[A]"At his leisure hours he cultivated the muses. A journal kept by him, as well as some specimens of his poetry, are still in the possession of his descendants. This last circumstance is the more worthy of being noticed, as it proves that Dr. Beattie derived his poetical turn from his father."—Bower'sLife of Beattie, 1804, p. 2.
[A]"At his leisure hours he cultivated the muses. A journal kept by him, as well as some specimens of his poetry, are still in the possession of his descendants. This last circumstance is the more worthy of being noticed, as it proves that Dr. Beattie derived his poetical turn from his father."—Bower'sLife of Beattie, 1804, p. 2.
[B]According to Bower, Beattie was supported at college by the generosity of his brother David, who accompanied him to Aberdeen, when he first quitted Laurencekirk to commence his course at the University. "The peculiar mode of their conveyance to Aberdeen is a matter of very trifling moment. It may not be unacceptable to some, however, to be informed, that they rode on one horse; and at a season of the year not the most agreeable for undertaking a journey (when good roads were unknown in Scotland) of thirty English miles."—Life of Beattie, 1804, p. 17.
[B]According to Bower, Beattie was supported at college by the generosity of his brother David, who accompanied him to Aberdeen, when he first quitted Laurencekirk to commence his course at the University. "The peculiar mode of their conveyance to Aberdeen is a matter of very trifling moment. It may not be unacceptable to some, however, to be informed, that they rode on one horse; and at a season of the year not the most agreeable for undertaking a journey (when good roads were unknown in Scotland) of thirty English miles."—Life of Beattie, 1804, p. 17.
[C]Life of Homer,Court of Augustus, &c.
[C]Life of Homer,Court of Augustus, &c.
[D]Bower'sLife of Beattie, 1804, p. 89.
[D]Bower'sLife of Beattie, 1804, p. 89.
[E]Ibid.p. 100.
[E]Ibid.p. 100.
[F]Lord Gardenstone was himself a votary of the muses, though his verses are now forgotten. As a satirical poet he is far from contemptible.
[F]Lord Gardenstone was himself a votary of the muses, though his verses are now forgotten. As a satirical poet he is far from contemptible.
[G]Robert Arbuthnot, Esq., Secretary to the Board of Trustees for Fisheries, Manufactures, and improvements in Scotland, who resided chiefly at Peterhead, where he carried on business as a merchant; a person of considerable taste and learning. He was nearly related to the famous Dr. Arbuthnot, the friend of Pope and Swift.
[G]Robert Arbuthnot, Esq., Secretary to the Board of Trustees for Fisheries, Manufactures, and improvements in Scotland, who resided chiefly at Peterhead, where he carried on business as a merchant; a person of considerable taste and learning. He was nearly related to the famous Dr. Arbuthnot, the friend of Pope and Swift.
[H]Sir William Forbes says it "had a rapid sale." Mr. A. Chalmers, however (Poets, vol. xviii. p. 519), doubts if it was ever published for sale, except in Beattie'sPoems, 1766, in the Advertisement to which we are told that it "appeared in a separate pamphlet in the beginning of the year 1765." I have been unable to meet with the original edition.
[H]Sir William Forbes says it "had a rapid sale." Mr. A. Chalmers, however (Poets, vol. xviii. p. 519), doubts if it was ever published for sale, except in Beattie'sPoems, 1766, in the Advertisement to which we are told that it "appeared in a separate pamphlet in the beginning of the year 1765." I have been unable to meet with the original edition.
[I]I have been told that the poem consisted originally of only four stanzas, and that the two beautiful ones with which it now concludes were added, a considerable time after the others were written, at the request of Mrs. Carnegie, of Charlton, near Montrose. This lady, whose maiden name was Scott, was authoress of a poem calledDunotter Castle, printed in the second edition of Colman and Thornton'sPoems by Eminent Ladies.'Pentland Hills', for which Beattie wroteThe Hermit, was an air composed by Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, in imitation of the old Scottish melodies.
[I]I have been told that the poem consisted originally of only four stanzas, and that the two beautiful ones with which it now concludes were added, a considerable time after the others were written, at the request of Mrs. Carnegie, of Charlton, near Montrose. This lady, whose maiden name was Scott, was authoress of a poem calledDunotter Castle, printed in the second edition of Colman and Thornton'sPoems by Eminent Ladies.
'Pentland Hills', for which Beattie wroteThe Hermit, was an air composed by Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, in imitation of the old Scottish melodies.
[J]On one occasion, I have been informed, she took some China jars from the chimney-piece, and carefully arranged them on the top of the parlour door, in order that when Beattie opened it, they might fall upon his head.
[J]On one occasion, I have been informed, she took some China jars from the chimney-piece, and carefully arranged them on the top of the parlour door, in order that when Beattie opened it, they might fall upon his head.
[K]Beattie's Verses were printed in the Aberdeen Journal, together with an introductory letter in prose also by him, signed "Oliver Oldstile." The writer of the Life of Ross, in that pleasing compilation,Lives of Scottish Poets, 3 vols. 1822, says: "The author of both productions was generally understood to be Dr. Beattie; and they have remained so long ascribed to him without contradiction, that there can be little doubt of their being from his pen."Partiii. p. 107. There is no doubt about the matter; Beattie owns them in a letter to Blacklock.—Forbes'sLife of Beattie, vol. i. p. 153. ed. 1807.The Fortunate Shepherdessis a poem of great merit: to the second edition of it (and I believe to all subsequent editions) Beattie's verses are prefixed.
[K]Beattie's Verses were printed in the Aberdeen Journal, together with an introductory letter in prose also by him, signed "Oliver Oldstile." The writer of the Life of Ross, in that pleasing compilation,Lives of Scottish Poets, 3 vols. 1822, says: "The author of both productions was generally understood to be Dr. Beattie; and they have remained so long ascribed to him without contradiction, that there can be little doubt of their being from his pen."Partiii. p. 107. There is no doubt about the matter; Beattie owns them in a letter to Blacklock.—Forbes'sLife of Beattie, vol. i. p. 153. ed. 1807.The Fortunate Shepherdessis a poem of great merit: to the second edition of it (and I believe to all subsequent editions) Beattie's verses are prefixed.
[L]Dr. Reid.
[L]Dr. Reid.
[M]Dr. Campbell.
[M]Dr. Campbell.
[N]Mr. Hume, who at an early period had been the patron of Blacklock. Long before the date of this letter they had ceased to have any intercourse.
[N]Mr. Hume, who at an early period had been the patron of Blacklock. Long before the date of this letter they had ceased to have any intercourse.
[O]"O how canst thou renounce the boundless storeOf charms which Nature to her votary yields!The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;All that the genial ray of morning gilds,And all that echoes to the song of even,All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,And all the dread magnificence of heaven,O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!""I have often wished," says Beattie, in a note on Gray's letter, "to alter this same word [garniture], but have not yet been able to hit upon a better."
[O]
"O how canst thou renounce the boundless storeOf charms which Nature to her votary yields!The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;All that the genial ray of morning gilds,And all that echoes to the song of even,All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,And all the dread magnificence of heaven,O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!"
"O how canst thou renounce the boundless storeOf charms which Nature to her votary yields!The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;All that the genial ray of morning gilds,And all that echoes to the song of even,All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,And all the dread magnificence of heaven,O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!"
"I have often wished," says Beattie, in a note on Gray's letter, "to alter this same word [garniture], but have not yet been able to hit upon a better."
[P]See p. xv.
[P]See p. xv.
[Q]At a subsequent period, after the king had granted him a pension, he received two offers of church preferment in England—the one from Mr. Pitt, of Dorsetshire, of a living in that county worth £150 per annum, the other from Dr. Thomas, Bishop of Winchester, of a living in Hants, valued at £500 a year—neither of which he would accept. In the letter wherein he declines the second noble offer, he thus expresses himself:"I wrote the 'Essays on Truth' with the certain prospect of raising many enemies, with very faint hopes of attracting the public attention, and without any views of advancing my fortune. I published it, however, because I thought it might probably do a little good, by bringing to nought, or, at least, lessening the reputation of that wretched system of sceptical philosophy, which had made a most alarming progress, and done incredible mischief to this country. My enemies have been at great pains to represent my views, in that publication, as very different: and that my principal, or only motive was to make a book, and, if possible, to raise myself higher in the world. So that, if I were now to accept preferment in the church, I should be apprehensive that I might strengthen the hands of the gainsayer, and give the world some ground to believe that my love of truth was not quite so ardent, or so pure, as I had pretended."Besides, might it not have the appearance of levity and insincerity, and, by some, be construed into a want of principle, if I were, at these years (for I am now thirty-eight), to make such an important change in my way of life, and to quit, with no otherapparentmotive than that of bettering my circumstances, that church of which I have hitherto been a member? If my book has any tendency to do good, as I flatter myself it has, I would not, for the wealth of the Indies, do any thing to counteract that tendency; and I am afraid that tendency might, in some measure be counteracted (at least in this country) if I were to give the adversary the least ground to charge me with inconsistency. It is true, that the force of my reasonings cannot bereallyaffected by my character; truth is truth, whoever be the speaker; but even truth itself becomes less respectable, when spoken, or supposed to be spoken, by insincere lips."It has also been hinted to me, by several persons of very sound judgment, that what I have written, or may hereafter write in favour of religion, has a chance of being more attended to, if I continue a layman, than if I were to become a clergyman. Nor am I without apprehensions (though some of my friends think them ill founded) that, from entering so late in life, and from so remote a province, into the Church of England, some degree of ungracefulness, particularly in pronunciation, might adhere to my performances in public, sufficient to render them less pleasing, and consequently less useful."
[Q]At a subsequent period, after the king had granted him a pension, he received two offers of church preferment in England—the one from Mr. Pitt, of Dorsetshire, of a living in that county worth £150 per annum, the other from Dr. Thomas, Bishop of Winchester, of a living in Hants, valued at £500 a year—neither of which he would accept. In the letter wherein he declines the second noble offer, he thus expresses himself:
"I wrote the 'Essays on Truth' with the certain prospect of raising many enemies, with very faint hopes of attracting the public attention, and without any views of advancing my fortune. I published it, however, because I thought it might probably do a little good, by bringing to nought, or, at least, lessening the reputation of that wretched system of sceptical philosophy, which had made a most alarming progress, and done incredible mischief to this country. My enemies have been at great pains to represent my views, in that publication, as very different: and that my principal, or only motive was to make a book, and, if possible, to raise myself higher in the world. So that, if I were now to accept preferment in the church, I should be apprehensive that I might strengthen the hands of the gainsayer, and give the world some ground to believe that my love of truth was not quite so ardent, or so pure, as I had pretended.
"Besides, might it not have the appearance of levity and insincerity, and, by some, be construed into a want of principle, if I were, at these years (for I am now thirty-eight), to make such an important change in my way of life, and to quit, with no otherapparentmotive than that of bettering my circumstances, that church of which I have hitherto been a member? If my book has any tendency to do good, as I flatter myself it has, I would not, for the wealth of the Indies, do any thing to counteract that tendency; and I am afraid that tendency might, in some measure be counteracted (at least in this country) if I were to give the adversary the least ground to charge me with inconsistency. It is true, that the force of my reasonings cannot bereallyaffected by my character; truth is truth, whoever be the speaker; but even truth itself becomes less respectable, when spoken, or supposed to be spoken, by insincere lips.
"It has also been hinted to me, by several persons of very sound judgment, that what I have written, or may hereafter write in favour of religion, has a chance of being more attended to, if I continue a layman, than if I were to become a clergyman. Nor am I without apprehensions (though some of my friends think them ill founded) that, from entering so late in life, and from so remote a province, into the Church of England, some degree of ungracefulness, particularly in pronunciation, might adhere to my performances in public, sufficient to render them less pleasing, and consequently less useful."
[R]So Beattie names the figures in one of his letters; but Sir William Forbes tells us they are supposed to mean Sophistry, Scepticism, and Infidelity. The worthy Baronet proceeds to observe:"Because one of these was a lean figure and the [an] other a fat one, people of lively imaginations pleased themselves with finding in them the portraits of Voltaire and Mr. Hume. But Sir Joshua, I have reason to believe, had no such thought when he painted those figures."Surely Sir William had never read all the letters which he printed in hisLife of Beattie, for in vol. ii. p. 42, octavo ed., we find the great painter writing to our poet as follows, in February, 1774:"Mr. Hume has heard from somebody that he is introduced in the picture, not much to his credit; there is only a figure, covering his face with his hands, which they may call Hume or any body else;it is true it has a tolerable broad back. As for Voltaire, I intended he should be one of the group."This fine picture is now at Aberdeen, in the possession of Beattie's niece, Mrs. Glennie.
[R]So Beattie names the figures in one of his letters; but Sir William Forbes tells us they are supposed to mean Sophistry, Scepticism, and Infidelity. The worthy Baronet proceeds to observe:
"Because one of these was a lean figure and the [an] other a fat one, people of lively imaginations pleased themselves with finding in them the portraits of Voltaire and Mr. Hume. But Sir Joshua, I have reason to believe, had no such thought when he painted those figures."
Surely Sir William had never read all the letters which he printed in hisLife of Beattie, for in vol. ii. p. 42, octavo ed., we find the great painter writing to our poet as follows, in February, 1774:
"Mr. Hume has heard from somebody that he is introduced in the picture, not much to his credit; there is only a figure, covering his face with his hands, which they may call Hume or any body else;it is true it has a tolerable broad back. As for Voltaire, I intended he should be one of the group."
This fine picture is now at Aberdeen, in the possession of Beattie's niece, Mrs. Glennie.
[S]When Beattie was in London, in 1773, and when it was doubtful whether government would ever make any provision for him, his friends there set on foot a subscription for this work. "It was a thing," says he, in a letter to Lady Mayne, January, 1774, "of a private nature entirely; projected not by me, but by some of my friends, who had condescended to charge themselves with the whole trouble of it: it was never meant to be made public, nor put into the hands of booksellers, nor carried on by solicitation, but was to be considered as avoluntarymark of the approbation of some persons of rank and fortune, who wished it to be known that they patronized me on account of what I had written in defence of truth," &c. Prefixed to the volume is a list of nearly five hundred subscribers, among whom are many distinguished characters in church and state.
[S]When Beattie was in London, in 1773, and when it was doubtful whether government would ever make any provision for him, his friends there set on foot a subscription for this work. "It was a thing," says he, in a letter to Lady Mayne, January, 1774, "of a private nature entirely; projected not by me, but by some of my friends, who had condescended to charge themselves with the whole trouble of it: it was never meant to be made public, nor put into the hands of booksellers, nor carried on by solicitation, but was to be considered as avoluntarymark of the approbation of some persons of rank and fortune, who wished it to be known that they patronized me on account of what I had written in defence of truth," &c. Prefixed to the volume is a list of nearly five hundred subscribers, among whom are many distinguished characters in church and state.
[T]A spurious edition of his Juvenile Poems, with some which he never wrote, from Dodsley'sCollection, was put forth in 1780. This volume he disowned in a public advertisement.
[T]A spurious edition of his Juvenile Poems, with some which he never wrote, from Dodsley'sCollection, was put forth in 1780. This volume he disowned in a public advertisement.
[U]Perhaps it was not printed till the beginning of the following year. In a letter to Beattie, dated Feb. 1st, 1779, Mrs. Montagu says, "I was much pleased with your pamphlet on Psalmody."
[U]Perhaps it was not printed till the beginning of the following year. In a letter to Beattie, dated Feb. 1st, 1779, Mrs. Montagu says, "I was much pleased with your pamphlet on Psalmody."
[V]He was born in 1768, and was named after James Hay, Earl of Errol, our author's early patron.
[V]He was born in 1768, and was named after James Hay, Earl of Errol, our author's early patron.
[W]Writing from Edinburgh, 28th May, 1784, to his niece, Miss Valentine (now Mrs. Glennie), Beattie describes the sensation caused in that city by the performances of Mrs. Siddons. He says that he met her at the house of Lord Buchan; that he played to her many Scotch airs on the violoncello, with which she was much gratified; and that "she sung 'Queen Mary's Complaint' to admiration, and I had the honour to accompany her on the bass."—Forbes'sLife of Beattie, vol. ii. p. 324, octavo ed.I am informed, by the incomparable actress in question, that the quotation just given contains an utter falsehood, which, when Forbes's Life of our author first appeared, in 1806, she read with astonishment. She remembers perfectly having been introduced to Beattie at Lord Buchan's, but she is quite certain she didnotsing either Queen Mary's Complaint or any other song; and she observes, that if shehadsung to his accompaniment, the circumstance would have been so striking that it could not possibly have escaped her recollection.Qy. Has Beattie's letter been mutilated, the person who transcribed it for the press having by mistake omitted some lines? and do the words "she sung," in the concluding sentence, refer to some other more musical lady, and not to Mrs. Siddons?
[W]Writing from Edinburgh, 28th May, 1784, to his niece, Miss Valentine (now Mrs. Glennie), Beattie describes the sensation caused in that city by the performances of Mrs. Siddons. He says that he met her at the house of Lord Buchan; that he played to her many Scotch airs on the violoncello, with which she was much gratified; and that "she sung 'Queen Mary's Complaint' to admiration, and I had the honour to accompany her on the bass."—Forbes'sLife of Beattie, vol. ii. p. 324, octavo ed.
I am informed, by the incomparable actress in question, that the quotation just given contains an utter falsehood, which, when Forbes's Life of our author first appeared, in 1806, she read with astonishment. She remembers perfectly having been introduced to Beattie at Lord Buchan's, but she is quite certain she didnotsing either Queen Mary's Complaint or any other song; and she observes, that if shehadsung to his accompaniment, the circumstance would have been so striking that it could not possibly have escaped her recollection.
Qy. Has Beattie's letter been mutilated, the person who transcribed it for the press having by mistake omitted some lines? and do the words "she sung," in the concluding sentence, refer to some other more musical lady, and not to Mrs. Siddons?
[X]He was so named after Mrs. Montagu. From one of Beattie's letters, dated 1789, it appears that she had made a handsome present of money to her godson.
[X]He was so named after Mrs. Montagu. From one of Beattie's letters, dated 1789, it appears that she had made a handsome present of money to her godson.
[Y]I possess a copy of it which bears the following inscription:"To William Hayley, Esq.,in testimony of the utmost respect,esteem, and gratitude, from J. Beattie.1st January, 1796."On one of its fly-leaves the ever-ready pen of Hayley has written the subjoined sonnet:TO DOCTOR BEATTIE, IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OFHIS VERY INTERESTING PRESENT."Bard of the North! I thank thee with my tearsFor this fond work of thy paternal hand:It bids the buried youth before me standIn nature's softest light, which love endears.Parents like thee, whose grief the world reveres,Faithful to pure affection's proud command,For a lost child have lasting honours plann'd,To give in fame what fate denied in years.The filial form of Icarus was wroughtBy his afflicted sire, the sire of art!And Tullia's fane engross'd her father's heart:That fane rose only in perturbed thought;But sweet perfection crowns, as truth begun,This Christian image of thy happier son."
[Y]I possess a copy of it which bears the following inscription:
"To William Hayley, Esq.,in testimony of the utmost respect,esteem, and gratitude, from J. Beattie.1st January, 1796."
On one of its fly-leaves the ever-ready pen of Hayley has written the subjoined sonnet:
TO DOCTOR BEATTIE, IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OFHIS VERY INTERESTING PRESENT.
"Bard of the North! I thank thee with my tearsFor this fond work of thy paternal hand:It bids the buried youth before me standIn nature's softest light, which love endears.Parents like thee, whose grief the world reveres,Faithful to pure affection's proud command,For a lost child have lasting honours plann'd,To give in fame what fate denied in years.The filial form of Icarus was wroughtBy his afflicted sire, the sire of art!And Tullia's fane engross'd her father's heart:That fane rose only in perturbed thought;But sweet perfection crowns, as truth begun,This Christian image of thy happier son."
"Bard of the North! I thank thee with my tearsFor this fond work of thy paternal hand:It bids the buried youth before me standIn nature's softest light, which love endears.Parents like thee, whose grief the world reveres,Faithful to pure affection's proud command,For a lost child have lasting honours plann'd,To give in fame what fate denied in years.The filial form of Icarus was wroughtBy his afflicted sire, the sire of art!And Tullia's fane engross'd her father's heart:That fane rose only in perturbed thought;But sweet perfection crowns, as truth begun,This Christian image of thy happier son."
[Z]It was afterwards published for sale in 1799. I extract from it a jeu d'esprit—one of those pieces which Beattie printed, in opposition to the advice of Sir William Forbes and some other grave friends.THE MODERN TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.Father Hodge[1]had his pipe and his dram,And at night, his cloy'd thirst to awaken,He was served with a rasher of ham,Which procured him the surname ofBacon.He has shown that, though logical scienceAnd dry theory oft prove unhandy,Honest Truth will ne'er set at defianceExperiment, aided by brandy.Des Cartes bore a musket, they tell us,Ere he wished, or was able, to write,And was noted among the brave fellows,Who are bolder to tipple than fight.Of his system the cause and designWe no more can be pos'd to explain:—Themateria subtiliswas wine,And thevorticeswhirl'd in his brain.Old Hobbes, as his name plainly shows,At ahob-nobwas frequently tried:That all virtue from selfishness roseHe believ'd, and all laughter from pride.[2]The truth of his creed he would brag on,Smoke his pipe, murder Homer,[3]and quaff,Then staring, as drunk as a dragon,In the pride of his heart he would laugh.Sir Isaac discover'd, it seems,The nature of colors and light,In remarking the tremulous beamsThat swom on his wandering sight.Ever sapient, sober though seldom,From experienceattractionhe found,By observing, when no one upheld him,That his wise head fell souse on the ground.As to Berkley's philosophy—he hasLeft his poor pupils nought to inherit,But a swarm of deceitful ideasKept like other monsters, in spirit.[4]Tar-drinkers can't think what's the matter,That their health does not mend, but decline:Why, they take but some wine to their water,He took but some water to wine.One Mandeville once, or Man-devil,(Either name you may give as you please)By a brain ever brooding on evil,Hatch'd a monster call'dFable of Bees,Vice, said he, aggrandizes a people;[5]By this light let my conduct be view'd;I swagger, swear, guzzle, and tipple:And d—— ye, 'tis all for your good.David Hume ate a swinging great dinner,And grew every day fatter and fatter;And yet the huge hulk of a sinnerSaid there was neither spirit nor matter.Now there's no sober man in the nation,Who such nonsense could write, speak, or think:It follows, by fair demonstration,That he philosophiz'd in his drink.As a smuggler, even Priestley could sin;Who, in hopes the poor gauger of frightening,While he fill'd the case-bottles with gin,Swore he fill'd them with thunder and lightning.[6]In his cups, (when Locke's laid on the shelf),Could he speak, he would frankly confess t' ye,That unable to manage himself,He puts his whole trust in Necessity.If the young in rash folly engage,How closely continues the evil!Old Franklin retains, as a sage,The thirst he acquired when a devil.[7]That charging drives fire from a phial,It was natural for him to think,After finding, from many a trial,That drought may be kindled by drink.A certain high priest could explain,[8]How the soul is but nerve at the most;And how Milton had glands in his brain,That secreted the Paradise Lost.And sure it is what they deserve,Of such theories if I aver it,They are not even dictates of nerve,But mere muddy suggestions of claret.Our Holland Philosophers say, GinIs the true philosophical drink,As it made Doctor Hartley imagineThat toshakeis the same as tothink.[9]For, while drunkenness throbb'd in his brain,The sturdy materialist chose (O fye!)To believe its vibrations not pain,But wisdom, and downright philosophy.Ye sages, who shine in my verse,On my labours with gratitude think,Which condemn not the faults they rehearse,But impute all your sin to your drink.In drink, poets, philosophers, mob, err;Then excuse if my satire e'er nips ye:When I praise, think me prudent and sober,If I blame, be assur'd I am tipsy.
[Z]It was afterwards published for sale in 1799. I extract from it a jeu d'esprit—one of those pieces which Beattie printed, in opposition to the advice of Sir William Forbes and some other grave friends.
THE MODERN TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.
Father Hodge[1]had his pipe and his dram,And at night, his cloy'd thirst to awaken,He was served with a rasher of ham,Which procured him the surname ofBacon.He has shown that, though logical scienceAnd dry theory oft prove unhandy,Honest Truth will ne'er set at defianceExperiment, aided by brandy.Des Cartes bore a musket, they tell us,Ere he wished, or was able, to write,And was noted among the brave fellows,Who are bolder to tipple than fight.Of his system the cause and designWe no more can be pos'd to explain:—Themateria subtiliswas wine,And thevorticeswhirl'd in his brain.Old Hobbes, as his name plainly shows,At ahob-nobwas frequently tried:That all virtue from selfishness roseHe believ'd, and all laughter from pride.[2]The truth of his creed he would brag on,Smoke his pipe, murder Homer,[3]and quaff,Then staring, as drunk as a dragon,In the pride of his heart he would laugh.Sir Isaac discover'd, it seems,The nature of colors and light,In remarking the tremulous beamsThat swom on his wandering sight.Ever sapient, sober though seldom,From experienceattractionhe found,By observing, when no one upheld him,That his wise head fell souse on the ground.As to Berkley's philosophy—he hasLeft his poor pupils nought to inherit,But a swarm of deceitful ideasKept like other monsters, in spirit.[4]Tar-drinkers can't think what's the matter,That their health does not mend, but decline:Why, they take but some wine to their water,He took but some water to wine.One Mandeville once, or Man-devil,(Either name you may give as you please)By a brain ever brooding on evil,Hatch'd a monster call'dFable of Bees,Vice, said he, aggrandizes a people;[5]By this light let my conduct be view'd;I swagger, swear, guzzle, and tipple:And d—— ye, 'tis all for your good.David Hume ate a swinging great dinner,And grew every day fatter and fatter;And yet the huge hulk of a sinnerSaid there was neither spirit nor matter.Now there's no sober man in the nation,Who such nonsense could write, speak, or think:It follows, by fair demonstration,That he philosophiz'd in his drink.As a smuggler, even Priestley could sin;Who, in hopes the poor gauger of frightening,While he fill'd the case-bottles with gin,Swore he fill'd them with thunder and lightning.[6]In his cups, (when Locke's laid on the shelf),Could he speak, he would frankly confess t' ye,That unable to manage himself,He puts his whole trust in Necessity.If the young in rash folly engage,How closely continues the evil!Old Franklin retains, as a sage,The thirst he acquired when a devil.[7]That charging drives fire from a phial,It was natural for him to think,After finding, from many a trial,That drought may be kindled by drink.A certain high priest could explain,[8]How the soul is but nerve at the most;And how Milton had glands in his brain,That secreted the Paradise Lost.And sure it is what they deserve,Of such theories if I aver it,They are not even dictates of nerve,But mere muddy suggestions of claret.Our Holland Philosophers say, GinIs the true philosophical drink,As it made Doctor Hartley imagineThat toshakeis the same as tothink.[9]For, while drunkenness throbb'd in his brain,The sturdy materialist chose (O fye!)To believe its vibrations not pain,But wisdom, and downright philosophy.Ye sages, who shine in my verse,On my labours with gratitude think,Which condemn not the faults they rehearse,But impute all your sin to your drink.In drink, poets, philosophers, mob, err;Then excuse if my satire e'er nips ye:When I praise, think me prudent and sober,If I blame, be assur'd I am tipsy.
Father Hodge[1]had his pipe and his dram,And at night, his cloy'd thirst to awaken,He was served with a rasher of ham,Which procured him the surname ofBacon.He has shown that, though logical scienceAnd dry theory oft prove unhandy,Honest Truth will ne'er set at defianceExperiment, aided by brandy.
Des Cartes bore a musket, they tell us,Ere he wished, or was able, to write,And was noted among the brave fellows,Who are bolder to tipple than fight.Of his system the cause and designWe no more can be pos'd to explain:—Themateria subtiliswas wine,And thevorticeswhirl'd in his brain.
Old Hobbes, as his name plainly shows,At ahob-nobwas frequently tried:That all virtue from selfishness roseHe believ'd, and all laughter from pride.[2]The truth of his creed he would brag on,Smoke his pipe, murder Homer,[3]and quaff,Then staring, as drunk as a dragon,In the pride of his heart he would laugh.
Sir Isaac discover'd, it seems,The nature of colors and light,In remarking the tremulous beamsThat swom on his wandering sight.Ever sapient, sober though seldom,From experienceattractionhe found,By observing, when no one upheld him,That his wise head fell souse on the ground.
As to Berkley's philosophy—he hasLeft his poor pupils nought to inherit,But a swarm of deceitful ideasKept like other monsters, in spirit.[4]Tar-drinkers can't think what's the matter,That their health does not mend, but decline:Why, they take but some wine to their water,He took but some water to wine.
One Mandeville once, or Man-devil,(Either name you may give as you please)By a brain ever brooding on evil,Hatch'd a monster call'dFable of Bees,Vice, said he, aggrandizes a people;[5]By this light let my conduct be view'd;I swagger, swear, guzzle, and tipple:And d—— ye, 'tis all for your good.
David Hume ate a swinging great dinner,And grew every day fatter and fatter;And yet the huge hulk of a sinnerSaid there was neither spirit nor matter.Now there's no sober man in the nation,Who such nonsense could write, speak, or think:It follows, by fair demonstration,That he philosophiz'd in his drink.
As a smuggler, even Priestley could sin;Who, in hopes the poor gauger of frightening,While he fill'd the case-bottles with gin,Swore he fill'd them with thunder and lightning.[6]In his cups, (when Locke's laid on the shelf),Could he speak, he would frankly confess t' ye,That unable to manage himself,He puts his whole trust in Necessity.
If the young in rash folly engage,How closely continues the evil!Old Franklin retains, as a sage,The thirst he acquired when a devil.[7]That charging drives fire from a phial,It was natural for him to think,After finding, from many a trial,That drought may be kindled by drink.
A certain high priest could explain,[8]How the soul is but nerve at the most;And how Milton had glands in his brain,That secreted the Paradise Lost.And sure it is what they deserve,Of such theories if I aver it,They are not even dictates of nerve,But mere muddy suggestions of claret.
Our Holland Philosophers say, GinIs the true philosophical drink,As it made Doctor Hartley imagineThat toshakeis the same as tothink.[9]For, while drunkenness throbb'd in his brain,The sturdy materialist chose (O fye!)To believe its vibrations not pain,But wisdom, and downright philosophy.
Ye sages, who shine in my verse,On my labours with gratitude think,Which condemn not the faults they rehearse,But impute all your sin to your drink.In drink, poets, philosophers, mob, err;Then excuse if my satire e'er nips ye:When I praise, think me prudent and sober,If I blame, be assur'd I am tipsy.
[1]Roger Bacon, the father of experimental philosophy. He flourished in the thirteenth century.
[1]Roger Bacon, the father of experimental philosophy. He flourished in the thirteenth century.
[2]SeeThe Spectator, No. 47.
[2]SeeThe Spectator, No. 47.
[3]Hobbes was a great smoker, and wrote what some have been pleased to call a Translation of Homer.
[3]Hobbes was a great smoker, and wrote what some have been pleased to call a Translation of Homer.
[4]He taught that the external universe has no existence, but an ideal one, in the mind (orspirit) that perceives it; and he thought tar-water a universal remedy.
[4]He taught that the external universe has no existence, but an ideal one, in the mind (orspirit) that perceives it; and he thought tar-water a universal remedy.
[5]Private vices public benefits.
[5]Private vices public benefits.
[6]Electrical batteries.
[6]Electrical batteries.
[7]Bred a printer. This was written long before Dr. Franklin's death.
[7]Bred a printer. This was written long before Dr. Franklin's death.
[8]Dr. L., Bp. of C., is probably the person here alluded to. He was a zealous materialist.
[8]Dr. L., Bp. of C., is probably the person here alluded to. He was a zealous materialist.
[9]He resolved Perception and Thinking intovibrations, and (what he called)vibratiunclesof the brain.
[9]He resolved Perception and Thinking intovibrations, and (what he called)vibratiunclesof the brain.
[AA]"I have been assured by those who were intimately acquainted with both, that of the two brothers, Montagu was in many respects the superior."Bower'sLife of Beattie, 1804, p. 210.
[AA]"I have been assured by those who were intimately acquainted with both, that of the two brothers, Montagu was in many respects the superior."
Bower'sLife of Beattie, 1804, p. 210.
[AB]James Hay Beattie had a scientific knowledge of music, and, with the assistance of the Rev. Dr. Laing, had superintended the building an organ for himself. In one of our author's letters, 8th June, 1791, is the following passage:"The organ of Durham cathedral was too much for my feelings; for it brought too powerfully to my remembrance another organ, much smaller, indeed, but more interesting, which I can never hear any more."
[AB]James Hay Beattie had a scientific knowledge of music, and, with the assistance of the Rev. Dr. Laing, had superintended the building an organ for himself. In one of our author's letters, 8th June, 1791, is the following passage:
"The organ of Durham cathedral was too much for my feelings; for it brought too powerfully to my remembrance another organ, much smaller, indeed, but more interesting, which I can never hear any more."
[AC]See, too, Beattie's letter to Blacklock, p. xv. of this memoir.
[AC]See, too, Beattie's letter to Blacklock, p. xv. of this memoir.
[AD]Thy 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 scar'd owl on pinions grayBreaks from the rustling boughs,And down the lone vale sails awayTo more profound repose.
[AD]
Thy 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 scar'd owl on pinions grayBreaks from the rustling boughs,And down the lone vale sails awayTo more profound repose.
Thy 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 scar'd owl on pinions grayBreaks from the rustling boughs,And down the lone vale sails awayTo more profound repose.
January, 1777.
Having lately seen in print some poems ascribed to me which I never wrote, and some of my own inaccurately copied, I thought it would not be improper to publish, in this little volume, all the verses of which I am willing to be considered as the author. Many others I did indeed write in the early part of my life; but they were in general so incorrect, that I would not rescue them from oblivion, even if a wish could do it.
Some of the few now offered to the Public would perhaps have been suppressed, if in making this collection I had implicitly followed my own judgment. But in so small a matter, who would refuse to submit his opinion to that of a friend?
It is of no consequence to the reader to know the date of any of these little poems. But some private reasons determined the author to add, thatmost of them were written many years age, and that the greatest part of theMinstrel, which is his latest attempt in this way, was composed in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight.
The design was to trace the progress of a Poetical Genius, born in a rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason, till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a Minstrel, that is, as an itinerant Poet and Musician;—a character which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was not only respectable, but sacred.
I have endeavoured to imitate Spenser in the measure of his verse, and in the harmony, simplicity, and variety of his composition. Antique expressions I have avoided; admitting, however, some old words, where they seemed to suit the subject; but I hope none will be found that are now obsolete, or in any degree not intelligible to a reader of English poetry.
To those who may be disposed to ask, what could induce me to write in so difficult a measure, I can only answer that it pleases my ear, andseems, from its Gothic structure and original, to bear some relation to the subject and spirit of the Poem. It admits both simplicity and magnificence of sound and of language beyond any other stanza that I am acquainted with. It allows the sententiousness of the couplet, as well as the more complex modulation of blank verse. What some critics have remarked, of its uniformity growing at last tiresome to the ear, will be found to hold true, only when the poetry is faulty in other respects.
THE MINSTREL.BOOK I.
Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musæ,Quarum sacra fero, ingenti perculsus amore,Accipiant.——VIRG.
Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musæ,Quarum sacra fero, ingenti perculsus amore,Accipiant.——VIRG.
I.Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climbThe steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublimeHas felt the influence of malignant star,And waged with Fortune an eternal war;Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,And Poverty's unconquerable bar,In life's low vale remote has pined alone,Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!II.And yet the languor of inglorious days,Not equally oppressive is to all:Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,The silence of neglect can ne'er appall.There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;Supremely blest, if to their portion fallHealth, competence, and peace. Nor higher aimHad he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.III.The rolls of fame I will not now explore;Nor need I here describe, in learned lay,How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore,Right glad of heart, though homely in array;His waving locks and beard all hoary gray;While from his bending shoulder decent hungHis harp, the sole companion of his way,Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.IV.Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,That a poor villager inspires my strain;With thee let Pageantry and Power abide:The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swainEnraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms:They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain,The parasite their influence never warms,Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.V.Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,While warbling larks on russet pinions float;Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,Where the gray linnets carol from the hill:O let them ne'er, with artificial note,To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!VI.Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;Nor was perfection made for man below:Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd,Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow;If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.VII.Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent MuseVouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuseThe imperial banquet, and the rich attire:Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire,To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd;Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.VIII.Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soulIn each fine sense so exquisitely keen,On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen;Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen,Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide,(The mansion then no more of joy serene),Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide,And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?IX.O how canst thou renounce the boundless storeOf charms which Nature to her votary yields!The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;All that the genial ray of morning gilds,And all that echoes to the song of even,All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,And all the dread magnificence of Heaven,O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!X.These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,And love, and gentleness, and joy impart.But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealthE'er win its way to thy corrupted heart:For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart;Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme,The stern resolve unmov'd by pity's smart,The troublous day, and long distressful dream.Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purpos'd theme.XI.There liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell,A shepherd swain, a man of low degree;Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;But he, I ween, was of the north countrie;[1]A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms;Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms;Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.XII.The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd;An honest heart was almost all his stock:His drink the living water from the rock;The milky dams supplied his board, and lentTheir kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;And he, tho' oft with dust and sweat besprent,Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.XIII.From labour health, from health contentment springs:Contentment opes the source of every joy.He envied not, he never thought of, kings;Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy,That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy:Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd;He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy,For on his vows the blameless Phœbe smil'd,And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child.XIV.No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;Each season look'd delightful, as it past,To the fond husband, and the faithful wife.Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd lifeThey never roam'd: secure beneath the stormWhich in Ambition's lofty land is rife,Where peace and love are canker'd by the wormOf pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.XV.The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold,Was all the offspring of this humble pair;His birth no oracle or seer foretold;No prodigy appear'd in earth or air,Nor aught that might a strange event declare.You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth;The parent's transport, and the parent's care;The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth;And one long summer day of indolence and mirth.XVI.And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy,Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye.Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy:Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;And now his look was most demurely sad;And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why.The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad:Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.XVII.But why should I his childish feats display?Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous frayOf squabbling imps; but to the forest sped,Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head,Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd streamTo deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,There would he wander wild, till Phœbus' beam,Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.XVIII.Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,To him nor vanity nor joy could bring.His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleedTo work the woe of any living thing,By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling;These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield:He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field;And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.XIX.Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, rovesBeneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.Would Edwin this majestic scene resignFor aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.XX.And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey,When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn:Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn,Where twilight loves to linger for a while;And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,And villager abroad at early toil.But, lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.XXI.And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb,When all in mist the world below was lost.What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tostIn billows, lengthening to th' horizon round,Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd!And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!XXII.In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene.In darkness and in storm he found delight:Nor less, than when on ocean wave sereneThe southern Sun diffus'd his dazzling shene.[2]Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul:And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control.XXIII."O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!"(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,Of late so grateful in the hour of drought!Why do the birds, that song and rapture broughtTo all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.XXIV."Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool,And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd!Ah! see, th' unsightly slime and sluggish poolHave all the solitary vale imbrown'd;Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray:And, hark! the river, bursting every mound,Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful swayUproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.XXV."Yet such the destiny of all on Earth:So flourishes and fades majestic Man.Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan.O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy primeNor lessen of his life the little span!Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.XXVI."And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn:But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed?Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.XXVII."Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?Is it for this fair Virtue oft must striveWith disappointment, penury, and pain?No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arriveAnd man's majestic beauty bloom again,Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."XXVIII.This truth sublime his simple sire had taught.In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew.No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought,Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue."Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his view,Be man's peculiar work his sole delight."And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschewFalsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right,By pleasure unseduc'd, unaw'd by lawless might.XXIX."And, from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe,O never, never turn away thine ear!Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below,Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!To others do (the law is not severe)What to thyself thou wishest to be done.Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,And friends, and native land; nor those alone;All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own."XXX.See, in the rear of the warm sunny showerThe visionary boy from shelter fly;For now the storm of summer rain is o'er,And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky,And, lo! in the dark east, expanded high,The rainbow brightens to the setting Sun!Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh,How vain the chace thine ardour has begun!'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run.XXXI.Yet could'st thou learn, that thus it fares with age,When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm,This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage,And disappointment of her sting disarm.But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm?Perish the lore that deadens young desire;Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm,Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire:Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire.XXXII.When the long-sounding curfew from afarLoaded with loud lament the lonely gale,Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale.There would he dream of graves, and corses pale;And ghosts that to the charnel dungeon throng,And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song,Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along.XXXIII.Or, when the setting Moon, in crimson dy'd,Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep,To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep;And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleepA vision brought to his entranced sight.And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creepShrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night.XXXIV.Anon in view a portal's blazon'd archArose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;And forth an host of little warriors march,Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,And green their helms, and green their silk attire;And here and there, right venerably old,The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire,And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.XXXV.With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance;The little warriors doff the targe and spear,And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glanceRapid along: with many-colour'd raysOf tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.XXXVI.The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day,Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill,Fell chanticleer! who oft hast reft awayMy fancied good, and brought substantial ill!O to thy cursed scream, discordant still,Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear;Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill,Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear,And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear!XXXVII.Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune thy line.Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so.For how should he at wicked chance repine,Who feels from every change amusement flow!Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow,As on he wanders through the scenes of morn,Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.XXXVIII.But who the melodies of morn can tell?The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;The pipe of early shepherd dim descriedIn the lone valley; echoing far and wideThe clamorous horn along the cliffs above;The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.XXXIX.The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.XL.O Nature, how in every charm supreme!Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!O for the voice and fire of seraphim,To sing thy glories with devotion due!Blest be the day I 'scap'd the wrangling crew,From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;And held high converse with the godlike few,Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye,Teach beauty, virtue, truth and love, and melody.XLI.Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind,Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind,Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane,And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain!Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slimeFirst gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign(Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,)With vengeance to pursue you sacrilegious crime.XLII.But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth.O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth,For well I know wherever ye reside,There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide.XLIII.Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,Save when against the winter's drenching rain,And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart,Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art.XLIV.Various and strange was the long-winded tale;And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd;Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid;The moonlight revel of the fairy glade;Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,[3]Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood,Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.XLV.But when to horror his amazement rose,A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.O cruel! will no pang of pity pierceThat heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone?For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,To latest times shall tender souls bemoanThose hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.XLVI.Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,[4]The babes now famish'd lay them down to die;Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn,Folded in one another's arms they lie;Nor friend nor stranger hears their dying cry;"For from the town the man returns no more."But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy,This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,When death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.XLVII.A stifled smile of stern vindictive joyBrighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear,"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,And innocence thus die by doom severe?"O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel:Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel;Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.XLVIII.Nor be thy generous indignation check'd,Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given;From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,This soften and refine the soul for heaven.But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has drivenTo censure Fate, and pious Hope forego:Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.XLIX.Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,Exclaim that nature hastens to decay,If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,If but a momentary shower descend!Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,Which bade the series of events extendWide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end!L.One part, one little part, we dimly scanThro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream;Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,If but that little part incongruous seem.Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.O then renounce that impious self-esteem,That aims to trace the secrets of the skies!For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.LI.Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years.For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soarOn Fancy's wing above this vale of tears;Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, poreThrough microscope of metaphysic lore:And much they grope for Truth, but never hit.For why? Their powers inadequate before,This idle art makes more and more unfit;Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.LII.Nor was this ancient Dame a foe to mirth.Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint deviceOft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth;Whom levity or spleen could ne'er enticeTo purchase chat or laughter at the priceOf decency. Nor let it faith exceed,That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.Ah! had they been of court or city breed,Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.LIII.Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave,He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to viewThe cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic waveHigh-towering, sail along th' horizon blue:Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new,Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries,More wildly great than ever pencil drew,Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.LIV.Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roarOf the wide-weltering waves. In black arrayWhen sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day,Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,Along the trembling wilderness to stray,What time the lightning's fierce career began,And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.LV.Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when allIn sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly,To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd!Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy,When with the charm compar'd of heavenly melancholy!LVI.Is there a heart that music cannot melt?Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn;Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports feltOf solitude and melancholy born?He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn,And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.LVII.For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;Song was his favourite and first pursuit.The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute.His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute:Of elegance as yet he took no care;For this of time and culture is the fruit;And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare:As in some future verse I purpose to declare.LVIII.Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new,Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,By chance, or search was offered to his view,He scann'd with curious and romantic eye.Whate'er of lore tradition could supplyFrom gothic tale, or song, or fable old,Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry.At last, though long by penury control'd,And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.LIX.Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,For many a long month lost in snow profound,When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,And in their northern cave the storms are bound;From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo,The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.[5]LX.Here pause, my gothic lyre, a little while.The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.But on this verse if Montagu should smile,New strains ere long shall animate thy frame.And her applause to me is more than fame;For still with truth accords her taste refined.At lucre or renown let others aim,I only wish to please the gentle mind,Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind.
I.
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climbThe steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublimeHas felt the influence of malignant star,And waged with Fortune an eternal war;Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,And Poverty's unconquerable bar,In life's low vale remote has pined alone,Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!
II.
And yet the languor of inglorious days,Not equally oppressive is to all:Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,The silence of neglect can ne'er appall.There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;Supremely blest, if to their portion fallHealth, competence, and peace. Nor higher aimHad he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.
III.
The rolls of fame I will not now explore;Nor need I here describe, in learned lay,How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore,Right glad of heart, though homely in array;His waving locks and beard all hoary gray;While from his bending shoulder decent hungHis harp, the sole companion of his way,Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.
IV.
Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,That a poor villager inspires my strain;With thee let Pageantry and Power abide:The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swainEnraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms:They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain,The parasite their influence never warms,Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.
V.
Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,While warbling larks on russet pinions float;Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,Where the gray linnets carol from the hill:O let them ne'er, with artificial note,To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!
VI.
Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;Nor was perfection made for man below:Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd,Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow;If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.
VII.
Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent MuseVouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuseThe imperial banquet, and the rich attire:Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire,To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd;Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.
VIII.
Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soulIn each fine sense so exquisitely keen,On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen;Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen,Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide,(The mansion then no more of joy serene),Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide,And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?
IX.
O how canst thou renounce the boundless storeOf charms which Nature to her votary yields!The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;All that the genial ray of morning gilds,And all that echoes to the song of even,All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,And all the dread magnificence of Heaven,O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
X.
These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,And love, and gentleness, and joy impart.But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealthE'er win its way to thy corrupted heart:For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart;Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme,The stern resolve unmov'd by pity's smart,The troublous day, and long distressful dream.Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purpos'd theme.
XI.
There liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell,A shepherd swain, a man of low degree;Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;But he, I ween, was of the north countrie;[1]A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms;Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms;Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.
XII.
The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd;An honest heart was almost all his stock:His drink the living water from the rock;The milky dams supplied his board, and lentTheir kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;And he, tho' oft with dust and sweat besprent,Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.
XIII.
From labour health, from health contentment springs:Contentment opes the source of every joy.He envied not, he never thought of, kings;Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy,That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy:Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd;He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy,For on his vows the blameless Phœbe smil'd,And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child.
XIV.
No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;Each season look'd delightful, as it past,To the fond husband, and the faithful wife.Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd lifeThey never roam'd: secure beneath the stormWhich in Ambition's lofty land is rife,Where peace and love are canker'd by the wormOf pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.
XV.
The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold,Was all the offspring of this humble pair;His birth no oracle or seer foretold;No prodigy appear'd in earth or air,Nor aught that might a strange event declare.You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth;The parent's transport, and the parent's care;The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth;And one long summer day of indolence and mirth.
XVI.
And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy,Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye.Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy:Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;And now his look was most demurely sad;And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why.The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad:Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.
XVII.
But why should I his childish feats display?Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous frayOf squabbling imps; but to the forest sped,Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head,Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd streamTo deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,There would he wander wild, till Phœbus' beam,Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.
XVIII.
Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,To him nor vanity nor joy could bring.His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleedTo work the woe of any living thing,By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling;These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield:He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field;And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.
XIX.
Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, rovesBeneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.Would Edwin this majestic scene resignFor aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.
XX.
And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey,When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn:Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn,Where twilight loves to linger for a while;And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,And villager abroad at early toil.But, lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.
XXI.
And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb,When all in mist the world below was lost.What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tostIn billows, lengthening to th' horizon round,Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd!And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!
XXII.
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene.In darkness and in storm he found delight:Nor less, than when on ocean wave sereneThe southern Sun diffus'd his dazzling shene.[2]Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul:And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control.
XXIII.
"O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!"(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,Of late so grateful in the hour of drought!Why do the birds, that song and rapture broughtTo all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.
XXIV.
"Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool,And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd!Ah! see, th' unsightly slime and sluggish poolHave all the solitary vale imbrown'd;Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray:And, hark! the river, bursting every mound,Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful swayUproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.
XXV.
"Yet such the destiny of all on Earth:So flourishes and fades majestic Man.Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan.O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy primeNor lessen of his life the little span!Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
XXVI.
"And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn:But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed?Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.
XXVII.
"Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?Is it for this fair Virtue oft must striveWith disappointment, penury, and pain?No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arriveAnd man's majestic beauty bloom again,Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."
XXVIII.
This truth sublime his simple sire had taught.In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew.No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought,Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue."Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his view,Be man's peculiar work his sole delight."And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschewFalsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right,By pleasure unseduc'd, unaw'd by lawless might.
XXIX.
"And, from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe,O never, never turn away thine ear!Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below,Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!To others do (the law is not severe)What to thyself thou wishest to be done.Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,And friends, and native land; nor those alone;All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own."
XXX.
See, in the rear of the warm sunny showerThe visionary boy from shelter fly;For now the storm of summer rain is o'er,And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky,And, lo! in the dark east, expanded high,The rainbow brightens to the setting Sun!Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh,How vain the chace thine ardour has begun!'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run.
XXXI.
Yet could'st thou learn, that thus it fares with age,When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm,This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage,And disappointment of her sting disarm.But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm?Perish the lore that deadens young desire;Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm,Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire:Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire.
XXXII.
When the long-sounding curfew from afarLoaded with loud lament the lonely gale,Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale.There would he dream of graves, and corses pale;And ghosts that to the charnel dungeon throng,And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song,Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along.
XXXIII.
Or, when the setting Moon, in crimson dy'd,Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep,To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep;And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleepA vision brought to his entranced sight.And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creepShrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night.
XXXIV.
Anon in view a portal's blazon'd archArose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;And forth an host of little warriors march,Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,And green their helms, and green their silk attire;And here and there, right venerably old,The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire,And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.
XXXV.
With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance;The little warriors doff the targe and spear,And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glanceRapid along: with many-colour'd raysOf tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.
XXXVI.
The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day,Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill,Fell chanticleer! who oft hast reft awayMy fancied good, and brought substantial ill!O to thy cursed scream, discordant still,Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear;Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill,Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear,And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear!
XXXVII.
Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune thy line.Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so.For how should he at wicked chance repine,Who feels from every change amusement flow!Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow,As on he wanders through the scenes of morn,Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.
XXXVIII.
But who the melodies of morn can tell?The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;The pipe of early shepherd dim descriedIn the lone valley; echoing far and wideThe clamorous horn along the cliffs above;The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
XXXIX.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.
XL.
O Nature, how in every charm supreme!Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!O for the voice and fire of seraphim,To sing thy glories with devotion due!Blest be the day I 'scap'd the wrangling crew,From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;And held high converse with the godlike few,Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye,Teach beauty, virtue, truth and love, and melody.
XLI.
Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind,Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind,Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane,And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain!Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slimeFirst gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign(Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,)With vengeance to pursue you sacrilegious crime.
XLII.
But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth.O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth,For well I know wherever ye reside,There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide.
XLIII.
Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,Save when against the winter's drenching rain,And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart,Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art.
XLIV.
Various and strange was the long-winded tale;And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd;Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid;The moonlight revel of the fairy glade;Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,[3]Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood,Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.
XLV.
But when to horror his amazement rose,A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.O cruel! will no pang of pity pierceThat heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone?For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,To latest times shall tender souls bemoanThose hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.
XLVI.
Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,[4]The babes now famish'd lay them down to die;Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn,Folded in one another's arms they lie;Nor friend nor stranger hears their dying cry;"For from the town the man returns no more."But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy,This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,When death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.
XLVII.
A stifled smile of stern vindictive joyBrighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear,"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,And innocence thus die by doom severe?"O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel:Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel;Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.
XLVIII.
Nor be thy generous indignation check'd,Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given;From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,This soften and refine the soul for heaven.But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has drivenTo censure Fate, and pious Hope forego:Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.
XLIX.
Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,Exclaim that nature hastens to decay,If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,If but a momentary shower descend!Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,Which bade the series of events extendWide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end!
L.
One part, one little part, we dimly scanThro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream;Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,If but that little part incongruous seem.Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.O then renounce that impious self-esteem,That aims to trace the secrets of the skies!For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.
LI.
Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years.For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soarOn Fancy's wing above this vale of tears;Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, poreThrough microscope of metaphysic lore:And much they grope for Truth, but never hit.For why? Their powers inadequate before,This idle art makes more and more unfit;Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.
LII.
Nor was this ancient Dame a foe to mirth.Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint deviceOft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth;Whom levity or spleen could ne'er enticeTo purchase chat or laughter at the priceOf decency. Nor let it faith exceed,That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.Ah! had they been of court or city breed,Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.
LIII.
Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave,He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to viewThe cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic waveHigh-towering, sail along th' horizon blue:Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new,Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries,More wildly great than ever pencil drew,Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.
LIV.
Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roarOf the wide-weltering waves. In black arrayWhen sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day,Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,Along the trembling wilderness to stray,What time the lightning's fierce career began,And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.
LV.
Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when allIn sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly,To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd!Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy,When with the charm compar'd of heavenly melancholy!
LVI.
Is there a heart that music cannot melt?Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn;Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports feltOf solitude and melancholy born?He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn,And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.
LVII.
For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;Song was his favourite and first pursuit.The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute.His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute:Of elegance as yet he took no care;For this of time and culture is the fruit;And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare:As in some future verse I purpose to declare.
LVIII.
Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new,Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,By chance, or search was offered to his view,He scann'd with curious and romantic eye.Whate'er of lore tradition could supplyFrom gothic tale, or song, or fable old,Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry.At last, though long by penury control'd,And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.
LIX.
Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,For many a long month lost in snow profound,When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,And in their northern cave the storms are bound;From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo,The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.[5]
LX.
Here pause, my gothic lyre, a little while.The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.But on this verse if Montagu should smile,New strains ere long shall animate thy frame.And her applause to me is more than fame;For still with truth accords her taste refined.At lucre or renown let others aim,I only wish to please the gentle mind,Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind.