WhenB* * * invites me, and inviting sings,Instant I’d fly, (had heaven vouchsafed me wings)To hail him in that calm sequestered seat,Whence he looks down with pity on the great;And, midst the groves retired, at leisure wooesDomestic love, contentment, and the Muse.I wish for wings and winds to speed my course;Since B——t and the fates refuse a horse.Where now the Pegasus of antient time,And Ippogrifo famed in modern rhime?O, where that wooden steed, whose every legLike lightning flew, obsequious to the peg;The waxen wings by Dædalus designed,And China waggons wafted by the wind?A Spaniard reached the moon, upborn by geese;(Then first ’twas known that she was made of cheese.)A fidler on a fish through waves advanced,He twanged his catgut, and the Dolphin danced.Hags rode on broom-sticks, heathen-gods on clouds;Ladies, on rams and bulls, have dared the floods.Much famed the shoes Jack Giant-killer wore,And Fortunatus’ hat is famed much more.Such vehicles were common once, no doubt;But modern versemen must even trudge on foot,Or doze at home, expectants of the gout.Hard is the task, indeed ’tis wondrous hard,To act the Hirer, yet preserve the Bard.“Next week, by ——, (but ’tis a sin to swear)“I give my word, sir, you shall have my mare;“Sound wind and limb, as any ever was,“And rising only seven years old next grass.“Four miles an hour she goes, nor needs a spur;“A pretty piece of flesh, upon my conscience, sir.”This speech was B——t’s; and, tho’ mean in phrase,The nearest thing to prose, as Horace says,(Satire the fourth, and forty-second line)’Twill intimate that I propose to dineNext week with B* * *. Muse, lend thine aid a while;For this great purpose claims a lofty style.Ere yonder sun, now glorious in the west,Has thrice three times reclined on Thetis’ breast;Ere thrice three times, from old Tithonus’ bed,Her charms all glowing with celestial red,The balmy morn shall rise to mortal view,And from her bright locks shake the pearls of dew,These eyes, O B* * *, shall hail thy opening glades,These ears shall catch the music of thy shades;This cherished frame shall drink the gladsome gales,And the fresh fragrance of thy flowery vales.And (for I know the Muse will come along)To B* * * I mean to meditate a song:A song, adorned with every rural charm,Trim as thy garden, ample as thy farm,Sweet as thy milk, and brisk as bottled beer,Wholesome as mutton, and as water clear,In wildflowers fertile, as thy fields of corn,And frolicksome as lambs, or sheep new shorn.I ask not ortolans, or Chian wine,The fat of rams, or quintessence of swine.Her spicy stores let either India keep,Nor El Dorado vend her golden sheep.And to the mansion house, or council hall,Still on her black splay feet may the huge tortoise crawl.Not Parson’s butt my appetite can move,Nor, Bell, thy beer; nor even thy nectar, Jove.If B* * * be happy, and in health, his guest,Whom wit and learning charm, can wish no better feast.
WhenB* * * invites me, and inviting sings,Instant I’d fly, (had heaven vouchsafed me wings)To hail him in that calm sequestered seat,Whence he looks down with pity on the great;And, midst the groves retired, at leisure wooesDomestic love, contentment, and the Muse.I wish for wings and winds to speed my course;Since B——t and the fates refuse a horse.Where now the Pegasus of antient time,And Ippogrifo famed in modern rhime?O, where that wooden steed, whose every legLike lightning flew, obsequious to the peg;The waxen wings by Dædalus designed,And China waggons wafted by the wind?A Spaniard reached the moon, upborn by geese;(Then first ’twas known that she was made of cheese.)A fidler on a fish through waves advanced,He twanged his catgut, and the Dolphin danced.Hags rode on broom-sticks, heathen-gods on clouds;Ladies, on rams and bulls, have dared the floods.Much famed the shoes Jack Giant-killer wore,And Fortunatus’ hat is famed much more.Such vehicles were common once, no doubt;But modern versemen must even trudge on foot,Or doze at home, expectants of the gout.Hard is the task, indeed ’tis wondrous hard,To act the Hirer, yet preserve the Bard.“Next week, by ——, (but ’tis a sin to swear)“I give my word, sir, you shall have my mare;“Sound wind and limb, as any ever was,“And rising only seven years old next grass.“Four miles an hour she goes, nor needs a spur;“A pretty piece of flesh, upon my conscience, sir.”This speech was B——t’s; and, tho’ mean in phrase,The nearest thing to prose, as Horace says,(Satire the fourth, and forty-second line)’Twill intimate that I propose to dineNext week with B* * *. Muse, lend thine aid a while;For this great purpose claims a lofty style.Ere yonder sun, now glorious in the west,Has thrice three times reclined on Thetis’ breast;Ere thrice three times, from old Tithonus’ bed,Her charms all glowing with celestial red,The balmy morn shall rise to mortal view,And from her bright locks shake the pearls of dew,These eyes, O B* * *, shall hail thy opening glades,These ears shall catch the music of thy shades;This cherished frame shall drink the gladsome gales,And the fresh fragrance of thy flowery vales.And (for I know the Muse will come along)To B* * * I mean to meditate a song:A song, adorned with every rural charm,Trim as thy garden, ample as thy farm,Sweet as thy milk, and brisk as bottled beer,Wholesome as mutton, and as water clear,In wildflowers fertile, as thy fields of corn,And frolicksome as lambs, or sheep new shorn.I ask not ortolans, or Chian wine,The fat of rams, or quintessence of swine.Her spicy stores let either India keep,Nor El Dorado vend her golden sheep.And to the mansion house, or council hall,Still on her black splay feet may the huge tortoise crawl.Not Parson’s butt my appetite can move,Nor, Bell, thy beer; nor even thy nectar, Jove.If B* * * be happy, and in health, his guest,Whom wit and learning charm, can wish no better feast.
Yes, yes, I grant the sons of earthAre doomed to trouble from their birth:We all of sorrow have our share;But say, Is your’s without compare?Look round the world; perhaps you’ll findEach individual of our kindPressed with an equal load of ill,Equal at least. Look further still,And own your lamentable caseIs little short of happiness.In yonder hut, that stands alone,Attend to Famine’s feeble moan;Or view the couch where Sickness lies;Mark his pale cheek, and languid eyes,His frame by strong convulsion torn,His struggling sighs, and looks forlorn.Or see, transfixed with keener pangs,Where o’er his hoard the miser hangs;Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares,Nor Slumber’s balmy blessing shares;Despair, Remorse, and Terror rollTheir tempests on his harassed soul.But here, perhaps, it may availTo enforce our reasoning with a tale.Mild was the morn, the sky serene,The jolly hunting band convene;The beagle’s breast with ardour burns;The bounding steed the champaign spurns;And fancy oft the game descriesThrough the hound’s nose, and huntsman’s eyes.Just then, a council of the haresHad met, on national affairs.The chiefs were set; while o’er their headThe furze its frizzled covering spread.Long lists of grievances were heard,And general discontent appeared.“Our harmless race shall every savage,“Both quadruped and biped, ravage?“Shall horses, hounds, and hunters still“Unite their wits to work us ill?“The youth, his parent’s sole delight,“Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite,“Whose pulse in every vein beats strong,“Whose limbs leap light the vales along,“May yet e’er noontide meet his death,“And lie dismembered on the heath:“For youth, alas! nor cautious age,“Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage.“In every field we meet the foe,“Each gale comes fraught with sounds of woe:“The morning but awakes our fears,“The evening sees us bathed in tears.“But must we ever idly grieve,“Nor strive our fortunes to relieve?“Small is each individual force,“To stratagem be our recourse;“And then, from all our tribes combined,“The murderer to his cost may find,“No foe is weak, whom Justice arms,“Whom Concord leads, and Hatred warms.“Be roused; or liberty acquire,“Or in the great attempt expire.”—He said no more, for in his breastConflicting thoughts the voice suppressed:The fire of vengeance seemed to streamFrom his swoln eyeball’s yellow gleam.And now the tumults of the war,Mingling confusedly from afar,Swell in the wind. Now louder cries,Distinct, of hounds and men arise.Forth from the brake, with beating heart,Th’ assembled hares tumultuous start,And, every straining nerve on wing,Away precipitately spring.The hunting band, a signal given,Thick thundering o’er the plain are driven;O’er cliff abrupt, and shrubby mound,And river broad, impetuous bound;Now plunge amid the forest shades,Glance through the openings of the glades;Now o’er the level valley sweep,Now with short steps strain up the steep,While backward from the hunter’s eyesThe landscape like a torrent flies.At last an ancient wood they gained,By pruner’s axe yet unprofaned.High o’er the rest, by Nature reared,The oak’s majestic boughs appeared;Beneath, a copse of various hueIn barbarous luxuriance grew;No knife had curbed the rambling sprays,No hand had wove th’ implicit maze.The flowering thorn, self-taught to wind,The hazle’s stubborn stem intwined,And bramble twigs were wreathed around,And rough furze crept along the ground.Here sheltering, from the sons of murther,The hares drag their tired limbs no further.But, lo! the western wind erelongWas loud, and roared the woods among:From rustling leaves, and crashing boughs,The sound of woe and war arose.The hares, distracted, scour the grove,As terror and amazement drove;But danger, wheresoe’er they fled,Still seemed impending o’er their head.Now crowded in a grotto’s gloom,All hope extinct, they wait their doom:Dire was the silence, till, at length,Even from despair deriving strength,With bloody eye, and furious look,A daring youth arose, and spoke.“O wretched race, the scorn of Fate,“Whom ills of every sort await!“O, cursed with keenest sense to feel“The sharpest sting of every ill!“Say ye, who, fraught with mighty scheme,“Of liberty and vengeance dream,“What now remains? To what recess“Shall we our weary steps address,“Since Fate is evermore pursuing“All ways and means to work our ruin?“Are we alone, of all beneath,“Condemned to misery worse than death!“Must we, with fruitless labour, strive,“In misery worse than death to live!“No. Be the smaller ill our choice:“So dictates Nature’s powerful voice.“Death’s pang will in a moment cease;“And then, All hail, eternal peace!”Thus while he spoke, his words impartThe dire resolve to every heart.A distant lake in prospect lay,That, glittering in the solar ray,Gleamed through the dusky trees, and shotA trembling light along the grot.Thither with one consent they bend,Their sorrows with their lives to end;While each, in thought, already hearsThe water hissing in his ears,Fast by the margin of the lake,Concealed within a thorny brake,A linnet sate, whose careless layAmused the solitary day.Careless he sung, for on his breastSorrow no lasting trace impressed;When suddenly he heard a soundOf swift feet traversing the ground.Quick to the neighbouring tree he flies,Thence, trembling, casts around his eyes;No foe appeared, his fears were vain;Pleased, he renews the sprightly strain.The hares, whose noise had caused his fright,Saw, with surprise, the linnet’s flight.Is there on earth a wretch, they said,Whom our approach can strike with dread?An instantaneous change of thoughtTo tumult every bosom wrought.So fares the system-building sage,Who, plodding on from youth to age,At last, on some foundation-dream,Has reared aloft his goodly scheme,And proved his predecessors fools,And bound all nature by his rules;So fares he, in that dreadful hour,When injured truth exerts her power,Some new phenomenon to raise;Which, bursting on his frighted gaze,From its proud summit to the ground,Proves the whole edifice unsound.“Children,” thus spake a hare sedate,Who oft had known the extremes of Fate,“In slight events the attentive mind“May hints of good instruction find.“That our condition is the worst,“And we with such misfortunes cursed“As all comparison defy,“Was late the universal cry.“When, lo! an accident so slight,“As yonder little linnet’s flight,“Has made your stubborn hearts confess“(So your amazement bids me guess)“That all our load of woes and fears“Is but a part of what he bears.“Where can he rest secure from harms,“Whom even a helpless hare alarms?“Yet he repines not at his lot;“When past, his dangers are forgot:“On yonder bough he trims his wings,“And with unusual rapture sings;“While we, less wretched, sink beneath“Our lighter ills, and rush to death.“No more of this unmeaning rage,“But hear, my friends, the word of age:“When, by the winds of autumn driven,“The scattered clouds fly cross the heaven,“Oft have we, from some mountain’s head,“Beheld the alternate light and shade“Sweep the long vale. Here, hovering, lowers“The shadowy cloud; there, downward pours,“Streaming direct, a flood of day,“Which from the view flies swift away;“It flies, while other shades advance,“And other streaks of sunshine glance.“Thus chequered is the life below“With gleams of joy, and clouds of woe.“Then hope not, while we journey on,“Still to be basking in the sun;“Nor fear, though now in shades ye mourn,“That sunshine will no more return.“If, by your terrors overcome,“Ye fly before the approaching gloom,“The rapid clouds your flight pursue,“And darkness still o’ercasts your view.“Who longs to reach the radiant plain,“Must onward urge his course amain;“For doubly swift the shadow flies,“When ’gainst the gale the pilgrim plies.“At least be firm, and undismayed“Maintain your ground; the fleeting shade,“Erelong, spontaneous glides away,“And gives you back the enlivening ray.“Lo! while I speak, our danger past!“No more the shrill horn’s angry blast“Howls in our ear; the savage roar“Of war and murder is no more.“Then snatch the hour that Fate allows,“Nor think of past and future woes.”He spoke; and hope revives; the lakeThat instant, one and all forsake,In sweet amusement to employThe present sprightly hour of joy.Now, from the western mountain’s brow,Compassed with clouds of various glow,The sun a broader orb displays,And shoots aslope his ruddy rays.The lawn assumes a fresher green,And dew-drops spangle all the scene.The balmy zephyr breathes along,The shepherd sings his tender song.With all their lays the groves resound,And falling waters murmur round;Discord and care were put to flight,And all was peace, and calm delight.
Yes, yes, I grant the sons of earthAre doomed to trouble from their birth:We all of sorrow have our share;But say, Is your’s without compare?Look round the world; perhaps you’ll findEach individual of our kindPressed with an equal load of ill,Equal at least. Look further still,And own your lamentable caseIs little short of happiness.In yonder hut, that stands alone,Attend to Famine’s feeble moan;Or view the couch where Sickness lies;Mark his pale cheek, and languid eyes,His frame by strong convulsion torn,His struggling sighs, and looks forlorn.Or see, transfixed with keener pangs,Where o’er his hoard the miser hangs;Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares,Nor Slumber’s balmy blessing shares;Despair, Remorse, and Terror rollTheir tempests on his harassed soul.But here, perhaps, it may availTo enforce our reasoning with a tale.Mild was the morn, the sky serene,The jolly hunting band convene;The beagle’s breast with ardour burns;The bounding steed the champaign spurns;And fancy oft the game descriesThrough the hound’s nose, and huntsman’s eyes.Just then, a council of the haresHad met, on national affairs.The chiefs were set; while o’er their headThe furze its frizzled covering spread.Long lists of grievances were heard,And general discontent appeared.“Our harmless race shall every savage,“Both quadruped and biped, ravage?“Shall horses, hounds, and hunters still“Unite their wits to work us ill?“The youth, his parent’s sole delight,“Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite,“Whose pulse in every vein beats strong,“Whose limbs leap light the vales along,“May yet e’er noontide meet his death,“And lie dismembered on the heath:“For youth, alas! nor cautious age,“Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage.“In every field we meet the foe,“Each gale comes fraught with sounds of woe:“The morning but awakes our fears,“The evening sees us bathed in tears.“But must we ever idly grieve,“Nor strive our fortunes to relieve?“Small is each individual force,“To stratagem be our recourse;“And then, from all our tribes combined,“The murderer to his cost may find,“No foe is weak, whom Justice arms,“Whom Concord leads, and Hatred warms.“Be roused; or liberty acquire,“Or in the great attempt expire.”—He said no more, for in his breastConflicting thoughts the voice suppressed:The fire of vengeance seemed to streamFrom his swoln eyeball’s yellow gleam.And now the tumults of the war,Mingling confusedly from afar,Swell in the wind. Now louder cries,Distinct, of hounds and men arise.Forth from the brake, with beating heart,Th’ assembled hares tumultuous start,And, every straining nerve on wing,Away precipitately spring.The hunting band, a signal given,Thick thundering o’er the plain are driven;O’er cliff abrupt, and shrubby mound,And river broad, impetuous bound;Now plunge amid the forest shades,Glance through the openings of the glades;Now o’er the level valley sweep,Now with short steps strain up the steep,While backward from the hunter’s eyesThe landscape like a torrent flies.At last an ancient wood they gained,By pruner’s axe yet unprofaned.High o’er the rest, by Nature reared,The oak’s majestic boughs appeared;Beneath, a copse of various hueIn barbarous luxuriance grew;No knife had curbed the rambling sprays,No hand had wove th’ implicit maze.The flowering thorn, self-taught to wind,The hazle’s stubborn stem intwined,And bramble twigs were wreathed around,And rough furze crept along the ground.Here sheltering, from the sons of murther,The hares drag their tired limbs no further.But, lo! the western wind erelongWas loud, and roared the woods among:From rustling leaves, and crashing boughs,The sound of woe and war arose.The hares, distracted, scour the grove,As terror and amazement drove;But danger, wheresoe’er they fled,Still seemed impending o’er their head.Now crowded in a grotto’s gloom,All hope extinct, they wait their doom:Dire was the silence, till, at length,Even from despair deriving strength,With bloody eye, and furious look,A daring youth arose, and spoke.“O wretched race, the scorn of Fate,“Whom ills of every sort await!“O, cursed with keenest sense to feel“The sharpest sting of every ill!“Say ye, who, fraught with mighty scheme,“Of liberty and vengeance dream,“What now remains? To what recess“Shall we our weary steps address,“Since Fate is evermore pursuing“All ways and means to work our ruin?“Are we alone, of all beneath,“Condemned to misery worse than death!“Must we, with fruitless labour, strive,“In misery worse than death to live!“No. Be the smaller ill our choice:“So dictates Nature’s powerful voice.“Death’s pang will in a moment cease;“And then, All hail, eternal peace!”Thus while he spoke, his words impartThe dire resolve to every heart.A distant lake in prospect lay,That, glittering in the solar ray,Gleamed through the dusky trees, and shotA trembling light along the grot.Thither with one consent they bend,Their sorrows with their lives to end;While each, in thought, already hearsThe water hissing in his ears,Fast by the margin of the lake,Concealed within a thorny brake,A linnet sate, whose careless layAmused the solitary day.Careless he sung, for on his breastSorrow no lasting trace impressed;When suddenly he heard a soundOf swift feet traversing the ground.Quick to the neighbouring tree he flies,Thence, trembling, casts around his eyes;No foe appeared, his fears were vain;Pleased, he renews the sprightly strain.The hares, whose noise had caused his fright,Saw, with surprise, the linnet’s flight.Is there on earth a wretch, they said,Whom our approach can strike with dread?An instantaneous change of thoughtTo tumult every bosom wrought.So fares the system-building sage,Who, plodding on from youth to age,At last, on some foundation-dream,Has reared aloft his goodly scheme,And proved his predecessors fools,And bound all nature by his rules;So fares he, in that dreadful hour,When injured truth exerts her power,Some new phenomenon to raise;Which, bursting on his frighted gaze,From its proud summit to the ground,Proves the whole edifice unsound.“Children,” thus spake a hare sedate,Who oft had known the extremes of Fate,“In slight events the attentive mind“May hints of good instruction find.“That our condition is the worst,“And we with such misfortunes cursed“As all comparison defy,“Was late the universal cry.“When, lo! an accident so slight,“As yonder little linnet’s flight,“Has made your stubborn hearts confess“(So your amazement bids me guess)“That all our load of woes and fears“Is but a part of what he bears.“Where can he rest secure from harms,“Whom even a helpless hare alarms?“Yet he repines not at his lot;“When past, his dangers are forgot:“On yonder bough he trims his wings,“And with unusual rapture sings;“While we, less wretched, sink beneath“Our lighter ills, and rush to death.“No more of this unmeaning rage,“But hear, my friends, the word of age:“When, by the winds of autumn driven,“The scattered clouds fly cross the heaven,“Oft have we, from some mountain’s head,“Beheld the alternate light and shade“Sweep the long vale. Here, hovering, lowers“The shadowy cloud; there, downward pours,“Streaming direct, a flood of day,“Which from the view flies swift away;“It flies, while other shades advance,“And other streaks of sunshine glance.“Thus chequered is the life below“With gleams of joy, and clouds of woe.“Then hope not, while we journey on,“Still to be basking in the sun;“Nor fear, though now in shades ye mourn,“That sunshine will no more return.“If, by your terrors overcome,“Ye fly before the approaching gloom,“The rapid clouds your flight pursue,“And darkness still o’ercasts your view.“Who longs to reach the radiant plain,“Must onward urge his course amain;“For doubly swift the shadow flies,“When ’gainst the gale the pilgrim plies.“At least be firm, and undismayed“Maintain your ground; the fleeting shade,“Erelong, spontaneous glides away,“And gives you back the enlivening ray.“Lo! while I speak, our danger past!“No more the shrill horn’s angry blast“Howls in our ear; the savage roar“Of war and murder is no more.“Then snatch the hour that Fate allows,“Nor think of past and future woes.”He spoke; and hope revives; the lakeThat instant, one and all forsake,In sweet amusement to employThe present sprightly hour of joy.Now, from the western mountain’s brow,Compassed with clouds of various glow,The sun a broader orb displays,And shoots aslope his ruddy rays.The lawn assumes a fresher green,And dew-drops spangle all the scene.The balmy zephyr breathes along,The shepherd sings his tender song.With all their lays the groves resound,And falling waters murmur round;Discord and care were put to flight,And all was peace, and calm delight.
Farewell, my best beloved! whose heavenly mindGenius with virtue, strength with softness, joined;Devotion, undebased by pride or art,With meek simplicity, and joy of heart;Though sprightly, gentle; though polite, sincere;And only of thyself a judge severe;Unblamed, unequalled, in each sphere of life,The tenderest Daughter, Sister, Parent, Wife.In thee their patroness the afflicted lost;Thy friends, their pattern, ornament, and boast;And I——but, ah! can words my loss declare,Or paint the extremes of transport and despair?O Thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell,My guide, my friend, my best-beloved, farewell!
Farewell, my best beloved! whose heavenly mindGenius with virtue, strength with softness, joined;Devotion, undebased by pride or art,With meek simplicity, and joy of heart;Though sprightly, gentle; though polite, sincere;And only of thyself a judge severe;Unblamed, unequalled, in each sphere of life,The tenderest Daughter, Sister, Parent, Wife.In thee their patroness the afflicted lost;Thy friends, their pattern, ornament, and boast;And I——but, ah! can words my loss declare,Or paint the extremes of transport and despair?O Thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell,My guide, my friend, my best-beloved, farewell!
Amuse, unskilled in venal praise,Unstained with flattery’s art;Who loves simplicity of laysBreathed ardent from the heart;While gratitude and joy inspire,Resumes the long-unpractised lyre,To hail,O Hay, thy natal Morn;No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves,But twines with oak the laurel leaves,Thy cradle to adorn.For, not on beds of gaudy flowersThine ancestors reclined,Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours,All energy of mind;To hurl the dart, to ride the car,To stem the deluges of war,And snatch from Fate a sinking land;Trample the invader’s lofty crest,And from his grasp the dagger wrest,And desolating brand:’Twas this that raised the illustrious line,To match the first in fame;A thousand years have seen it shineWith unabated flame:Have seen thy mighty sires appearForemost in Glory’s high career,The pride and pattern of the brave.Yet, pure from lust of blood their fire,And from Ambition’s wild desire,They triumphed but to save.The Muse with joy attends their wayThe vales of peace along;There, to its Lord the village gayRenews the grateful song.Yon castle’s glittering towers containNo pit of woe, nor clanking chain,Nor to the suppliant’s wail resound:The open doors the needy bless.The unfriended hail their calm recess,And gladness smiles around.There, to the sympathetic heartLife’s best delights belong,To mitigate the mourner’s smart,To guard the weak from wrong.Ye sons of luxury, be wise;Know, happiness for ever fliesThe cold and solitary breast;Then let the social instinct glow,And learn to feel another’s woe,And in his joy be blessed.O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snareFor unsuspecting youth;Ere Flattery her song prepareTo check the voice of Truth;O may his country’s guardian powerAttend the slumbering Infant’s bower,And bright, inspiring dreams impart;To rouse the hereditary fire,To kindle each sublime desire,Exalt, and warm the heart.Swift to reward a parent’s fears,A parent’s hopes to crown,Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,That rear him to renown;When, in his finished form and face,Admiring multitudes shall traceEach patrimonial charm combined;The courteous yet majestic mien,The liberal smile, the look serene,The great and gentle mind.Yet, though thou draw a nation’s eyes,And win a nation’s love,Let not thy towering mind despiseThe village and the grove.No slander there shall wound thy fame,No ruffian take his deadly aim,No rival weave the secret snare:For Innocence, with angel smile,Simplicity, that knows not guile,And Love and Peace are there.When winds the mountain oak assail,And lay its glories waste,Content may slumber in the vale,Unconscious of the blast.Through scenes of tumult while we roam,The heart, alas! is ne’er at home;It hopes in time to roam no more:The mariner, not vainly brave,Combats the storm, and rides the wave,To rest, at last, on shore.Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,How vain your mask of state!The good alone have joy sincere,The good alone are great:Great, when, amid the vale of peace,They bid the plaint of sorrow cease,And hear the voice of artless praise;As, when along the trophied plain,Sublime they lead the victor train,While shouting nations gaze.
Amuse, unskilled in venal praise,Unstained with flattery’s art;Who loves simplicity of laysBreathed ardent from the heart;While gratitude and joy inspire,Resumes the long-unpractised lyre,To hail,O Hay, thy natal Morn;No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves,But twines with oak the laurel leaves,Thy cradle to adorn.For, not on beds of gaudy flowersThine ancestors reclined,Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours,All energy of mind;To hurl the dart, to ride the car,To stem the deluges of war,And snatch from Fate a sinking land;Trample the invader’s lofty crest,And from his grasp the dagger wrest,And desolating brand:
’Twas this that raised the illustrious line,To match the first in fame;A thousand years have seen it shineWith unabated flame:Have seen thy mighty sires appearForemost in Glory’s high career,The pride and pattern of the brave.Yet, pure from lust of blood their fire,And from Ambition’s wild desire,They triumphed but to save.
The Muse with joy attends their wayThe vales of peace along;There, to its Lord the village gayRenews the grateful song.Yon castle’s glittering towers containNo pit of woe, nor clanking chain,Nor to the suppliant’s wail resound:The open doors the needy bless.The unfriended hail their calm recess,And gladness smiles around.
There, to the sympathetic heartLife’s best delights belong,To mitigate the mourner’s smart,To guard the weak from wrong.Ye sons of luxury, be wise;Know, happiness for ever fliesThe cold and solitary breast;Then let the social instinct glow,And learn to feel another’s woe,And in his joy be blessed.
O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snareFor unsuspecting youth;Ere Flattery her song prepareTo check the voice of Truth;O may his country’s guardian powerAttend the slumbering Infant’s bower,And bright, inspiring dreams impart;To rouse the hereditary fire,To kindle each sublime desire,Exalt, and warm the heart.
Swift to reward a parent’s fears,A parent’s hopes to crown,Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,That rear him to renown;When, in his finished form and face,Admiring multitudes shall traceEach patrimonial charm combined;The courteous yet majestic mien,The liberal smile, the look serene,The great and gentle mind.
Yet, though thou draw a nation’s eyes,And win a nation’s love,Let not thy towering mind despiseThe village and the grove.No slander there shall wound thy fame,No ruffian take his deadly aim,No rival weave the secret snare:For Innocence, with angel smile,Simplicity, that knows not guile,And Love and Peace are there.
When winds the mountain oak assail,And lay its glories waste,Content may slumber in the vale,Unconscious of the blast.Through scenes of tumult while we roam,The heart, alas! is ne’er at home;It hopes in time to roam no more:The mariner, not vainly brave,Combats the storm, and rides the wave,To rest, at last, on shore.
Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,How vain your mask of state!The good alone have joy sincere,The good alone are great:Great, when, amid the vale of peace,They bid the plaint of sorrow cease,And hear the voice of artless praise;As, when along the trophied plain,Sublime they lead the victor train,While shouting nations gaze.
Why, Lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow,With the dread semblance of that warlike helm,That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow,That graced the chiefs of Scotia’s antient realm?Thou knowest that virtue is of power the source,And all her magic to thy eyes is given;We own their empire, while we feel their force,Beaming with the benignity of heaven.The plumy helmet, and the martial mien,Might dignify Minerva’s awful charms;But more resistless far the Idalian queen—Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.
Why, Lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow,With the dread semblance of that warlike helm,That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow,That graced the chiefs of Scotia’s antient realm?
Thou knowest that virtue is of power the source,And all her magic to thy eyes is given;We own their empire, while we feel their force,Beaming with the benignity of heaven.
The plumy helmet, and the martial mien,Might dignify Minerva’s awful charms;But more resistless far the Idalian queen—Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.
Atthe close of the day, when the hamlet is still,And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,And nought but the nightingale’s song in the grove:’Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,A Hermit his song of the night thus began;No more with himself, or with nature, at war,He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man:“Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe?“Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?“For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,“And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.“Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay,“Mourn, sweetest complainer! man calls thee to mourn:“O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away—“Full quickly they pass—but they never return.“Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,“The moon, half-extinguished, her crescent displays:“But lately I marked, when majestic on high,“She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.“Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue“The path that conducts thee to splendour again:“But man’s faded glory no change shall renew—“Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!“Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:“I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;“For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,“Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.“Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;“Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.—“But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?“O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?”’Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind;My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.“O pity, great Father of light,” then I cried,“Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee!“Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:“From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.”And darkness and doubt are now flying away:No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,And Nature all glowing in Eden’s first bloom!On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!
Atthe close of the day, when the hamlet is still,And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,And nought but the nightingale’s song in the grove:’Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,A Hermit his song of the night thus began;No more with himself, or with nature, at war,He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man:
“Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe?“Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?“For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,“And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.“Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay,“Mourn, sweetest complainer! man calls thee to mourn:“O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away—“Full quickly they pass—but they never return.
“Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,“The moon, half-extinguished, her crescent displays:“But lately I marked, when majestic on high,“She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.“Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue“The path that conducts thee to splendour again:“But man’s faded glory no change shall renew—“Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
“Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:“I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;“For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,“Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.“Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;“Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.—“But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?“O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?”
’Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind;My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.“O pity, great Father of light,” then I cried,“Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee!“Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:“From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.”
And darkness and doubt are now flying away:No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,And Nature all glowing in Eden’s first bloom!On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!
I. 1.
Peace, heaven-descended maid! whose powerful voiceFrom antient darkness called the morn;And hushed of jarring elements the noise,When Chaos, from his old dominion torn,With all his bellowing throng,Far, far was hurled the void abyss along;And all the bright angelic choir,Striking, through all their ranks, the eternal lyre,Poured, in loud symphony, the impetuous strain;And every fiery orb and planet sung,And wide, through Night’s dark solitary reign,Rebounding long and deep, the lays triumphant rung!
Peace, heaven-descended maid! whose powerful voiceFrom antient darkness called the morn;And hushed of jarring elements the noise,When Chaos, from his old dominion torn,With all his bellowing throng,Far, far was hurled the void abyss along;And all the bright angelic choir,Striking, through all their ranks, the eternal lyre,Poured, in loud symphony, the impetuous strain;And every fiery orb and planet sung,And wide, through Night’s dark solitary reign,Rebounding long and deep, the lays triumphant rung!
I. 2.
Oh, whither art thou fled, Saturnian Age!Roll round again, majestic years!To break the sceptre of tyrannic Rage;From Woe’s wan cheek to wipe the bitter tears;Ye years, again roll round!Hark! from afar what desolating sound,While echoes load the sighing gales,With dire presage the throbbing heart assails!Murder, deep-roused, with all the whirlwind’s haste,And roar of tempest, from her cavern springs,Her tangled serpents girds around her waist,Smiles ghastly fierce, and shakes her gore-distilling wings.
Oh, whither art thou fled, Saturnian Age!Roll round again, majestic years!To break the sceptre of tyrannic Rage;From Woe’s wan cheek to wipe the bitter tears;Ye years, again roll round!Hark! from afar what desolating sound,While echoes load the sighing gales,With dire presage the throbbing heart assails!Murder, deep-roused, with all the whirlwind’s haste,And roar of tempest, from her cavern springs,Her tangled serpents girds around her waist,Smiles ghastly fierce, and shakes her gore-distilling wings.
I. 3.
The shouts, redoubling, riseIn thunder to the skies;The nymphs, disordered, dart along,Sweet powers of solitude and song,Stunned with the horrors of discordant sound;And all is listening, trembling round.Torrents, far heard amid the waste of night,That oft have led the wanderer right,Are silent at the noise.The mighty Ocean’s more majestic voice,Drowned in superior din, is heard no more;The surge in silence seems to sweep the foamy shore.
The shouts, redoubling, riseIn thunder to the skies;The nymphs, disordered, dart along,Sweet powers of solitude and song,Stunned with the horrors of discordant sound;And all is listening, trembling round.Torrents, far heard amid the waste of night,That oft have led the wanderer right,Are silent at the noise.The mighty Ocean’s more majestic voice,Drowned in superior din, is heard no more;The surge in silence seems to sweep the foamy shore.
II. 1.
The bloody banner, streaming in the air,Seen on yon sky-mixt mountain’s brow,The mingling multitudes, the madding car,Driven in confusion to the plain below,War’s dreadful Lord proclaim.Bursts out, by frequent fits, the expansive flame;Snatched in tempestuous eddies, fliesThe surging smoke o’er all the darkened skies;The chearful face of heaven no more is seen;The bloom of morning fades to deadly pale;The bat flies transient o’er the dusky green,And Night’s foul birds along the sullen twilight sail.
The bloody banner, streaming in the air,Seen on yon sky-mixt mountain’s brow,The mingling multitudes, the madding car,Driven in confusion to the plain below,War’s dreadful Lord proclaim.Bursts out, by frequent fits, the expansive flame;Snatched in tempestuous eddies, fliesThe surging smoke o’er all the darkened skies;The chearful face of heaven no more is seen;The bloom of morning fades to deadly pale;The bat flies transient o’er the dusky green,And Night’s foul birds along the sullen twilight sail.
II. 2.
Involved in fire-streaked gloom, the car comes on.The rushing steeds grim Terror guides.His forehead writhed to a relentless frown,Aloft the angry Power of Battles rides.Grasped in his mighty hand,A mace, tremendous, desolates the land;The tower rolls headlong down the steep,The mountain shrinks before its wasteful sweep.Chill horror the dissolving limbs invades,Smit by the blasting lightning of his eyes;A deeper gloom invests the howling shades;Stripped is the shattered grove, and every verdure dies.
Involved in fire-streaked gloom, the car comes on.The rushing steeds grim Terror guides.His forehead writhed to a relentless frown,Aloft the angry Power of Battles rides.Grasped in his mighty hand,A mace, tremendous, desolates the land;The tower rolls headlong down the steep,The mountain shrinks before its wasteful sweep.Chill horror the dissolving limbs invades,Smit by the blasting lightning of his eyes;A deeper gloom invests the howling shades;Stripped is the shattered grove, and every verdure dies.
II. 3.
How startled Phrenzy stares,Bristling her ragged hairs!Revenge the gory fragment gnaws;See, with her griping vulture clawsImprinted deep, she rends the mangled wound!Hate whirls her torch sulphureous round.The shrieks of agony, and clang of arms,Re-echo to the hoarse alarms,Her trump terrific blows.Disparting from behind, the clouds disclose,Of kingly gesture, a gigantic form,That with his scourge sublime rules the careering storm.
How startled Phrenzy stares,Bristling her ragged hairs!Revenge the gory fragment gnaws;See, with her griping vulture clawsImprinted deep, she rends the mangled wound!Hate whirls her torch sulphureous round.The shrieks of agony, and clang of arms,Re-echo to the hoarse alarms,Her trump terrific blows.Disparting from behind, the clouds disclose,Of kingly gesture, a gigantic form,That with his scourge sublime rules the careering storm.
III. 1.
Ambition, outside fair! within as foulAs fiends of fiercest heart below,Who ride the hurricanes of fire, that rollTheir thundering vortex o’er the realms of woe,Yon naked waste survey;Where late was heard the flute’s mellifluous lay;Where late the rosy-bosomed hours,In loose array, danced lightly o’er the flowers;Where late the shepherd told his tender tale;And, wakened by the murmuring breeze of morn,The voice of chearful Labour filled the dale;And dove-eyed Plenty smiled, and waved her liberal horn.
Ambition, outside fair! within as foulAs fiends of fiercest heart below,Who ride the hurricanes of fire, that rollTheir thundering vortex o’er the realms of woe,Yon naked waste survey;Where late was heard the flute’s mellifluous lay;Where late the rosy-bosomed hours,In loose array, danced lightly o’er the flowers;Where late the shepherd told his tender tale;And, wakened by the murmuring breeze of morn,The voice of chearful Labour filled the dale;And dove-eyed Plenty smiled, and waved her liberal horn.
III. 2.
Yon ruins, sable from the wasting flame,But mark the once resplendent dome;The frequent corse obstructs the sullen stream,And ghosts glare horrid from the sylvan gloom.How sadly silent all!Save where, outstretched beneath yon hanging wall,Pale Famine moans with feeble breath,And Anguish yells, and grinds his bloody teeth.Though vain the Muse, and every melting lay,To touch thy heart, unconscious of remorse!Know, monster, know, thy hour is on the way;I see, I see the years begin their mighty course.
Yon ruins, sable from the wasting flame,But mark the once resplendent dome;The frequent corse obstructs the sullen stream,And ghosts glare horrid from the sylvan gloom.How sadly silent all!Save where, outstretched beneath yon hanging wall,Pale Famine moans with feeble breath,And Anguish yells, and grinds his bloody teeth.Though vain the Muse, and every melting lay,To touch thy heart, unconscious of remorse!Know, monster, know, thy hour is on the way;I see, I see the years begin their mighty course.
III. 3.
What scenes of glory riseBefore my dazzled eyes!Young zephyrs wave their wanton wings,And melody celestial rings.All blooming on the lawn the nymphs advance,And touch the lute, and range the dance:And the blithe shepherds, on the mountain’s side,Arrayed in all their rural pride,Exalt the festive note,Inviting Echo from her inmost grot——But ah! the landscape glows with fainter light;It darkens, swims, and flies for ever from my sight.
What scenes of glory riseBefore my dazzled eyes!Young zephyrs wave their wanton wings,And melody celestial rings.All blooming on the lawn the nymphs advance,And touch the lute, and range the dance:And the blithe shepherds, on the mountain’s side,Arrayed in all their rural pride,Exalt the festive note,Inviting Echo from her inmost grot——But ah! the landscape glows with fainter light;It darkens, swims, and flies for ever from my sight.
IV. 1.
Illusions vain! Can sacredPeaceresideWhere sordid gold the breast alarms,Where Cruelty inflames the eye of Pride,And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure’s arms?Ambition, these are thine!These from the soul erase the form divine;And quench the animating fire,That warms the bosom with sublime desire.Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel,And Hatred triumphs on the o’erwhelming brow,And midnight Rancour grasps the cruel steel;Blaze the blue flames of death, and sound the shrieks of woe.
Illusions vain! Can sacredPeaceresideWhere sordid gold the breast alarms,Where Cruelty inflames the eye of Pride,And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure’s arms?Ambition, these are thine!These from the soul erase the form divine;And quench the animating fire,That warms the bosom with sublime desire.Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel,And Hatred triumphs on the o’erwhelming brow,And midnight Rancour grasps the cruel steel;Blaze the blue flames of death, and sound the shrieks of woe.
IV. 2.
From Albion fled, thy once beloved retreat,What regions brighten in thy smile,CreativePeace!and underneath thy feetSee sudden flowers adorn the rugged soil?In bleak Siberia blows,Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy rose?Waved over by thy magic wand,Does life inform fell Lybia’s burning sand?Or does some isle thy parting flight detain,Where roves the Indian through primæval shades;Haunts the pure pleasures of the sylvan reign,And, led by Reason’s light, the path of Nature treads?
From Albion fled, thy once beloved retreat,What regions brighten in thy smile,CreativePeace!and underneath thy feetSee sudden flowers adorn the rugged soil?In bleak Siberia blows,Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy rose?Waved over by thy magic wand,Does life inform fell Lybia’s burning sand?Or does some isle thy parting flight detain,Where roves the Indian through primæval shades;Haunts the pure pleasures of the sylvan reign,And, led by Reason’s light, the path of Nature treads?
IV. 3.