Aurora, to the lark's gay song,Full of thy spirit, lightly trips along;With joyful kisses greets the first-born flowers,And o'er them breathes thy warm, refreshing showers;Or when, on shadowy pillow in the west,Fann'd by thy gentlest Zephyrs into rest,Eve sweetly dozes, whilst, as in a dream,She sees the glimmerings of the solar beamO'er the dim landscape languishingly stray,On ocean's smiling face reflected play,Fade in the purple ether's darkening hues,And vernal peace and joy o'er earth diffuse.

More grateful strains, O Spring! thy favours claim,Shine on thy beauties, and endear thy name.While Winter's winds thy new-born charms deface,And the young Year starves in his cold embrace,The Hours, by stealth advancing, bear away,And on thy lap, with smiles of pleasure, layThe shivering Babe; new vigour there he gains,And spreads thy various treasures o'er the plains.

The joyous Naiades, from their icy bandsUnfetter'd, dance and warble o'er the lands;The Dryads feel thy genial breath, and raiseTheir heads, new-crown'd with leaves, and whisper praise;The plumy warblers wake their amorous strains;The herds and flocks sport o'er the fresh, green plains;Fancy and Hope return the mind to bless,A paradise she sees and dreams of happiness.

Come, then, indulgent Ruler of the year,Sweet Spring! to grateful Nature ever dear!From the blest regions of Elysian day,Climes favour'd high with thy perennial sway,O deign to come! and let our raptured eyesView thee, as through a veil, in these obscurer skies.

Methinks, I see thee coming from afar,Thy beauty decks Apollo's mounting car;The tyrant of the north with dazzled sightBeholds, and, yielding, meditates his flight;His dread, petrific rod he long has broke,And freed glad Nature from his icy yoke;She lifts her head, and hails the approaching hourWhen she shall feel thy more propitious power.

O haste thy progress, and exert thy sway!In all thy charms, on some thrice-hallow'd day,When the soft-whispering air to Fancy's earsWafts the celestial music of the spheres,While Pleasures, Loves, and Graces round thee fly,Glide on a sun-beam down the clear, blue sky;Crown'd with a myrtle-wreath, begin thy reign;Bid lingering Winter fly with all his train;Pour forth thy favours o'er this western isle,And let each grateful eye reflect thy smile.

No longer Beauty's many-colour'd robeAdorns the autumnal scene; no longer playThe Zephyrs with her tresses; she has fledTo happier regions, and has left the yearNaked and void of charms; the leafless woodsTremble no more with rapture at the voiceOf harmony: ah! how is Nature changed!Silent, and sad, she anxiously awaitsThy coming, mighty King! and, as the sunLess bright, less ardent, more and more declinesTowards the horizon, with alarm she marksThy shadow lengthening in the nightly shadeAnd towering o'er her, prostrate as she lies,More threatening, more gigantic; till, at length,Boreas, thy harbinger, forth-rushing fierce,Tears from chill'd Autumn's head the withering Crown,And blustering loud in her affrighted ear,O Winter! tells thy terrible approach.Behold! in awful majesty thou comest!On huge, black clouds, that through the encumber'd sky,Before the northern blast, sail slowly on,Thou ridest sublime; aloft in ether towersThy giant form; thy formidable frownBlackens the night; thy threatening voice, sent forthUpon the impetuous winds, affrights the world.Yet dare I welcome thee, terrific Power!Dread Winter, hail! thy terrors fill my soulWith a delightful awe; I love to traceThy varying scenes, the wonders of thy reign.Thy Ministers await thy sovereign will,And, in the secret regions of the air,In cloudy magazines prepare thy storesOf snow, and rain, and hail. At thy commandFrost, that invisible, mysterious Power,Breathes upon Nature, and thou see'st her soonAn unresisting captive, bound in ice;Vainly she mourns, till, at thy bidding, ThawWith his damp, misty standard, from the southComes creeping silently, and sets her free;She weeps for joy. Ah! now thou dost unchainThe Demon of the tempest, to exertOn tortured Nature thy tyrannic might;Fierce on the whirlwind's wing he rushes forthWith dreadful bellowings, hurling all aroundDestructive deluges of rain, snow, hail,In wildest discord, and chaotic warMingling earth, sea, and sky. All-potent Lord!Dread Winter! though Sublimity appearsThy chief attendant, and partakes thy throne;Yet Beauty often visits thee, and dares,In many a scene, with the more powerful charmsOf her majestic sister to combineHer pleasing graces: I delight to viewThy snowy robe of purest, glowing white,The clear, blue skies, the cheerful evergreenAmid the wintry desert, from whose boughsThe little redbreast chirps; the trees and herbsWith snow and hoarfrost fringed, to fancy's eyePresenting pictured shapes, and, when the sunSheds o'er them his effulgence, sparkling keenWith million living particles of light.But with far nobler transport I surveyThy nightly scene, O Winter! when by frostRefined and clear'd, the pure transpicuous airThrough her thin, azure veil, to wondering manDisplays the unclouded heavens, myriads of starsShining in all their glory: at the viewRapt Contemplation, in her car of light,Expatiates in the interminable space,Ranging from world to world, from sun to sun,O'erwhelm'd with wonder and astonishment,And sacred awe, till lifting up her eyes,She sees Religion, from the opening gateOf heaven itself, on her seraphic wingsSmiling descend; she feels her power divine,And raptured hymns the great Creator's praise.

Behold! in awful majesty thou comest!On huge, black clouds, that through the encumber'd sky,Before the northern blast, sail slowly on,Thou ridest sublime; aloft in ether towersThy giant form; thy formidable frownBlackens the night; thy threatening voice, sent forthUpon the impetuous winds, affrights the world.Yet dare I welcome thee, terrific Power!Dread Winter, hail! thy terrors fill my soulWith a delightful awe; I love to traceThy varying scenes, the wonders of thy reign.Thy Ministers await thy sovereign will,And, in the secret regions of the air,In cloudy magazines prepare thy storesOf snow, and rain, and hail. At thy commandFrost, that invisible, mysterious Power,Breathes upon Nature, and thou see'st her soonAn unresisting captive, bound in ice;Vainly she mourns, till, at thy bidding, ThawWith his damp, misty standard, from the southComes creeping silently, and sets her free;She weeps for joy. Ah! now thou dost unchainThe Demon of the tempest, to exertOn tortured Nature thy tyrannic might;Fierce on the whirlwind's wing he rushes forthWith dreadful bellowings, hurling all aroundDestructive deluges of rain, snow, hail,In wildest discord, and chaotic warMingling earth, sea, and sky. All-potent Lord!Dread Winter! though Sublimity appearsThy chief attendant, and partakes thy throne;Yet Beauty often visits thee, and dares,In many a scene, with the more powerful charmsOf her majestic sister to combineHer pleasing graces: I delight to viewThy snowy robe of purest, glowing white,The clear, blue skies, the cheerful evergreenAmid the wintry desert, from whose boughsThe little redbreast chirps; the trees and herbsWith snow and hoarfrost fringed, to fancy's eyePresenting pictured shapes, and, when the sunSheds o'er them his effulgence, sparkling keenWith million living particles of light.

But with far nobler transport I surveyThy nightly scene, O Winter! when by frostRefined and clear'd, the pure transpicuous airThrough her thin, azure veil, to wondering manDisplays the unclouded heavens, myriads of starsShining in all their glory: at the viewRapt Contemplation, in her car of light,Expatiates in the interminable space,Ranging from world to world, from sun to sun,O'erwhelm'd with wonder and astonishment,And sacred awe, till lifting up her eyes,She sees Religion, from the opening gateOf heaven itself, on her seraphic wingsSmiling descend; she feels her power divine,And raptured hymns the great Creator's praise.

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the dinOf midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!Still, ever still the same where'er I fly;No peace, no hope, not one poor moment's glimpseThrough all the blackness of eternity!Monster of direst guilt! this mother's handMurder'd my babe, my new-born innocent.I seek not mercy, no!—long sought in vainWhile conscience prey'd upon my secret heart,Wasting its life in agonizing groans,And floods of scalding tears,—but now no more;Those pangs are past, this heart is wither'd, dead!Changed all to crime, all rottenness and stench;'Twould taint creation were it not confined.Parch'd are these eyes, their sorrows turn'd to ice,A mountain of impenetrable ice,In whose unfathom'd centre lies my soul,Imprison'd, numb'd, buried in conscious death.O could I cease to think! cease quite to be!O could I live in torments! writhe in hell!Raptures to this! Rouse, rouse to life, my soul,In madness of despair, O burst thy tomb;Call God and devils to behold thy guilt,And blast thee. (It lightens.)See, what sudden blaze! they come!Welcome, O welcome! follow me, look there!There lies my murder'd babe:—now strike!—avenge!(It thunders.)Overwhelming stroke!(She falls upon the ground insensible:—at length, coming to herself)—Ah! am I conscious still?Not blasted then?—does this one little sparkAmidst a universe of solid gloomStill live? I'll try to quench it with my blood.Come, dagger, pierce, pierce deep; I feel thy point;My blood flows fast, it animates my heart.The gathering cloud of death grows thick and dark,It hangs oppressive on my swimming sight:See, see, the Spirit of my murder'd childComes with a troop of demons to conductMy soul to hell;—they seize me for their prey,They drag me down: Oh! horror! horror! oh!(She dies.)

See, what sudden blaze! they come!Welcome, O welcome! follow me, look there!There lies my murder'd babe:—now strike!—avenge!(It thunders.)Overwhelming stroke!(She falls upon the ground insensible:—at length, coming to herself)—

Ah! am I conscious still?Not blasted then?—does this one little sparkAmidst a universe of solid gloomStill live? I'll try to quench it with my blood.Come, dagger, pierce, pierce deep; I feel thy point;My blood flows fast, it animates my heart.The gathering cloud of death grows thick and dark,It hangs oppressive on my swimming sight:See, see, the Spirit of my murder'd childComes with a troop of demons to conductMy soul to hell;—they seize me for their prey,They drag me down: Oh! horror! horror! oh!(She dies.)

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song!O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lostAs in a blissful dream! how has my soulBeen wafted in a sea of melody!Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself:Still with the enchanting music's dying breathThe air is kept in motion, and conveysSweet whispers to the finely-listening ear;Or is it but an echo from the cellOf memory that deludes my doating sense?Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway,And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web;But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature,More soft, more amiable, as if inform'dWith the departed soul of harmony.Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deservesAll my heart's gratitude; for it has still'dIts anxious throbbings, and removed the loadOf sadness that oppress'd the springs of life:More lightly now it beats, and welcomes backThe glowing tide of health, and conscious feelsThe blessing of existence. It impartsTo all my frame reanimating force;My nerves partake of its elastic spring;No longer falsely sentient, they receiveThe just impression from external things,Vibrate harmoniously to Nature's touch,And in her general concert bear a part.Thanks, sweetest Bird! enchanting Nightingale!How by the magic influence of thy song,How am I changed from what, of late, I was!And every object, too, how seems it changed!This wood, when first I enter'd it, appear'dTo Fancy's eye the haunt of Melancholy,Her dreariest haunt, where, in her saddest mood,The Goddess loved to dwell;—'twas lonesome gloom,And awful stillness all: I felt her power;The imaginative Spirit she o'erwhelm'dWith a mysterious load of shapeless feeling:Her leaden hand oppress'd my labouring heart;Upon the ground I sank,—scarce sensible,And buried, as it were, in conscious death.With what soft influence, what resistless power,Did thy mellifluous strain, kind Philomel!Insinuate itself into my ear,Melting its dull unwillingness to listen,And opening soon a passage to my heart!But thou beginn'st again, be hush'd my soul!O wondrous power of heavenly harmony!See, Philomel! the Goddess of the night,Charm'd with thy strains her cloudy veil withdraws,And pays thee with a smile of gratitude;A smile that to her beauty adds new charms,Enchanting heaven and earth, while Melancholy,Sighing away her sadness, lifts her head,And, gazing on her tutelary PowerWith eyes reflecting soft her dewy light,Feels her divinest inspiration stealInto her melting soul, absorb'd in heaven.My sympathizing heart with bliss o'erflows.Thanks sweetest Nightingale! thanks for thy song!Long on this night shall grateful memory doat;And oft to this loved wood will I return.

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deservesAll my heart's gratitude; for it has still'dIts anxious throbbings, and removed the loadOf sadness that oppress'd the springs of life:More lightly now it beats, and welcomes backThe glowing tide of health, and conscious feelsThe blessing of existence. It impartsTo all my frame reanimating force;My nerves partake of its elastic spring;No longer falsely sentient, they receiveThe just impression from external things,Vibrate harmoniously to Nature's touch,And in her general concert bear a part.

Thanks, sweetest Bird! enchanting Nightingale!How by the magic influence of thy song,How am I changed from what, of late, I was!And every object, too, how seems it changed!This wood, when first I enter'd it, appear'dTo Fancy's eye the haunt of Melancholy,Her dreariest haunt, where, in her saddest mood,The Goddess loved to dwell;—'twas lonesome gloom,And awful stillness all: I felt her power;The imaginative Spirit she o'erwhelm'dWith a mysterious load of shapeless feeling:Her leaden hand oppress'd my labouring heart;Upon the ground I sank,—scarce sensible,And buried, as it were, in conscious death.

With what soft influence, what resistless power,Did thy mellifluous strain, kind Philomel!Insinuate itself into my ear,Melting its dull unwillingness to listen,And opening soon a passage to my heart!But thou beginn'st again, be hush'd my soul!O wondrous power of heavenly harmony!See, Philomel! the Goddess of the night,Charm'd with thy strains her cloudy veil withdraws,And pays thee with a smile of gratitude;A smile that to her beauty adds new charms,Enchanting heaven and earth, while Melancholy,Sighing away her sadness, lifts her head,And, gazing on her tutelary PowerWith eyes reflecting soft her dewy light,Feels her divinest inspiration stealInto her melting soul, absorb'd in heaven.My sympathizing heart with bliss o'erflows.Thanks sweetest Nightingale! thanks for thy song!Long on this night shall grateful memory doat;And oft to this loved wood will I return.

Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame,O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name;Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise,And swell the general chorus of thy praise.Though not so loud, more dear the applause to theeOf all the favour'd sons of harmony,Who, with one full consent, admiring own}Thee as their master—monarch—thee alone;}And humbly bow before thee on thy throne.}O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart;Thou hast created for thyself an art.As, in the natural world, around the sunThe planets their career of brightness run,Each moving in an orbit of its own,And all obeying laws to science known.Musicians thus, each blest with his degreeOf talent by the God of harmony,Shine forth distinguish'd in their several ways,While every one the rules of art obeys.We calculate the merits of their name,And pay them their proportion'd share of fame.Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st;Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st,Like comet, blazing in its bold career,That leaves behind the planetary sphere,And rushes towards the centre of the sunTill with Apollo's self it seems but one.A Genius, an Original, art thou,Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now.When thou dost take thy magic bow in handWhat mortal ear the enchantment can withstand?Transported, we admire thy peerless skill;Thou movest our feelings, passions, at thy will;With fear we tremble, we with anger glow,Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow;Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain,From mirth and laughter who can then refrain?Such is thy music's power to rule the heart,Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art.

O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart;Thou hast created for thyself an art.As, in the natural world, around the sunThe planets their career of brightness run,Each moving in an orbit of its own,And all obeying laws to science known.Musicians thus, each blest with his degreeOf talent by the God of harmony,Shine forth distinguish'd in their several ways,While every one the rules of art obeys.We calculate the merits of their name,And pay them their proportion'd share of fame.Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st;Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st,Like comet, blazing in its bold career,That leaves behind the planetary sphere,And rushes towards the centre of the sunTill with Apollo's self it seems but one.

A Genius, an Original, art thou,Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now.When thou dost take thy magic bow in handWhat mortal ear the enchantment can withstand?Transported, we admire thy peerless skill;Thou movest our feelings, passions, at thy will;With fear we tremble, we with anger glow,Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow;Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain,From mirth and laughter who can then refrain?Such is thy music's power to rule the heart,Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art.

O! what a nameless feeling of delightStole o'er my wondering spirit, like a gleamFrom opening heaven!—dost thou, then, Fancy, deignOnce more to visit me? thou dost! thou dost!That breath of extacy, that heavenly light,Flow'd from the wafture of thy angel wings,And from thy smiling eyes: divinest Power!Welcome, thrice welcome! O vouchsafe to makeMy breast thy temple, and my heart thy shrine!Still will I worship thee, and thou shalt keep,In peace, thy new abode, nor fear the approachOf aught profane or hostile, to disturbThy holy mysteries; for I will chaseFar from the hallow'd precincts where thou dwell'stEach worldly passion, every grovelling thought,And all the train of Vice; striving to makeThe shrine well-worthy its celestial guest.Still will I worship thee, and oft invokeThine inspirations, and with transport yieldTo thy sweet, magic influence all my soul:The slightest breath of thine inspiring voiceShall wake my nerves, most feelingly alive,And bid them tremble with poetic bliss.The frown of Reason thou no more shalt fear;Did I say Reason's frown?—no!—'twas the frownOf false Philosophy, her foolish pride.Reason and Thou are sisters, born to ruleUnitedly, in happiest harmony,The mind of man; and in the heaven-sent hourOf inspiration, from the self-same sourceYe pour the stream of mingled light and flameThat animates, illumes, and warms the soul.How could I e'er desert thee, loveliest Nymph!To court thy rival, false Philosophy?How could I quit thy verdant, flowery walks,To tread with painful toil the briary mazeOf metaphysic lore? Indulgent Power!The offence forgive. Lured by the specious name,Philosophy, and by her meteor raysMisled, with fond presumptuousness I stroveTo penetrate the dark, unfathom'd depthWhere Truth in awful mystery resides.Not deigning in thy mirror to beholdHer image, though in loveliest beauty clad,With lawless curiosity I soughtTo view the Goddess in her naked form.But heaven to man, nor angel gives to scanTruth's very self; she lives for ever hid,Shrined in the bosom of Divinity.Long wandering mid the chaos, I at lengthApproach'd the border of the cold, dark waste,The bottomless abyss, the dreadful voidOf scepticism; affrighted, back I shrunk.O Fancy! ne'er will I forsake thee more,Nor view thee with severe, truth-searching eye,Melting thy fairy visions into air.Thy paradise, delighted, let me rove,There study nature, and with grateful heart,In thy serene, translucent stream beholdThe light of truth reflected, and the smileOf heaven's benevolence, and in that glassThe loveliness of every Virtue wooAnd every Grace. There let me, too, beholdIn all her beauty, bright-eyed Poesy,That heavenly Maid who charm'd my youthful heart;And let the love of glory fire my breast;And let me see, to stimulate my powers,The new-born crescent of my fame ascend,While on its pointed horn the Fairy, Hope,On tiptoe stands, fluttering her airy wingsTo fan its beams and joyful hails the hourWhen in its full-orb'd glory it shall shine.

The frown of Reason thou no more shalt fear;Did I say Reason's frown?—no!—'twas the frownOf false Philosophy, her foolish pride.Reason and Thou are sisters, born to ruleUnitedly, in happiest harmony,The mind of man; and in the heaven-sent hourOf inspiration, from the self-same sourceYe pour the stream of mingled light and flameThat animates, illumes, and warms the soul.How could I e'er desert thee, loveliest Nymph!To court thy rival, false Philosophy?How could I quit thy verdant, flowery walks,To tread with painful toil the briary mazeOf metaphysic lore? Indulgent Power!The offence forgive. Lured by the specious name,Philosophy, and by her meteor raysMisled, with fond presumptuousness I stroveTo penetrate the dark, unfathom'd depthWhere Truth in awful mystery resides.Not deigning in thy mirror to beholdHer image, though in loveliest beauty clad,With lawless curiosity I soughtTo view the Goddess in her naked form.But heaven to man, nor angel gives to scanTruth's very self; she lives for ever hid,Shrined in the bosom of Divinity.Long wandering mid the chaos, I at lengthApproach'd the border of the cold, dark waste,The bottomless abyss, the dreadful voidOf scepticism; affrighted, back I shrunk.

O Fancy! ne'er will I forsake thee more,Nor view thee with severe, truth-searching eye,Melting thy fairy visions into air.Thy paradise, delighted, let me rove,There study nature, and with grateful heart,In thy serene, translucent stream beholdThe light of truth reflected, and the smileOf heaven's benevolence, and in that glassThe loveliness of every Virtue wooAnd every Grace. There let me, too, beholdIn all her beauty, bright-eyed Poesy,That heavenly Maid who charm'd my youthful heart;And let the love of glory fire my breast;And let me see, to stimulate my powers,The new-born crescent of my fame ascend,While on its pointed horn the Fairy, Hope,On tiptoe stands, fluttering her airy wingsTo fan its beams and joyful hails the hourWhen in its full-orb'd glory it shall shine.

Come, my dear Love, and let us climb yon hill,The prospect, from its height, will well rewardThe toil of climbing; thence we shall commandThe various beauties of the landscape round.—Now we have reached the top. O! what a sceneOpens upon the sight, and swallows upThe admiring soul! She feels as if from earthUplifted into heaven. Scarce can she yetCollect herself, and exercise her powers.While o'er heaven's lofty, wide-extended arch,And round the vast horizon, the bold eyeShoots forth her view, with what sublime delightThe bosom swells! See, where the God of day,Who through the cloudless ether long has ridOn his bright, fiery car, amidst a blazeOf dazzling glory, and in wrath shot roundHis burning arrows, with tyrannic powerOppressing Nature, now, his daily courseWell-nigh completed, toward the western goalDeclines, and with less awful majestyConcludes his reign; his flamy chariot hidIn floods of golden light that dazzles still,Though less intense. O! how these scenes exaltThe throbbing heart! Louisa, canst thou bearThese strong emotions? do they not o'erpowerThy tender nerves? I fear, my Love, they do;Those eyes that, late, with transport beam'd so bright,Now veil their rays with the soft, dewy shadeOf tenderness. Let us repose awhile;The roots of yonder tree, cover'd with moss,Present a pleasing seat; there let us sit.Hark! Zephyr wakes, and sweetly-whispering, tellsThe approach of Eve; already Nature feelsHer soothing influence, her refreshing breath;The fields, the trees, imbibe the cool, moist air,Their feverish thirst allay, and smile revived.The Soul, too, feels her influence, sweetly soothedInto a tender calm. O! let us now,My loved Louisa! let us now enjoyThe landscape's charms, and all the nameless sweetsOf this, our favourite hour, for ever dearTo Fancy and to Love. Cast round thy sightUpon the altered scene, nor longer fearThe dazzling sun; his latest, lingering beamsWhere are they? can'st thou find them?—see! they gildThe glittering top of yonder village-spire;Upon that distant hill they faintly shine;And look! the topmost boughs of this tall oakMajestic, which o'ercanopies our heads,Yet catch their tremulous glimmerings:—now they fade,Fade and expire; and, as they fade, the Moon,The full-orb'd Moon, that seem'd, erewhile, to meltIn the bright azure, from the darkening skyEmerging slow, and silent, sheds aroundHer snowy light, that with the day's last, dimReflection, from the broad, translucid lake,Insensibly commingles, and unitesIn sweetest harmony, o'er all the sceneDiffusing magic tints, enchanting power.How lovely every object now appears!Each in itself, and how they all combineIn one delightful whole! What eye, what heart,O Nature! can resist thy potent charmsWhen thus in soft, transparent shade half-veil'd?Now Beauty and Sublimity, methinks,Upon the lap of Eve, embracing sleep.Mark the tree-tops, my Love, of yonder wood,Whose moonlight foliage fluctuates in the breeze,Say, do they not, in figure, motion, hue,Resemble the sea-waves at misty dawn?What shadowy shape along the troubled lakeComes this way moving? how mysteriouslyIt glides along! how indistinct its form!Imagination views with sweet surpriseThe unknown appearance—breathless in suspense.The Spirit of the waters can it be,On his aerial car? some fairy Power?Pants not thy heart, Louisa, half-alarm'd?It grows upon the sight,—strange, watery soundsAttend its course;—hark! was not that a voice?O! 'tis a fishing-boat!—its sails and oarsI now discern. The church-clock strikes! how loudBurst forth its sound into the startled air,That feels it still, and trembles far around!My dearest Love! it summons us away;The dew begins to fall; let us depart:How sweetly have we spent this evening-hour!

The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind,For which the appropriate name is hard to find;No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be,With strictest truth, pronounced a Tragedy;Since, though predominant the tragic tone,It reigns not uniformly and alone;Then, that its character be best proclaim'd,A Tragic-drama let the piece be named.But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude,'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude,Where incidents in strange confusion blend,Without connexion, interest, or end:Not so;—far different was the bard's design;For though, at times, he ventures to combineWith grave Melpomene's impassion'd strainThe gay Thalia's more enlivening vein;(As all mankind with one consent agreeHow strong the charms of sweet variety,)Yet Reason's path he still with care observes,And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves,His plot conducting by the rules of art:And, above all, he strives to touch the heart;Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire,Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire.Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent;The poet means not here to representThe tragic Muse in all her terrors drest,With might tempestuous to convulse the breast;Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien,To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene;But with an air more mild and versatile,}Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile,}Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style,}Resembling in effect an April-nightWhen from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light;And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease,Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze.But, in few words our author ends his plea,Already tending to prolixity,To paint from Nature was his leading aim;Let then, the play your candid hearing claim:Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws;If good, reward it with deserved applause;If bad, condemn; yet be it still exemptFrom your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt.

But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude,'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude,Where incidents in strange confusion blend,Without connexion, interest, or end:Not so;—far different was the bard's design;For though, at times, he ventures to combineWith grave Melpomene's impassion'd strainThe gay Thalia's more enlivening vein;(As all mankind with one consent agreeHow strong the charms of sweet variety,)Yet Reason's path he still with care observes,And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves,His plot conducting by the rules of art:And, above all, he strives to touch the heart;Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire,Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire.

Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent;The poet means not here to representThe tragic Muse in all her terrors drest,With might tempestuous to convulse the breast;Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien,To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene;But with an air more mild and versatile,}Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile,}Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style,}Resembling in effect an April-nightWhen from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light;And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease,Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze.

But, in few words our author ends his plea,Already tending to prolixity,To paint from Nature was his leading aim;Let then, the play your candid hearing claim:Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws;If good, reward it with deserved applause;If bad, condemn; yet be it still exemptFrom your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt.

Lo! Time, at last, has brought, with tardy flight,The long-anticipated, wish'd-for night;How on this blissful night, while yet remote,Did Hope and Fancy with fond rapture doat!Like eagles, oft, in glory's dazzling sky,With full-stretch'd pinions have they soar'd on high,To greet the appearance of the poet's name,Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame.Alas! they soar not now;—the demon, Fear,Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere:Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;—The world of torment opens on her eyes,Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;—(The speaker pauses—the audience aresupposed to clap, when he continues,)But Hope, returning to dispel her fears,Claps her bright wings; the magic sound and lightAt once have forced their dreaded foe to flight,Silenced the hissing, chased the darkness round,And charm'd up marvelling Fancy from the ground.Say, shall the cherubs dare once more to fly?Not, as of late, in glory's dazzling sky,To greet the appearance of the poet's name,Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame;Presumptuous flight! but let them dare to rise,Cheer'd by the light of your propitious eyes,Within this roof, glory's contracted sphere,On fluttering pinions, unsubdued by Fear;O! let them dare, ere yet the curtain draws,Fondly anticipate your kind applause.

Alas! they soar not now;—the demon, Fear,Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere:Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;—The world of torment opens on her eyes,Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;—(The speaker pauses—the audience aresupposed to clap, when he continues,)But Hope, returning to dispel her fears,Claps her bright wings; the magic sound and lightAt once have forced their dreaded foe to flight,Silenced the hissing, chased the darkness round,And charm'd up marvelling Fancy from the ground.

Say, shall the cherubs dare once more to fly?Not, as of late, in glory's dazzling sky,To greet the appearance of the poet's name,Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame;Presumptuous flight! but let them dare to rise,Cheer'd by the light of your propitious eyes,Within this roof, glory's contracted sphere,On fluttering pinions, unsubdued by Fear;O! let them dare, ere yet the curtain draws,Fondly anticipate your kind applause.

Perplexing case!—your pardon, Friends, I pray,—My head so turns, I know not what to say;—However, since I've dared to come before ye,I'll stop the whirligig,—(Clapping his hand to his forehead,)and tell my story:Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-convictionIt may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit:The devil take him for neglecting it!Nay though,—'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'dFrom certain motives—which were most absurd;For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein,And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan,To set about it when the play began;Thus purposing the drama's fate to know,Then write his epilogue quite à propos.The time at last arrives—the signal rings,Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs,And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene,With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,—Watches opinion's breezes as they blow,To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spiteWas doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write,And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose,Could not forbear, at times, to cock my noseOver his shoulder, curiously to traceHis progress;—zounds! how snail-like was his pace!Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken,Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken:'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done!As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun,My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded;He was—excuse the pun—with grape high-loaded.Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar,Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.But lest, here too, like hazard I should run;}I'll end my story. When the play was done,}The epilogue was—look! 'tis here—begun:}Such as it is, however, if you will,I'll read it; shall I, Friends? (They clap.)Your orders I fulfil.(He reads.)'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bellSummons me—Duncan-like, to heaven or hell;See, see, the curtain draws;—it now commences;Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses:But let me to my task:—what noise is this?They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss!Now then, to work, my pen:—descend, O Muse!Thine inspiration through my soul infuse;Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er beforeHas been imagined,—never will be more.What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise,I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skiesDart up triumphantly in flames of light:—They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night.Again they clap, O extacy!—Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein,He halts,—reads,—curses,—and begins again;But not a single couplet could he muster;How should he, with his soul in such a fluster,All rapture, gratitude, for your applause?Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!

Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit:The devil take him for neglecting it!Nay though,—'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'dFrom certain motives—which were most absurd;For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein,And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan,To set about it when the play began;Thus purposing the drama's fate to know,Then write his epilogue quite à propos.

The time at last arrives—the signal rings,Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs,And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene,With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,—Watches opinion's breezes as they blow,To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.

Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spiteWas doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write,And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose,Could not forbear, at times, to cock my noseOver his shoulder, curiously to traceHis progress;—zounds! how snail-like was his pace!Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken,Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken:'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done!As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun,My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded;He was—excuse the pun—with grape high-loaded.Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar,Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.

But lest, here too, like hazard I should run;}I'll end my story. When the play was done,}The epilogue was—look! 'tis here—begun:}Such as it is, however, if you will,I'll read it; shall I, Friends? (They clap.)Your orders I fulfil.(He reads.)'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bellSummons me—Duncan-like, to heaven or hell;See, see, the curtain draws;—it now commences;Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses:But let me to my task:—what noise is this?They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss!Now then, to work, my pen:—descend, O Muse!Thine inspiration through my soul infuse;Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er beforeHas been imagined,—never will be more.

What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise,I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skiesDart up triumphantly in flames of light:—They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night.Again they clap, O extacy!—Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein,He halts,—reads,—curses,—and begins again;But not a single couplet could he muster;How should he, with his soul in such a fluster,All rapture, gratitude, for your applause?Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!

At God's command the vital spirit fled,And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead.Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dareTo gaze on thee;—dread sight! death, death is there.How does thy loss o'erwhelm my heart with grief!But tears, kind nature's tears afford relief.Reluctant, sad, I take my last farewell:—Thy virtues in my mind shall ever dwell;Thy tender friendship felt so long for me,Thy frankness, truth, thy generosity,Thy tuneful tongue's persuasive eloquence,Thy science, learning, taste, wit, common sense,Thy patriot love of genuine liberty,Thy heart o'erflowing with philanthropy;And chiefly will I strive henceforth to feelThy firm religious faith and pious zeal,Enlighten'd, liberal, free from bigotry,And, that prime excellence, thy charity.Farewell!—for ever?—no! forbid it, Heaven!A glorious promise is to Christians given;Though parted in this world of sin and pain,On high, my Brother! we shall meet again.

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