1 Thou silent power, whose welcome swayCharms every anxious thought away;In whose divine oblivion drown'd,Sore pain and weary toil grow mild,Love is with kinder looks beguiled,And grief forgets her fondly cherish'd wound;Oh, whither hast thou flown, indulgent god?God of kind shadows and of healing dews,Whom dost thou touch with thy Lethæan rod?Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse?
2 Lo, Midnight from her starry reignLooks awful down on earth and main.The tuneful birds lie hush'd in sleep,With all that crop the verdant food,With all that skim the crystal flood,Or haunt the caverns of the rocky steep.No rushing winds disturb the tufted bowers;No wakeful sound the moonlight valley knows,Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours,And lulls the waving scene to more profound repose.
3 Oh, let not me alone complain,Alone invoke thy power in vain!Descend, propitious, on my eyes;Not from the couch that bears a crown,Not from the courtly statesman's down,Nor where the miser and his treasure lies:Bring not the shapes that break the murderer's rest,Nor those the hireling soldier loves to see,Nor those which haunt the bigot's gloomy breast:Far be their guilty nights, and far their dreams from me!
4 Nor yet those awful forms present,For chiefs and heroes only meant:The figured brass, the choral song,The rescued people's glad applause,The listening senate, and the lawsFix'd by the counsels of Timoleon's [1] tongue,Are scenes too grand for fortune's private ways;And though they shine in youth's ingenuous view,The sober gainful arts of modern daysTo such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu.
5 I ask not, god of dreams, thy careTo banish Love's presentments fair:Nor rosy cheek nor radiant eyeCan arm him with such strong commandThat the young sorcerer's fatal handShould round my soul his pleasing fetters tie.Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile(A lighter phantom, and a baser chain)Did e'er in slumber my proud lyre beguileTo lend the pomp of thrones her ill-according strain.
6 But, Morpheus, on thy balmy wingSuch honourable visions bring,As soothed great Milton's injured age,When in prophetic dreams he sawThe race unborn with pious aweImbibe each virtue from his heavenly page:Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knowsWhen health's deep treasures, by his art explored,Have saved the infant from an orphan's woes,Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restored.
[Footnote: 1: After Timoleon had delivered Syracuse from the tyranny of Dionysius, the people on every important deliberation sent for him into the public assembly, asked his advice, and voted according to it. —Plutarch.]
1 O rustic herald of the spring,At length in yonder woody valeFast by the brook I hear thee sing;And, studious of thy homely tale,Amid the vespers of the grove,Amid the chanting choir of love,Thy sage responses hail.
2 The time has been when I have frown'dTo hear thy voice the woods invade;And while thy solemn accent drown'dSome sweeter poet of the shade,Thus, thought I, thus the sons of careSome constant youth or generous fairWith dull advice upbraid.
3 I said, 'While Philomela's songProclaims the passion of the grove,It ill beseems a cuckoo's tongueHer charming language to reprove'—Alas, how much a lover's earHates all the sober truth to hear,The sober truth of love!
4 When hearts are in each other bless'd,When nought but lofty faith can ruleThe nymph's and swain's consenting breast,How cuckoo-like in Cupid's school,With store of grave prudential sawsOn fortune's power and custom's laws,Appears each friendly fool!
5 Yet think betimes, ye gentle trainWhom love, and hope, and fancy sway,Who every harsher care disdain,Who by the morning judge the day,Think that, in April's fairest hours,To warbling shades and painted flowersThe cuckoo joins his lay.
How oft shall I surveyThis humble roof, the lawn, the greenwood shade,The vale with sheaves o'erspread,The glassy brook, the flocks which round thee stray?When will thy cheerful mindOf these have utter'd all her dear esteem?Or, tell me, dost thou deemNo more to join in glory's toilsome race,But here content embraceThat happy leisure which thou hadst resign'd?
Alas, ye happy hours,When books and youthful sport the soul could share,Ere one ambitious careOf civil life had awed her simpler powers;Oft as your winged, trainRevisit here my friend in white array,Oh, fail not to displayEach fairer scene where I perchance had part,That so his generous heartThe abode of even friendship may remain.
For not imprudent of my loss to come,I saw from Contemplation's quiet cellHis feet ascending to another home,Where public praise and envied greatness dwell.But shall we therefore, O my lyre,Reprove ambition's best desire,—Extinguish glory's flame?Far other was the task enjoin'dWhen to my hand thy strings were first assign'd:Far other faith belongs to friendship's honour'd name.
Thee, Townshend, not the armsOf slumbering Ease, nor Pleasure's rosy chain,Were destined to detain;No, nor bright Science, nor the Muse's charms.For them high heaven preparesTheir proper votaries, an humbler band:And ne'er would Spenser's handHave deign'd to strike the warbling Tuscan shell,Nor Harrington to tellWhat habit an immortal city wears;
Had this been born to shieldThe cause which Cromwell's impious hand betray'd,Or that, like Vere, display'dHis redcross banner o'er the Belgian field;Yet where the will divineHath shut those loftiest paths, it next remains,With reason clad in strainsOf harmony, selected minds to inspire,And virtue's living fireTo feed and eternise in hearts like thine.
For never shall the herd, whom envy sways,So quell my purpose or my tongue control,That I should fear illustrious worth to praise,Because its master's friendship moved my soul.Yet, if this undissembling strainShould now perhaps thine ear detainWith any pleasing sound,Remember thou that righteous FameFrom hoary age a strict account will claimOf each auspicious palm with which thy youth was crown'd.
Nor obvious is the wayWhere heaven expects thee nor the traveller leads;Through flowers or fragrant meads,Or groves that hark to Philomela's lay.The impartial laws of fateTo nobler virtues wed severer cares.Is there a man who sharesThe summit next where heavenly natures dwell?Ask him (for he can tell)What storms beat round that rough laborious height.
Ye heroes, who of oldDid generous England Freedom's throne ordain;From Alfred's parent reignTo Nassau, great deliverer, wise and bold;I know your perils hard,Your wounds, your painful marches, wintry seas,The night estranged from ease,The day by cowardice and falsehood vex'd,The head with doubt perplex'd,The indignant heart disdaining the reward,
Which envy hardly grants. But, O renown,O praise from judging heaven and virtuous men,If thus they purchased thy divinest crown,Say, who shall hesitate, or who complain?And now they sit on thrones above:And when among the gods they moveBefore the Sovereign Mind,'Lo, these,' he saith, 'lo, these are theyWho to the laws of mine eternal swayFrom violence and fear asserted human kind.'
Thus honour'd while the trainOf legislators in his presence dwell;If I may aught foretell,The statesman shall the second palm obtain.For dreadful deeds of armsLet vulgar bards, with undiscerning praise,More glittering trophies raise:But wisest Heaven what deeds may chiefly moveTo favour and to love?What, save wide blessings, or averted harms?
Nor to the embattled fieldShall these achievements of the peaceful gown,The green immortal crownOf valour, or the songs of conquest, yield.Not Fairfax wildly bold,While bare of crest he hew'd his fatal wayThrough Naseby's firm array,To heavier dangers did his breast opposeThan Pym's free virtue chose,When the proud force of Strafford he controll'd.
But what is man at enmity with truth?What were the fruits of Wentworth's copious mind,When (blighted all the promise of his youth)The patriot in a tyrant's league had join'd?Let Ireland's loud-lamenting plains,Let Tyne's and Humber's trampled swains,Let menaced London tellHow impious guile made wisdom base;How generous zeal to cruel rage gave place;And how unbless'd he lived and how dishonour'd fell.
Thence never hath the MuseAround his tomb Pierian roses flung:Nor shall one poet's tongueHis name for music's pleasing labour choose.And sure, when Nature kindHath deck'd some favour'd breast above the throng,That man with grievous wrongAffronts and wounds his genius, if he bendsTo guilt's ignoble endsThe functions of his ill-submitting mind.
For worthy of the wiseNothing can seem but virtue; nor earth yieldTheir fame an equal field,Save where impartial freedom gives the prize.There Somers fix'd his name,Enroll'd the next to William. There shall TimeTo every wondering climePoint out that Somers, who from faction's crowd,The slanderous and the loud,Could fair assent and modest reverence claim.
Nor aught did laws or social arts acquire,Nor this majestic weal of Albion's landDid aught accomplish, or to aught aspire,Without his guidance, his superior hand.And rightly shall the Muse's careWreaths like her own for him prepare,Whose mind's enamour'd aimCould forms of civil beauty drawSublime as ever sage or poet saw,Yet still to life's rude scene the proud ideas tame.
Let none profane be near!The Muse was never foreign to his breast:On power's grave seat confess'd,Still to her voice he bent a lover's ear.And if the blessed knowTheir ancient cares, even now the unfading groves,Where haply Milton rovesWith Spenser, hear the enchanted echoes roundThrough farthest heaven resoundWise Somers, guardian of their fame below.
He knew, the patriot knew,That letters and the Muse's powerful artExalt the ingenuous heart,And brighten every form of just and true.They lend a nobler swayTo civil wisdom, than corruption's lureCould ever yet procure:They, too, from envy's pale malignant lightConduct her forth to sight,Clothed in the fairest colours of the day.
O Townshend, thus may Time, the judge severe,Instruct my happy tongue of thee to tell:And when I speak of one to Freedom dearFor planning wisely and for acting well,Of one whom Glory loves to own,Who still by liberal means aloneHath liberal ends pursued;Then, for the guerdon of my lay,'This man with faithful friendship,' will I say,'From youth to honour'd age my arts and me hath view'd.'
1 Of all the springs within the mindWhich prompt her steps in fortune's maze,From none more pleasing aid we findThan from the genuine love of praise.
2 Nor any partial, private endSuch reverence to the public bears;Nor any passion, virtue's friend,So like to virtue's self appears.
3 For who in glory can delightWithout delight in glorious deeds?What man a charming voice can slight,Who courts the echo that succeeds?
4 But not the echo on the voiceMore than on virtue praise depends;To which, of course, its real priceThe judgment of the praiser lends.
5 If praise, then, with religious aweFrom the sole perfect judge be sought,A nobler aim, a purer law,Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.
6 With which in character the same,Though in an humbler sphere it lies,I count that soul of human fame,The suffrage of the good and wise.
1 Attend to Chaulieu's wanton lyre;While, fluent as the skylark singsWhen first the morn allures its wings,The epicure his theme pursues:And tell me if, among the choirWhose music charms the banks of Seine,So full, so free, so rich a strainE'er dictated the warbling Muse.
2 Yet, Hall, while thy judicious earAdmires the well-dissembled artThat can such harmony impartTo the lame pace of Gallic rhymes;While wit from affectation clear,Bright images, and passions true,Recall to thy assenting viewThe envied bards of nobler times;
3 Say, is not oft his doctrine wrong?This priest of Pleasure, who aspiresTo lead us to her sacred fires,Knows he the ritual of her shrine?Say (her sweet influence to thy songSo may the goddess still afford),Doth she consent to be adoredWith shameless love and frantic wine?
4 Nor Cato, nor Chrysippus hereNeed we in high indignant phraseFrom their Elysian quiet raise:But Pleasure's oracle aloneConsult; attentive, not severe.O Pleasure, we blaspheme not thee;Nor emulate the rigid kneeWhich bends but at the Stoic throne.
5 We own, had fate to man assign'dNor sense, nor wish but what obey,Or Venus soft, or Bacchus gay,Then might our bard's voluptuous creedMost aptly govern human kind:Unless perchance what he hath sungOf tortured joints and nerves unstrung,Some wrangling heretic should plead.
6 But now, with all these proud desiresFor dauntless truth and honest fame;With that strong master of our frame,The inexorable judge within,What can be done? Alas, ye firesOf love; alas, ye rosy smiles,Ye nectar'd cups from happier soils,—Ye have no bribe his grace to win.
I.—l.
For toils which patriots have endured,For treason quell'd and laws secured,In every nation Time displaysThe palm of honourable praise.Envy may rail, and Faction fierceMay strive; but what, alas, can those(Though bold, yet blind and sordid foes)To Gratitude and Love oppose,To faithful story and persuasive verse?
O nurse of freedom, Albion, say,Thou tamer of despotic sway,What man, among thy sons around,Thus heir to glory hast thou found?What page, in all thy annals bright,Hast thou with purer joy survey'dThan that where truth, by Hoadly's aid,Shines through imposture's solemn shade,Through kingly and through sacerdotal night?
To him the Teacher bless'd,Who sent religion, from the palmy fieldBy Jordan, like the morn to cheer the west,And lifted up the veil which heaven from earth conceal'd,To Hoadly thus his mandate he address'd:'Go thou, and rescue my dishonour'd lawFrom hands rapacious, and from tongues impure:Let not my peaceful name be made a lure,Fell persecution's mortal snares to aid:Let not my words be impious chains to drawThe freeborn soul in more than brutal awe,To faith without assent, allegiance unrepaid.'
No cold or unperforming handWas arm'd by Heaven with this command.The world soon felt it; and, on high,To William's ear with welcome joyDid Locke among the blest unfoldThe rising hope of Hoadly's name;Godolphin then confirm'd the fame;And Somers, when from earth he came,And generous Stanhope the fair sequel told.
Then drew the lawgivers around(Sires of the Grecian name renown'd),And listening ask'd, and wondering knew,What private force could thus subdueThe vulgar and the great combined;Could war with sacred folly wage;Could a whole nation disengageFrom the dread bonds of many an age,And to new habits mould the public mind.
For not a conqueror's sword,Nor the strong powers to civil founders known,Were his; but truth by faithful search explored,And social sense, like seed, in genial plenty sown.Wherever it took root, the soul (restoredTo freedom) freedom too for others sought.Not monkish craft, the tyrant's claim divine,Not regal zeal, the bigot's cruel shrine,Could longer guard from reason's warfare sage;Nor the wild rabble to sedition wrought,Nor synods by the papal Genius taught,Nor St. John's spirit loose, nor Atterbury's rage.
But where shall recompense be found?Or how such arduous merit crown'd?For look on life's laborious scene:What rugged spaces lie betweenAdventurous Virtue's early toilsAnd her triumphal throne! The shadeOf death, meantime, does oft invadeHer progress; nor, to us display'd,Wears the bright heroine her expected spoils.
Yet born to conquer is her power;—O Hoadly, if that favourite hourOn earth arrive, with thankful aweWe own just Heaven's indulgent law,And proudly thy success behold;We attend thy reverend length of daysWith benediction and with praise,And hail thee in our public waysLike some great spirit famed in ages old.
While thus our vows prolongThy steps on earth, and when by us resign'dThou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throngWho rescued or preserved the rights of human kind,Oh! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongueThee still, her friend and benefactor, name:Oh! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes,May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize,Make public virtue, public freedom, vile;Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaimThat heritage, our noblest wealth and fame,Which thou hast kept entire from force and factious guile.
1 If rightly tuneful bards decide,If it be fix'd in Love's decrees,That Beauty ought not to be triedBut by its native power to please,Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell,What fair can Amoret excel?
2 Behold that bright unsullied smile,And wisdom speaking in her mien:Yet (she so artless all the while,So little studious to be seen)We nought but instant gladness know,Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
3 But neither music, nor the powersOf youth and mirth and frolic cheer,Add half that sunshine to the hours,Or make life's prospect half so clear,As memory brings it to the eyeFrom scenes where Amoret was by.
4 Yet not a satirist could thereOr fault or indiscretion find;Nor any prouder sage declareOne virtue, pictured in his mind,Whose form with lovelier colours glowsThan Amoret's demeanour shows.
5 This sure is Beauty's happiest part:This gives the most unbounded sway:This shall enchant the subject heartWhen rose and lily fade away;And she be still, in spite of time,Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
1 Whither did my fancy stray?By what magic drawn awayHave I left my studious theme,From this philosophic page,From the problems of the sage,Wandering through a pleasing dream?
2 'Tis in vain, alas! I find,Much in vain, my zealous mindWould to learned Wisdom's throneDedicate each thoughtful hour:Nature bids a softer powerClaim some minutes for his own.
3 Let the busy or the wiseView him with contemptuous eyes;Love is native to the heart:Guide its wishes as you will;Without Love you'll find it stillVoid in one essential part.
4 Me though no peculiar fairTouches with a lover's care;Though the pride of my desireAsks immortal friendship's name,Asks the palm of honest fame,And the old heroic lyre;
5 Though the day have smoothly gone,Or to letter'd leisure known,Or in social duty spent;Yet at eve my lonely breastSeeks in vain for perfect rest;Languishes for true content.
1 Believe me, Edwards, to restrainThe licence of a railer's tongueIs what but seldom men obtainBy sense or wit, by prose or song:A task for more Herculean powers,Nor suited to the sacred hoursOf leisure in the Muse's bowers.
2 In bowers where laurel weds with palm,The Muse, the blameless queen, resides:Fair Fame attends, and Wisdom calmHer eloquence harmonious guides:While, shut for ever from her gate,Oft trying, still repining, waitFierce Envy and calumnious Hate.
3 Who, then, from her delightful boundsWould step one moment forth to heedWhat impotent and savage soundsFrom their unhappy mouths proceed?No: rather Spenser's lyre againPrepare, and let thy pious strainFor Pope's dishonour'd shade complain.
4 Tell how displeased was every bard,When lately in the Elysian groveThey of his Muse's guardian heard,His delegate to fame above;And what with one accord they saidOf wit in drooping age misled,And Warburton's officious aid:
5 How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fateTo that melodious lyre assign'd,Beneath a tutor who so lateWith Midas and his rout combinedBy spiteful clamour to confoundThat very lyre's enchanting sound,Though listening realms admired around:
6 How Horace own'd he thought the fireOf his friend Pope's satiric lineDid further fuel scarce requireFrom such a militant divine:How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain,Who durst approach his hallow'd strainWith unwash'd hands and lips profane.
7 Then Shakspeare debonair and mildBrought that strange comment forth to view;Conceits more deep, he said and smiled,Than his own fools or madmen knew:But thank'd a generous friend above,Who did with free adventurous loveSuch pageants from his tomb remove.
8 And if to Pope, in equal need,The same kind office thou wouldst pay,Then, Edwards, all the band decreedThat future bards with frequent layShould call on thy auspicious name,From each absurd intruder's claimTo keep inviolate their fame.
1 Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled?Where are those valiant tenants of her shore,Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped,Or with firm hand the rapid pole-axe bore?Freeman and soldier was their common name,Who late with reapers to the furrow came,Now in the front of battle charged the foe:Who taught the steer the wintry plough to endure,Now in full councils check'd encroaching power,And gave the guardian laws their majesty to know.
2 But who are ye? from Ebro's loitering sonsTo Tiber's pageants, to the sports of Seine;From Rhine's frail palaces to Danube's thronesAnd cities looking on the Cimbric main,Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lordsHave baffled your tame hands, and given your swordsTo slavish ruffians, hired for their command:These, at some greedy monk's or harlot's nod,See rifled nations crouch beneath their rod:These are the Public Will, the Reason of the land.
3 Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the whileDost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,Yet vain of Freedom, how dost thou beguile,With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd,The praise and envy of the nations round,What care hast thou to guard from Fortune's sway?Amid the storms of war, how soon may allThe lofty pile from its foundations fall,Of ages the proud toil, the ruin of a day!
4 No: thou art rich, thy streams and fertile valesAdd Industry's wise gifts to Nature's store,And every port is crowded with thy sails,And every wave throws treasure on thy shore.What boots it? If luxurious Plenty charmThy selfish heart from Glory, if thy armShrink at the frowns of Danger and of Pain,Those gifts, that treasure is no longer thine.Oh, rather far be poor! Thy gold will shineTempting the eye of Force, and deck thee to thy bane.
5 But what hath Force or War to do with thee?Girt by the azure tide, and throned sublimeAmid thy floating bulwarks, thou canst see,With scorn, the fury of each hostile climeDash'd ere it reach thee. Sacred from the foeAre thy fair fields: athwart thy guardian prowNo bold invader's foot shall tempt the strand—Yet say, my country, will the waves and windObey thee? Hast thou all thy hopes resign'dTo the sky's fickle faith, the pilot's wavering hand?
6 For, oh! may neither Fear nor stronger Love(Love, by thy virtuous princes nobly won)Thee, last of many wretched nations, move,With mighty armies station'd round the throneTo trust thy safety. Then, farewell the claimsOf Freedom! Her proud records to the flamesThen bear, an offering at Ambition's shrine;Whate'er thy ancient patriots dared demandFrom furious John's, or faithless Charles' hand,Or what great William seal'd for his adopted line.
7 But if thy sons be worthy of their name,If liberal laws with liberal arts they prize,Let them from conquest, and from servile shame,In War's glad school their own protectors rise.Ye chiefly, heirs of Albion's cultured plains,Ye leaders of her bold and faithful swains,Now not unequal to your birth be found;The public voice bids arm your rural state,Paternal hamlets for your ensigns wait,And grange and fold prepare to pour their youth around.
8 Why are ye tardy? what inglorious careDetains you from their head, your native post?Who most their country's fame and fortune share,'Tis theirs to share her toils, her perils most.Each man his task in social life sustains.With partial labours, with domestic gains,Let others dwell: to you indulgent HeavenBy counsel and by arms the public causeTo serve for public love and love's applause,The first employment far, the noblest hire, hath given.
9 Have ye not heard of Lacedemon's fame?Of Attic chiefs in Freedom's war divine?Of Rome's dread generals? the Valerian name?The Fabian sons? the Scipios, matchless line?Your lot was theirs: the farmer and the swainMet his loved patron's summons from the plain;The legions gather'd; the bright eagles flew:Barbarian monarchs in the triumph mourn'd;The conquerors to their household gods return'd,And fed Calabrian flocks, and steer'd the Sabine plough.
10 Shall, then, this glory of the antique age,This pride of men, be lost among mankind?Shall war's heroic arts no more engageThe unbought hand, the unsubjected mind?Doth valour to the race no more belong?No more with scorn of violence and wrongDoth forming Nature now her sons inspire,That, like some mystery to few reveal'd,The skill of arms abash'd and awed they yield,And from their own defence with hopeless hearts retire?
11 O shame to human life, to human laws!The loose adventurer, hireling of a day,Who his fell sword without affection draws,Whose God, whose country, is a tyrant's pay,This man the lessons of the field can learn;Can every palm, which decks a warrior, earn,And every pledge of conquest: while in vain,To guard your altars, your paternal lands,Are social arms held out to your free hands:Too arduous is the lore: too irksome were the pain.
12 Meantime by Pleasure's lying tales allured,From the bright sun and living breeze ye stray;And deep in London's gloomy haunts immured,Brood o'er your fortune's, freedom's, health's decay.O blind of choice and to yourselves untrue!The young grove shoots, their bloom the fields renew,The mansion asks its lord, the swains their friend;While he doth riot's orgies haply share,Or tempt the gamester's dark, destroying snare,Or at some courtly shrine with slavish incense bend.
13 And yet full oft your anxious tongues complainThat lawless tumult prompts the rustic throng;That the rude village inmates now disdainThose homely ties which ruled their fathers long.Alas, your fathers did by other artsDraw those kind ties around their simple hearts,And led in other paths their ductile will;By succour, faithful counsel, courteous cheer,Won them the ancient manners to revere,To prize their country's peace and heaven's due rites fulfil.
14 But mark the judgment of experienced Time,Tutor of nations. Doth light discord tearA state, and impotent sedition's crime?The powers of warlike prudence dwell not there;The powers who to command and to obey,Instruct the valiant. There would civil swayThe rising race to manly concord tame?Oft let the marshall'd field their steps unite,And in glad splendour bring before their sightOne common cause and one hereditary fame.
15 Nor yet be awed, nor yet your task disown,Though war's proud votaries look on severe;Though secrets, taught erewhile to them alone,They deem profaned by your intruding ear.Let them in vain, your martial hope to quell,Of new refinements, fiercer weapons tell,And mock the old simplicity, in vain:To the time's warfare, simple or refined,The time itself adapts the warrior's mind:And equal prowess still shall equal palms obtain.
16 Say then, if England's youth, in earlier days,On glory's field with well-train'd armies vied,Why shall they now renounce that generous praise?Why dread the foreign mercenary's pride?Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand,And Albert rush'd on Henry's way-worn band,With Europe's chosen sons in arms renown'd,Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd,Nor Audley's squires, nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd:They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound.
17 Such were the laurels which your fathers won:Such glory's dictates in their dauntless breast;—Is there no voice that speaks to every son?No nobler, holier call to you address'd?Oh! by majestic Freedom, righteous Laws,By heavenly Truth's, by manly Reason's cause,Awake; attend; be indolent no more:By friendship, social peace, domestic love,Rise; arm; your country's living safety prove;And train her valiant youth, and watch around her shore.
1 Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's Hill,Once more I seek, a languid guest:With throbbing temples and with burden'd breastOnce more I climb thy steep aërial way.O faithful cure of oft-returning ill,Now call thy sprightly breezes round,Dissolve this rigid cough profound,And bid the springs of life with gentler movement play.
2 How gladly, 'mid the dews of dawn,My weary lungs thy healing gale,The balmy west or the fresh north, inhale!How gladly, while my musing footsteps roveRound the cool orchard or the sunny lawn,Awaked I stop, and look to findWhat shrub perfumes the pleasant wind,Or what wild songster charms the Dryads of the grove!
3 Now, ere the morning walk is done,The distant voice of Health I hear,Welcome as beauty's to the lover's ear.'Droop not, nor doubt of my return,' she cries;'Here will I, 'mid the radiant calm of noon,Meet thee beneath yon chestnut bower,And lenient on thy bosom pourThat indolence divine which lulls the earth and skies.'
4 The goddess promised not in vain.I found her at my favourite time.Nor wish'd to breathe in any softer clime,While (half-reclined, half-slumbering as I lay)She hover'd o'er me. Then, among her trainOf Nymphs and Zephyrs, to my viewThy gracious form appear'd anew,Then first, O heavenly Muse, unseen for many a day.
5 In that soft pomp the tuneful maidShone like the golden star of love.I saw her hand in careless measures move;I heard sweet preludes dancing on her lyre,While my whole frame the sacred sound obey'd.New sunshine o'er my fancy springs,New colours clothe external things,And the last glooms of pain and sickly plaint retire.
6 O Goulder's Hill, by thee restoredOnce more to this enliven'd hand,My harp, which late resounded o'er the landThe voice of glory, solemn and severe,My Dorian harp shall now with mild accordTo thee her joyful tribute pay,And send a less ambitious layOf friendship and of love to greet thy master's ear.
7 For when within thy shady seatFirst from the sultry town he chose,And the tired senate's cares, his wish'd repose,Then wast thou mine; to me a happier homeFor social leisure: where my welcome feet,Estranged from all the entangling waysIn which the restless vulgar strays,Through Nature's simple paths with ancient Faith might roam.
8 And while around his sylvan sceneMy Dyson led the white-wing'd hours,Oft from the Athenian Academic bowersTheir sages came: oft heard our lingering walkThe Mantuan music warbling o'er the green:And oft did Tully's reverend shade,Though much for liberty afraid,With us of letter'd ease or virtuous glory talk.
9 But other guests were on their way,And reach'd ere long this favour'd grove;Even the celestial progeny of Jove,Bright Venus, with her all-subduing son,Whose golden shaft most willingly obeyThe best and wisest. As they came,Glad Hymen waved his genial flame,And sang their happy gifts, and praised their spotless throne.
10 I saw when through yon festive gateHe led along his chosen maid,And to my friend with smiles presenting said:—'Receive that fairest wealth which Heaven assign'dTo human fortune. Did thy lonely stateOne wish, one utmost hope, confess?Behold, she comes, to adorn and bless:Comes, worthy of thy heart, and equal to thy mind.'