Footnote 1:
� This is agreeable to the theology of Homer,—who often represents Pallas as the executioner of divine vengeance.
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1Memory, be still! why throng upon the thoughtThese scenes deep-stain'd with Sorrow's sable dye?Hast thou in store no joy-illumined draught,To cheer bewilder'd Fancy's tearful eye?2Yes—from afar a landscape seems to rise,Deck'd gorgeous by the lavish hand of Spring:Thin gilded clouds float light along the skies,And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing.3How blest the youth in yonder valley laid!Soft smiles in every conscious feature play,While to the gale low murmuring through the glade,He tempers sweet his sprightly-warbling lay.4Hail, Innocence! whose bosom, all serene,Feels not fierce Passion's raving tempest roll!Oh, ne'er may Care distract that placid mien!Oh, ne'er may Doubt's dark shades o'erwhelm thy soul!5Vain wish! for, lo! in gay attire conceal'd,Yonder she comes, the heart-inflaming fiend!(Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield?)Swift to her destined prey see Passion bend!6O smile accursed, to hide the worst designs!Now with blithe eye she woo's him to be blest,While round her arm unseen a serpent twines—And, lo! she hurls it hissing at his breast.7And, instant, lo! his dizzy eyeball swimsGhastly, and reddening darts a threatful glare;Pain with strong grasp distorts his writhing limbs,And Fear's cold hand erects his bristling hair!8Is this, O life, is this thy boasted prime?And does thy spring no happier prospect yield?Why gilds the vernal sun thy gaudy clime,When nipping mildews waste the flowery field?9How Memory pains! Let some gay theme beguileThe musing mind, and soothe to soft delight.Ye images of woe, no more recoil;Be life's past scenes wrapt in oblivious night.10Now when fierce Winter, arm'd with wasteful power,Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar,How sweet to sit in this sequester'd bower,To hear, and but to hear, the mingling war!11Ambition here displays no gilded toyThat tempts on desperate wing the soul to rise,Nor Pleasure's flower-embroider'd paths decoy,Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's gay disguise.12Oft has Contentment cheer'd this lone abodeWith the mild languish of her smiling eye;Here Health has oft in blushing beauty glow'd,While loose-robed Quiet stood enamour'd by.13Even the storm lulls to more profound repose:The storm these humble walls assails in vain:Screen'd is the lily when the whirlwind blows,While the oak's stately ruin strews the plain.14Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies;Roll the old ocean, and the vales lay waste:Nature thy momentary rage defies;To her relief the gentler seasons haste.15Throned in her emerald car, see Spring appear!(As Fancy wills, the landscape starts to view)Her emerald car the youthful Zephyrs bear,Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue.16Around the jocund Hours are fluttering seen;And, lo! her rod the rose-lipp'd power extends.And, lo! the lawns are deck'd in living green,And Beauty's bright-eyed train from heaven descends.17Haste, happy days, and make all nature glad—But will all nature joy at your return?Say, can ye cheer pale Sickness' gloomy bed,Or dry the tears that bathe the untimely urn?18Will ye one transient ray of gladness dart'Cross the dark cell where hopeless slavery lies?To ease tired Disappointment's bleeding heart,Will all your stores of softening balm suffice?19When fell Oppression in his harpy fangsFrom Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears,Can ye allay the heart-wrung parent's pangs,Whose famish'd child craves help with fruitless tears?20For ah! thy reign, Oppression, is not past,Who from the shivering limbs the vestment rends,Who lays the once rejoicing village waste,Bursting the ties of lovers and of friends.21O ye, to Pleasure who resign the day,As loose in Luxury's clasping arms you lie,O yet let pity in your breast bear sway,And learn to melt at Misery's moving cry.22But hop'st thou, Muse, vain-glorious as thou art,With the weak impulse of thy humble strain,Hop'st thou to soften Pride's obdurate heart,When Errol's bright example shines in vain?23Then cease the theme. Turn, Fancy, turn thine eye,Thy weeping eye, nor further urge thy flight;Thy haunts, alas! no gleams of joy supply,Or transient gleams, that flash and sink in night.24Yet fain the mind its anguish would forego—Spread then, historic Muse, thy pictured scroll;Bid thy great scenes in all their splendour glow,And swell to thought sublime the exalted soul.25What mingling pomps rush boundless on the gaze!What gallant navies ride the heaving deep!What glittering towns their cloud-wrapt turrets raise!What bulwarks frown horrific o'er the steep!26Bristling with spears, and bright with burnish'd shields,The embattled legions stretch their long array;Discord's red torch, as fierce she scours the fields,With bloody tincture stains the face of day.27And now the hosts in silence wait the sign.How keen their looks whom Liberty inspires!Quick as the Goddess darts along the line,Each breast impatient burns with noble fires.28Her form how graceful! In her lofty mienThe smiles of Love stern Wisdom's frown control;Her fearless eye, determined though serene,Speaks the great purpose, and the unconquer'd soul.29Mark, where Ambition leads the adverse band,Each feature fierce and haggard, as with pain!With menace loud he cries, while from his handHe vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain.30Lo! at his call, impetuous as the storms,Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven:Hatred to madness wrought, each face deforms,Mounts the black whirlwind, and involves the heaven.31Now, Virtue, now thy powerful succour lend,Shield them for Liberty who dare to die—Ah, Liberty! will none thy cause befriend?Are these thy sons, thy generous sons, that fly?32Not Virtue's self, when Heaven its aid denies,Can brace the loosen'd nerves or warm the heart!Not Virtue's self can still the burst of sighs,When festers in the soul Misfortune's dart.33See where, by heaven-bred terror all dismay'dThe scattering legions pour along the plain;Ambition's car, with bloody spoils array'd,Hews its broad way, as Vengeance guides the rein.34Butwho is he that, by yon lonely brook,With woods o'erhung and precipices rude1,Abandon'd lies, and with undaunted lookSees streaming from his breast the purple flood?35Ah, Brutus! ever thine be Virtue's tear!Lo! his dim eyes to Liberty he turns,As scarce supported on her broken spearO'er her expiring son the goddess mourns.36Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies,From her dishevell'd locks she rends the plume;No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes,And on her tear-stain'd cheek no roses bloom.37Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway,Fame's loudest trumpet labours in thy praise,For thee the Muse awakes her sweetest lay,And Flattery bids for thee her altars blaze.38Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone,The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil,Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown,While Guilt's thrill'd bosom leaps at Pleasure's smile;39Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell,Far, far remote, amid the lowly plain,Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell:Such is man's doom, and Pity weeps in vain.40Still grief recoils—How vainly have I stroveThy power, O Melancholy, to withstand!Tired I submit; but yet, O yet removeOr ease the pressure of thy heavy hand.41Yet for a while let the bewilder'd soulFind in society relief from woe;O yield a while to Friendship's soft control;Some respite, Friendship, wilt thou not bestow?42Come, then, Philander! for thy lofty mindLooks down from far on all that charms the great;For thou canst bear, unshaken and resign'd,The brightest smiles, the blackest frowns of Fate:43Come thou, whose love unlimited, sincere,Nor faction cools, nor injury destroys;Who lend'st to misery's moans a pitying ear,And feel'st with ecstasy another's joys:44Who know'st man's frailty: with a favouring eye,And melting heart, behold'st a brother's fall;Who, unenslaved by custom's narrow tie,With manly freedom follow'st reason's call.45And bring thy Delia, softly-smiling fair,Whose spotless soul no sordid thoughts deform:Her accents mild would still each throbbing care,And harmonize the thunder of the storm.46Though blest with wisdom, and with wit refined,She courts not homage, nor desires to shine:In her each sentiment sublime is join'dTo female sweetness, and a form divine.47Come, and dispel the deep surrounding shade:Let chasten'd mirth the social hours employ;O catch the swift-wing'd hour before 'tis fled,On swiftest pinion flies the hour of joy.48Even while the careless disencumber'd soulDissolving sinks to joy's oblivious dream,Even then to time's tremendous verge we rollWith haste impetuous down life's surgy stream.49Can Gaiety the vanish'd years restore,Or on the withering limbs fresh beauty shed,Or soothe the sad inevitable hour,Or cheer the dark, dark mansions of the dead?50Still sounds the solemn knell in Fancy's ear,That call'd Cleora to the silent tomb;To her how jocund roll'd the sprightly year!How shone the nymph in beauty's brightest bloom!51Ah! beauty's bloom avails not in the grave,Youth's lofty mien, nor age's awful grace:Moulder unknown the monarch and the slave,Whelm'd in the enormous wreck of human race.52The thought-fix'd portraiture, the breathing bust,The arch with proud memorials array'd,The long-lived pyramid shall sink in dustTo dumb oblivion's ever-desert shade.53Fancy from comfort wanders still astray.Ah, Melancholy! how I feel thy power!Long have I labour'd to elude thy sway!But 'tis enough, for I resist no more.54The traveller thus, that o'er the midnight wasteThrough many a lonesome path is doom'd to roam,Wilder'd and weary sits him down at last;For long the night, and distant far his home.
Footnote 1:
� Such, according to the description given by Plutarch, was the scene of Brutus's death.
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1Tired with the busy crowds, that all the dayImpatient throng where Folly's altars flame,My languid powers dissolve with quick decay,Till genial Sleep repair the sinking frame.2Hail, kind reviver! that canst lull the cares,And every weary sense compose to rest,Lighten the oppressive load which anguish bears,And warm with hope the cold desponding breast.3Touch'd by thy rod, from Power's majestic browDrops the gay plume; he pines a lowly clown;And on the cold earth stretch'd, the son of WoeQuaffs Pleasure's draught, and wears a fancied crown.4When roused by thee, on boundless pinions borne,Fancy to fairy scenes exults to rove,Now scales the cliff gay-gleaming on the morn,Now sad and silent treads the deepening grove;5Or skims the main, and listens to the storms,Marks the long waves roll far remote away;Or, mingling with ten thousand glittering forms,Floats on the gale, and basks in purest day.6Haply, ere long, pierced by the howling blast,Through dark and pathless deserts I shall roam,Plunge down the unfathom'd deep, or shrink aghastWhere bursts the shrieking spectre from the tomb:7Perhaps loose Luxury's enchanting smileShall lure my steps to some romantic dale,Where Mirth's light freaks the unheeded hours beguile,And airs of rapture warble in the gale.8Instructive emblem of this mortal state!Where scenes as various every hour ariseIn swift succession, which the hand of FatePresents, then snatches from our wondering eyes.9Be taught, vain man, how fleeting all thy joys,Thy boasted grandeur and thy glittering store:Death comes, and all thy fancied bliss destroys;Quick as a dream it fades, and is no more.10And, sons of Sorrow! though the threatening stormOf angry Fortune overhang awhile,Let not her frowns your inward peace deform;Soon happier days in happier climes shall smile.11Through Earth's throng'd visions while we toss forlorn,'Tis tumult all, and rage, and restless strife;But these shall vanish like the dreams of morn,When Death awakes us to immortal life.
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1When in the crimson cloud of evenThe lingering light decays,And Hesper on the front of heavenHis glittering gem displays;Deep in the silent vale, unseen,Beside a lulling stream,A pensive Youth, of placid mien,Indulged this tender theme:2"Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piledHigh o'er the glimmering dale;Ye woods, along whose windings wildMurmurs the solemn gale:Where Melancholy strays forlorn,And Woe retires to weep,What time the wan Moon's yellow hornGleams on the western deep!3To you, ye wastes, whose artless charmsNe'er drew ambition's eye,'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,To your retreats I fly.Deep in your most sequester'd bowerLet me at last recline,Where Solitude, mild, modest power,Leans on her ivied shrine.4How shall I woo thee, matchless fair?Thy heavenly smile how win?Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care,And stills the storm within.O wilt thou to thy favourite groveThine ardent votary bring,And bless his hours, and bid them moveSerene on silent wing?5Oft let Remembrance soothe his mindWith dreams of former days,When in the lap of Peace reclinedHe framed his infant lays;When Fancy roved at large, nor CareNor cold distrust alarm'd,Nor Envy, with malignant glare,His simple youth had harm'd.6Twas then, O Solitude, to theeHis early vows were paid,From heart sincere, and warm, and free,Devoted to the shade.Ah! why did Fate his steps decoyIn stormy paths to roam,Remote from all congenial joy?—O take the wanderer home!7Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,Thy charms my only theme;My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pineWaves o'er the gloomy stream.Whence the scared owl on pinions grayBreaks from the rustling boughs,And down the lone vale sails awayTo more profound repose.8Oh, while to thee the woodland poursIts wildly-warbling song,And balmy from the bank of flowersThe Zephyr breathes along;Let no rude sound invade from far,No vagrant foot be nigh,No ray from Grandeur's gilded carFlash on the startled eye.9But if some pilgrim through the gladeThy hallow'd bowers explore,O guard from harm his hoary head,And listen to his lore;For he of joys divine shall tell,That wean from earthly woe,And triumph o'er the mighty spellThat chains his heart below.10For me no more the path invitesAmbition loves to tread;No more I climb those toilsome heightsBy guileful hope misled;Leaps my fond fluttering heart no moreTo Mirth's enlivening strain;For present pleasure soon is o'er,And all the past is vain."
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1At the 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 thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began:No more with himself or with nature at war,He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.2"Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe,Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall.But if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn:O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away:Full quickly they pass—but they never return.3Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,The Moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays:But lately I mark'd when majestic on highShe shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursueThe path that conducts thee to splendour again.But man's faded glory what change shall renew?Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!4'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?5'Twas thus, by the glare of false Science betray'd,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.'6And 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."
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written in 1765
part of a letter to a person of quality
Lest your Lordship, who are so well acquainted with everything that relates to true honour, should think hardly of me for attacking the memory of the dead, I beg leave to offer a few words in my own vindication.
If I had composed the following verses, with a view to gratify private resentment, to promote the interest of any faction, or to recommend myself to the patronage of any person whatsoever, I should have been altogether inexcusable. To attack the memory of the dead from selfish considerations, or from mere wantonness of malice, is an enormity which none can hold in greater detestation than I. But I composed them from very different motives; as every intelligent reader, who peruses them with attention, and who is willing to believe me upon my own testimony, will undoubtedly perceive. My motives proceeded from a sincere desire to do some small service to my country, and to the cause of truth and virtue. The promoters of faction I ever did, and ever will, consider as the enemies of mankind: to the memory of such I owe no veneration: to the writings of such I owe no indulgence.
Your Lordship knows that (Churchill) owed the greatest share of his renown to the most incompetent of all judges, the mob: actuated by the most unworthy of all principles, a spirit of insolence, and inflamed by the vilest of all human passions, hatred to their fellow-citizens. Those who joined the cry in his favour seemed to me to be swayed rather by fashion than by real sentiment: he therefore might have lived and died unmolested by me, confident as I am, that posterity, when the present unhappy dissensions are forgotten, will do ample justice to his real character. But when I saw the extravagant honours that were paid to his memory, and heard that a monument in Westminster Abbey was intended for one whom even his admirers acknowledge to have been an incendiary and a debauchee; I could not help wishing that my countrymen would reflect a little on what they were doing, before they consecrated, by what posterity would think the public voice, a character, which no friend to virtue or true taste can approve. It was this sentiment, enforced by the earnest request of a friend, which produced the following little poem; in which I have said nothing of (Churchill's) manners that is not warranted by the best authority: nor of his writings, that is not perfectly agreeable to the opinion of many of the most competent judges in Britain.
Aberdeen,
January
1765.
Footnote 1:
� 'Hoary bard of night:' Dr Young.
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Footnote 2:
� 'Rapt sage:' Pluto.
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Footnote 3:
� 'Indignant bard:' Alceus; see Akenside's
Ode on Lyric Poetry
.
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Footnote 4:
� Wilkes.
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from thePygmæo-Gerano-Machiaof Addison.
1762