How thick the shades of evening close!How pale the sky with weight of snows!Haste, light the tapers, urge the fire,And bid the joyless day retire.—Alas, in vain I try withinTo brighten the dejected scene,While, roused by grief, these fiery painsTear the frail texture of my veins;While Winter's voice, that storms around,And yon deep death-bell's groaning sound 10Renew my mind's oppressive gloom,Till starting Horror shakes the room.
Is there in nature no kind powerTo soothe affliction's lonely hour?To blunt the edge of dire disease,And teach these wintry shades to please?Come, Cheerfulness, triumphant fair,Shine through the hovering cloud of care:O sweet of language, mild of mien,O Virtue's friend and Pleasure's queen, 20Assuage the flames that burn my breast,Compose my jarring thoughts to rest;And while thy gracious gifts I feel,My song shall all thy praise reveal.
As once ('twas in Astræa's reign)The vernal powers renew'd their train,It happen'd that immortal LoveWas ranging through the spheres above,And downward hither cast his eyeThe year's returning pomp to spy. 30He saw the radiant god of dayWaft in his car the rosy May;The fragrant Airs and genial HoursWere shedding round him dews and flowers;Before his wheels Aurora pass'd,And Hesper's golden lamp was last.But, fairest of the blooming throng,When Health majestic moved along,Delighted to survey belowThe joys which from her presence flow, 40While earth enliven'd hears her voice,And swains, and flocks, and fields rejoice;Then mighty Love her charms confess'd,And soon his vows inclined her breast,And, known from that auspicious morn,The pleasing Cheerfulness was born.
Thou, Cheerfulness, by heaven design'dTo sway the movements of the mind,Whatever fretful passion springs,Whatever wayward fortune brings 50To disarrange the power within,And strain the musical machine;Thou Goddess, thy attempering handDoth each discordant string command,Refines the soft, and swells the strong;And, joining Nature's general song,Through many a varying tone unfoldsThe harmony of human souls.
Fair guardian of domestic life, 59Kind banisher of homebred strife,Nor sullen lip, nor taunting eyeDeforms the scene where thou art by:No sickening husband damns the hourWhich bound his joys to female power;No pining mother weeps the caresWhich parents waste on thankless heirs:The officious daughters pleased attend;The brother adds the name of friend:By thee with flowers their board is crown'd,With songs from thee their walks resound; 70And morn with welcome lustre shines,And evening unperceived declines.
Is there a youth whose anxious heartLabours with love's unpitied smart?Though now he stray by rills and bowers,And weeping waste the lonely hours,Or if the nymph her audience deign,Debase the story of his painWith slavish looks, discolour'd eyes,And accents faltering into sighs; 80Yet thou, auspicious power, with easeCanst yield him happier arts to please,Inform his mien with manlier charms,Instruct his tongue with nobler arms,With more commanding passion move,And teach the dignity of love.
Friend to the Muse and all her train,For thee I court the Muse again:The Muse for thee may well exertHer pomp, her charms, her fondest art, 90Who owes to thee that pleasing swayWhich earth and peopled heaven obey.
Let Melancholy's plaintive tongueRepeat what later bards have sung;But thine was Homer's ancient might,And thine victorious Pindar's flight:Thy hand each Lesbian wreath attired:Thy lip Sicilian reeds inspired:Thy spirit lent the glad perfumeWhence yet the flowers of Teos bloom; 100Whence yet from Tibur's Sabine valeDelicious blows the enlivening gale,While Horace calls thy sportive choir,Heroes and nymphs, around his lyre.But see, where yonder pensive sage(A prey perhaps to fortune's rage,Perhaps by tender griefs oppress'd,Or glooms congenial to his breast)Retires in desert scenes to dwell,And bids the joyless world farewell. 110
Alone he treads the autumnal shade,Alone beneath the mountain laidHe sees the nightly damps ascend,And gathering storms aloft impend;He hears the neighbouring surges roll,And raging thunders shake the pole;Then, struck by every object round,And stunn'd by every horrid sound,He asks a clue for Nature's ways;But evil haunts him through the maze: 120He sees ten thousand demons riseTo wield the empire of the skies,And Chance and Fate assume the rod,And Malice blot the throne of God.—O thou, whose pleasing power I sing,Thy lenient influence hither bring;Compose the storm, dispel the gloom,Till Nature wear her wonted bloom,Till fields and shades their sweets exhale,And music swell each opening gale: 130Then o'er his breast thy softness pour,And let him learn the timely hourTo trace the world's benignant laws,And judge of that presiding causeWho founds on discord beauty's reign,Converts to pleasure every pain,Subdues each hostile form to rest,And bids the universe be bless'd.
O thou, whose pleasing power I sing,If right I touch the votive string, 140If equal praise I yield thy name,Still govern thou thy poet's flame;Still with the Muse my bosom share,And soothe to peace intruding care.But most exert thy pleasing powerOn friendship's consecrated hour;And while my Sophron points the roadTo godlike wisdom's calm abode,Or warm in freedom's ancient causeTraceth the source of Albion's laws, 150Add thou o'er all the generous toilThe light of thy unclouded smile.But if, by fortune's stubborn swayFrom him and friendship torn away,I court the Muse's healing spellFor griefs that still with absence dwell,Do thou conduct my fancy's dreamsTo such indulgent placid themes,As just the struggling breast may cheer,And just suspend the starting tear, 160Yet leave that sacred sense of woeWhich none but friends and lovers know.
1 Not for themselves did human kindContrive the parts by heaven assign'dOn life's wide scene to play:Not Scipio's force nor Caesar's skillCan conquer Glory's arduous hill,If Fortune close the way.
2 Yet still the self-depending soul,Though last and least in Fortune's roll,His proper sphere commands;And knows what Nature's seal bestow'd,And sees, before the throne of God,The rank in which he stands.
3 Who train'd by laws the future age,Who rescued nations from the rageOf partial, factious power,My heart with distant homage views;Content, if thou, celestial Muse,Didst rule my natal hour.
4 Not far beneath the hero's feet,Nor from the legislator's seatStands far remote the bard.Though not with public terrors crown'd.Yet wider shall his rule be found,More lasting his award.
5 Lycurgus fashion'd Sparta's fame,And Pompey to the Roman nameGave universal sway:Where are they?—Homer's reverend pageHolds empire to the thirtieth age,And tongues and climes obey.
6 And thus when William's acts divineNo longer shall from Bourbon's lineDraw one vindictive vow;When Sydney shall with Cato rest,And Russel move the patriot's breastNo more than Brutus now;
7 Yet then shall Shakspeare's powerful artO'er every passion, every heart,Confirm his awful throne:Tyrants shall bow before his laws;And Freedom's, Glory's, Virtue's cause,Their dread assertor own.
Farewell to Leyden's lonely bound.The Belgian Muse's sober seat;Where, dealing frugal gifts aroundTo all the favourites at her feet,She trains the body's bulky frameFor passive persevering toils;And lest, from any prouder aim,The daring mind should scorn her homely spoils,She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame.
Farewell the grave, pacific air,Where never mountain zephyr blew:The marshy levels lank and bare,Which Pan, which Ceres never knew:The Naiads, with obscene attire,Urging in vain their urns to flow;While round them chant the croaking choir,And haply soothe some lover's prudent woe,Or prompt some restive bard and modulate his lyre.
Farewell, ye nymphs, whom sober care of gainSnatch'd in your cradles from the god of Love:She render'd all his boasted arrows vain;And all his gifts did he in spite remove.Ye too, the slow-eyed fathers of the land,With whom dominion steals from hand to hand,Unown'd, undignified by public choice,I go where Liberty to all is known,And tells a monarch on his throne,He reigns not but by her preserving voice.
O my loved England, when with theeShall I sit down, to part no more?Far from this pale, discolour'd sea,That sleeps upon the reedy shore:When shall I plough thy azure tide?When on thy hills the flocks admire,Like mountain snows; till down their sideI trace the village and the sacred spire,While bowers and copses green the golden slope divide?
Ye nymphs who guard the pathless grove,Ye blue-eyed sisters of the streams,With whom I wont at morn to rove,With whom at noon I talk'd in dreams;Oh! take me to your haunts again,The rocky spring, the greenwood glade;To guide my lonely footsteps deign,To prompt my slumbers in the murmuring shade,And soothe my vacant ear with many an airy strain.
And thou, my faithful harp, no longer mournThy drooping master's inauspicious hand:Now brighter skies and fresher gales return,Now fairer maids thy melody demand.Daughters of Albion, listen to my lyre!O Phoebus, guardian of the Aonian choir,Why sounds not mine harmonious as thy own,When all the virgin deities aboveWith Venus and with Juno moveIn concert round the Olympian father's throne?
Thee too, protectress of my lays,Elate with whose majestic callAbove degenerate Latium's praise,Above the slavish boast of Gaul,I dare from impious thrones reclaim,And wanton sloth's ignoble charms,The honours of a poet's nameTo Somers' counsels, or to Hampden's arms,Thee, Freedom, I rejoin, and bless thy genuine flame.
Great citizen of Albion! TheeHeroic Valour still attends,And useful Science, pleased to seeHow Art her studious toil extends:While Truth, diffusing from on highA lustre unconfined as day,Fills and commands the public eye;Till, pierced and sinking by her powerful ray,Tame Faith and monkish Awe, like nightly demons, fly.
Hence the whole land the patriot's ardour shares:Hence dread Religion dwells with social Joy;And holy passions and unsullied cares,In youth, in age, domestic life employ.O fair Britannia, hail!—With partial loveThe tribes of men their native seats approve,Unjust and hostile to each foreign fame:But when for generous minds and manly lawsA nation holds her prime applause,There public zeal shall all reproof disclaim.
1 Thrice hath the spring beheld thy faded fameSince I exulting grasp'd the tuneful shell:Eager through endless years to sound thy name,Proud that my memory with thine should dwell.How hast thou stain'd the splendour of my choice!Those godlike forms which hover'd round thy voice,Laws, freedom, glory, whither are they flown?What can I now of thee to Time report,Save thy fond country made thy impious sport,Her fortune and her hope the victims of thy own?
2 There are, with eyes unmoved and reckless heartWho saw thee from thy summit fall thus low,Who deem'd thy arm extended but to dartThe public vengeance on thy private foe.But, spite of every gloss of envious minds,The owl-eyed race whom virtue's lustre blinds,Who sagely prove that each man hath his price,I still believed thy aim from blemish free,I yet, even yet, believe it, spite of thee,And all thy painted pleas to greatness and to vice.
3 'Thou didst not dream of liberty decay'd,Nor wish to make her guardian laws more strong:But the rash many, first by thee misled,Bore thee at length unwillingly along.'Rise from your sad abodes, ye cursed of oldFor faith deserted or for cities sold,Own here one untried, unexampled, deed;One mystery of shame from Curio learn,To beg the infamy he did not earn,And scape in Guilt's disguise from Virtue's offer'd meed.
4 For saw we not that dangerous power avow'dWhom Freedom oft hath found her mortal bane,Whom public Wisdom ever strove to exclude,And but with blushes suffereth in her train?Corruption vaunted her bewitching spoils,O'er court, o'er senate, spread in pomp her toils,And call'd herself the state's directing soul:Till Curio, like a good magician, triedWith Eloquence and Reason at his side,By strength of holier spells the enchantress to control.
5 Soon with thy country's hope thy fame extends:The rescued merchant oft thy words resounds:Thee and thy cause the rural hearth defends:His bowl to thee the grateful sailor crowns:The learn'd recluse, with awful zeal who readOf Grecian heroes, Roman patriots dead,Now with like awe doth living merit scan:While he, whom virtue in his bless'd retreatBade social ease and public passions meet,Ascends the civil scene, and knows to be a man.
6 At length in view the glorious end appear'd:We saw thy spirit through the senate reign;And Freedom's friends thy instant omen heardOf laws for which their fathers bled in vain.Waked in the strife the public Genius roseMore keen, more ardent from his long repose;Deep through her bounds the city felt his call;Each crowded haunt was stirr'd beneath his power,And murmuring challenged the deciding hourOr that too vast event, the hope and dread of all.
7 O ye good powers who look on human kind,Instruct the mighty moments as they roll;And watch the fleeting shapes in Curio's mind,And steer his passions steady to the goal.O Alfred, father of the English name,O valiant Edward, first in civil fame,O William, height of public virtue pure,Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye,Behold the sum of all your labours nigh,Your plans of law complete, your ends of rule secure.
8 'Twas then—O shame! O soul from faith estranged!O Albion, oft to flattering vows a prey!'Twas then—Thy thought what sudden frenzy changed?What rushing palsy took thy strength away?Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved—The man so great, so honour'd, so beloved—Whom the dead envied and the living bless'd—This patient slave by tinsel bonds allured—This wretched suitor for a boon abjured—Whom those that fear'd him scorn; that trusted him, detest?
9 O lost alike to action and repose!With all that habit of familiar fame,Sold to the mockery of relentless foes,And doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in shame,To act with burning brow and throbbing heartA poor deserter's dull exploded part,To slight the favour thou canst hope no more,Renounce the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind,Charge thy own lightness on thy country's mind,And from her voice appeal to each tame foreign shore.
10 But England's sons, to purchase thence applause,Shall ne'er the loyalty of slaves pretend,By courtly passions try the public cause;Nor to the forms of rule betray the end.O race erect! by manliest passions moved,The labours which to Virtue stand approved,Prompt with a lover's fondness to survey;Yet, where Injustice works her wilful claim,Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying flame,Impatient to confront, and dreadful to repay.
11 These thy heart owns no longer. In their roomSee the grave queen of pageants, Honour, dwellCouch'd in thy bosom's deep tempestuous gloom,Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell.Before her rites thy sickening reason flew,Divine Persuasion from thy tongue withdrew,While Laughter mock'd, or Pity stole a sigh:Can Wit her tender movements rightly frameWhere the prime function of the soul is lame?Can Fancy's feeble springs the force of Truth supply?
12 But come: 'tis time: strong Destiny impendsTo shut thee from the joys thou hast betray'd:With princes fill'd, the solemn fane ascends,By Infamy, the mindful demon sway'd.There vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced,From nations fetter'd, and from towns laid waste,For ever through the spacious courts resound:There long posterity's united groan,And the sad charge of horrors not their own,Assail the giant chiefs, and press them to the ground.
13 In sight, old Time, imperious judge, awaits:Above revenge, or fear, or pity, just,He urgeth onward to those guilty gatesThe great, the sage, the happy, and august.And still he asks them of the hidden planWhence every treaty, every war began,Evolves their secrets and their guilt proclaims:And still his hands despoil them on the roadOf each vain wreath by lying bards bestow'd,And crush their trophies huge, and raze their sculptured names.
14 Ye mighty shades, arise, give place, attend:Here his eternal mansion Curio seeks.Low doth proud Wentworth to the stranger bend,And his dire welcome hardy Clifford speaks:—'He comes, whom fate with surer arts preparedTo accomplish all which we but vainly dared;Whom o'er the stubborn herd she taught to reign:Who soothed with gaudy dreams their raging powerEven to its last irrevocable hour;Then baffled their rude strength, and broke them to the chain.'
15 But ye, whom yet wise Liberty inspires,Whom for her champions o'er the world she claims(That household godhead whom of old your siresSought in the woods of Elbe and bore to Thames),Drive ye this hostile omen far away;Their own fell efforts on her foes repay;Your wealth, your arts, your fame, be hers alone:Still gird your swords to combat on her side;Still frame your laws her generous test to abide;And win to her defence the altar and the throne.
16 Protect her from yourselves, ere yet the floodOf golden Luxury, which Commerce pours,Hath spread that selfish fierceness through your blood,Which not her lightest discipline endures:Snatch from fantastic demagogues her cause:Dream not of Numa's manners, Plato's laws:A wiser founder, and a nobler plan,O sons of Alfred, were for you assign'd:Bring to that birthright but an equal mind,And no sublimer lot will fate reserve for man.
[Footnote 1: 'To Curio:' seeLife.]
1 Queen of my songs, harmonious maid,Ah! why hast thou withdrawn thy aid?Ah! why forsaken thus my breastWith inauspicious damps oppress'd?Where is the dread prophetic heatWith which my bosom wont to beat?Where all the bright mysterious dreamsOf haunted groves and tuneful streams,That woo'd my genius to divinest themes?
2 Say, goddess, can the festal board,Or young Olympia's form adored;Say, can the pomp of promised fameRelume thy faint, thy dying flame?Or have melodious airs the powerTo give one free, poetic hour?Or, from amid the Elysian train,The soul of Milton shall I gain,To win thee back with some celestial strain?
3 O powerful strain! O sacred soul!His numbers every sense control:And now again my bosom burns;The Muse, the Muse herself returns.Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd,I hail'd the fair immortal guest,When first she seal'd me for her own,Made all her blissful treasures known,And bade me swear to follow Her alone.
1 No, foolish youth—to virtuous fameIf now thy early hopes be vow'd,If true ambition's nobler flameCommand thy footsteps from the crowd,Lean not to Love's enchanting snare;His songs, his words, his looks beware,Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.
2 By thought, by dangers, and by toils,The wreath of just renown is worn;Nor will ambition's awful spoilsThe flowery pomp of ease adorn;But Love unbends the force of thought;By Love unmanly fears are taught;And Love's reward with gaudy sloth is bought.
3 Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays,And heard from many a zealous breast,The pleasing tale of beauty's praiseIn wisdom's lofty language dress'd;Of beauty powerful to impartEach finer sense, each comelier art,And soothe and polish man's ungentle heart.
4 If then, from Love's deceit secure,Thus far alone thy wishes tend,Go; see the white-wing'd evening hourOn Delia's vernal walk descend:Go, while the golden light serene,The grove, the lawn, the soften'd sceneBecomes the presence of the rural queen.
5 Attend, while that harmonious tongueEach bosom, each desire commands:Apollo's lute by Hermes strung,And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands,Attend. I feel a force divine,O Delia, win my thoughts to thine;That half the colour of thy life is mine.
6 Yet conscious of the dangerous charm,Soon would I turn my steps away;Nor oft provoke the lovely harm,Nor lull my reason's watchful sway.But thou, my friend—I hear thy sighs:Alas, I read thy downcast eyes;And thy tongue falters, and thy colour flies.
7 So soon again to meet the fair?So pensive all this absent hour?—O yet, unlucky youth, beware,While yet to think is in thy power.In vain with friendship's flattering nameThy passion veils its inward shame;Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame!
8 Once, I remember, new to Love,And dreading his tyrannic chain,I sought a gentle maid to proveWhat peaceful joys in friendship reign:Whence we forsooth might safely stand,And pitying view the love-sick band,And mock the wingèd boy's malicious hand.
9 Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day,To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd;While I exulted to surveyOne generous woman's real mind:Till friendship soon my languid breastEach night with unknown cares possess'd,Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd.
10 Fool that I was—And now, even nowWhile thus I preach the Stoic strain,Unless I shun Olympia's view,An hour unsays it all again.O friend!—when Love directs her eyesTo pierce where every passion lies,Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?
1 Behold, the Balance in the skySwift on the wintry scale inclines:To earthy caves the Dryads fly,And the bare pastures Pan resigns.Late did the farmer's fork o'erspreadWith recent soil the twice-mown mead,Tainting the bloom which Autumn knows:He whets the rusty coulter now,He binds his oxen to the plough,And wide his future harvest throws.
2 Now, London's busy confines round,By Kensington's imperial towers,From Highgate's rough descent profound,Essexian heaths, or Kentish bowers,Where'er I pass, I see approachSome rural statesman's eager coach,Hurried by senatorial cares:While rural nymphs (alike, within,Aspiring courtly praise to win)Debate their dress, reform their airs.
3 Say, what can now the country boast,O Drake, thy footsteps to detain,When peevish winds and gloomy frostThe sunshine of the temper stain?Say, are the priests of Devon grownFriends to this tolerating throne,Champions for George's legal right?Have general freedom, equal law,Won to the glory of NassauEach bold Wessexian squire and knight?
4 I doubt it much; and guess at leastThat when the day, which made us free,Shall next return, that sacred feastThou better may'st observe with me.With me the sulphurous treason oldA far inferior part shall holdIn that glad day's triumphal strain;And generous William be revered,Nor one untimely accent heardOf James, or his ignoble reign.
5 Then, while the Gascon's fragrant wineWith modest cups our joy supplies,We'll truly thank the power divineWho bade the chief, the patriot rise;Rise from heroic ease (the spoilDue, for his youth's Herculean toil,From Belgium to her saviour son),Rise with the same unconquer'd zealFor our Britannia's injured weal,Her laws defaced, her shrines o'erthrown.
6 He came. The tyrant from our shore,Like a forbidden demon, fled;And to eternal exile borePontific rage and vassal dread.There sunk the mouldering Gothic reign:New years came forth, a liberal train,Call'd by the people's great decree.That day, my friend, let blessings crown;—Fill, to the demigod's renownFrom whom thou hast that thou art free.
7 Then, Drake, (for wherefore should we partThe public and the private weal?)In vows to her who sways thy heart,Fair health, glad fortune, will we deal.Whether Aglaia's blooming cheek,Or the soft ornaments that speakSo eloquent in Daphne's smile,Whether the piercing lights that flyFrom the dark heaven of Myrto's eye,Haply thy fancy then beguile.
8 For so it is:—thy stubborn breast,Though touch'd by many a slighter wound,Hath no full conquest yet confess'd,Nor the one fatal charmer found;While I, a true and loyal swain,My fair Olympia's gentle reignThrough all the varying seasons own.Her genius still my bosom warms:No other maid for me hath charms,Or I have eyes for her alone.
Once more I join the Thespian choir,And taste the inspiring fount again:O parent of the Grecian lyre,Admit me to thy powerful strain—And lo, with ease my step invadesThe pathless vale and opening shades,Till now I spy her verdant seat;And now at large I drink the sound,While these her offspring, listening round.By turns her melody repeat.
I see Anacreon smile and sing,His silver tresses breathe perfume:His cheek displays a second springOf roses, taught by wine to bloom.Away, deceitful cares, away,And let me listen to his lay;Let me the wanton pomp enjoy,While in smooth dance the light-wing'd HoursLead round his lyre its patron powers,Kind Laughter and Convivial Joy.
Broke from the fetters of his native land,Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords,With louder impulse and a threatening handThe Lesbian patriot [1] smites the sounding chords:Ye wretches, ye perfidious train,Ye cursed of gods and free-born men,Ye murderers of the laws,Though now ye glory in your lust,Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust,Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause.
But lo, to Sappho's melting airsDescends the radiant queen of love:She smiles, and asks what fonder caresHer suppliant's plaintive measures move:Why is my faithful maid distress'd?Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?Say, flies he?—Soon he shall pursue:Shuns he thy gifts?—He soon shall give:Slights he thy sorrows?—He shall grieve,And soon to all thy wishes bow.
But, O Melpomene, for whomAwakes thy golden shell again?What mortal breath shall e'er presumeTo echo that unbounded strain?Majestic in the frown of years,Behold, the man of Thebes [2] appears:For some there are, whose mighty frameThe hand of Jove at birth endow'dWith hopes that mock the gazing crowd;As eagles drink the noontide flame;
While the dim raven beats her weary wings,And clamours far below.—Propitious Muse,While I so late unlock thy purer springs,And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse,Wilt thou for Albion's sons around(Ne'er hadst thou audience more renown'd)Thy charming arts employ,As when the winds from shore to shoreThrough Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore,Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy?
Yet then did Pleasure's lawless throng,Oft rushing forth in loose attire,Thy virgin dance, thy graceful songPollute with impious revels dire.O fair, O chaste, thy echoing shadeMay no foul discord here invade:Nor let thy strings one accent move,Except what earth's untroubled ear'Mid all her social tribes may hear,And heaven's unerring throne approve.
Queen of the lyre, in thy retreatThe fairest flowers of Pindus glow;The vine aspires to crown thy seat,And myrtles round thy laurel grow.Thy strings adapt their varied strainTo every pleasure, every pain,Which mortal tribes were born to prove;And straight our passions rise or fall,As at the wind's imperious callThe ocean swells, the billows move.
When midnight listens o'er the slumbering earth,Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear:When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth,With airy murmurs touch my opening ear.And ever watchful at thy side,Let Wisdom's awful suffrage guideThe tenor of thy lay:To her of old by Jove was givenTo judge the various deeds of earth and heaven;'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway.
Oft as, to well-earn'd ease resign'd,I quit the maze where Science toils,Do thou refresh my yielding mindWith all thy gay, delusive spoils.But, O indulgent, come not nighThe busy steps, the jealous eyeOf wealthy care or gainful age;Whose barren souls thy joys disdain,And hold as foes to reason's reignWhome'er thy lovely works engage.
When friendship and when letter'd mirthHaply partake my simple board,Then let thy blameless hand call forthThe music of the Teian chord.Or if invoked at softer hours,Oh! seek with me the happy bowersThat hear Olympia's gentle tongue;To beauty link'd with virtue's train,To love devoid of jealous pain,There let the Sapphic lute be strung.
But when from envy and from death to claimA hero bleeding for his native land;When to throw incense on the vestal flameOf Liberty my genius gives command,Nor Theban voice nor Lesbian lyreFrom thee, O Muse, do I require;While my presaging mind,Conscious of powers she never knew,Astonish'd, grasps at things beyond her view,Nor by another's fate submits to be confined.
[Footnote 1: 'The Lesbian patriot:' Alcaeus.]
[Footnote 2: 'The man of Thebes:' Pindar.]
1 Say, Townshend, what can London boastTo pay thee for the pleasures lost,The health to-day resign'd,When Spring from this her favourite seatBade Winter hasten his retreat,And met the western wind.
2 Oh, knew'st thou how the balmy air,The sun, the azure heavens prepareTo heal thy languid frame,No more would noisy courts engage;In vain would lying Faction's rageThy sacred leisure claim.
3 Oft I look'd forth, and oft admired;Till with the studious volume tiredI sought the open day;And sure, I cried, the rural godsExpect me in their green abodes,And chide my tardy lay.
4 But ah, in vain my restless feetTraced every silent shady seatWhich knew their forms of old:Nor Naiad by her fountain laid,Nor Wood-nymph tripping through her glade,Did now their rites unfold:
5 Whether to nurse some infant oakThey turn—the slowly tinkling brook,And catch the pearly showers,Or brush the mildew from the woods,Or paint with noontide beams the buds,Or breathe on opening flowers.
6 Such rites, which they with Spring renew,The eyes of care can never view;And care hath long been mine:And hence offended with their guest,Since grief of love my soul oppress'd,They hide their toils divine.
7 But soon shall thy enlivening tongueThis heart, by dear affliction wrung,With noble hope inspire:Then will the sylvan powers againReceive me in their genial train,And listen to my lyre.
8 Beneath yon Dryad's lonely shadeA rustic altar shall be paid,Of turf with laurel framed;And thou the inscription wilt approve:'This for the peace which, lost by love,By friendship was reclaim'd'
1 To-night retired, the queen of heavenWith young Endymion stays:And now to Hesper it is givenA while to rule the vacant sky,Till she shall to her lamp supplyA stream of brighter rays.
2 O Hesper, while the starry throngWith awe thy path surrounds,Oh, listen to my suppliant song,If haply now the vocal sphereCan suffer thy delighted earTo stoop to mortal sounds.
3 So may the bridegroom's genial strainThee still invoke to shine:So may the bride's unmarried trainTo Hymen chant their flattering vow,Still that his lucky torch may glowWith lustre pure as thine.
4 Far other vows must I preferTo thy indulgent power.Alas, but now I paid my tearOn fair Olympia's virgin tomb:And lo, from thence, in quest I roamOf Philomela's bower.
5 Propitious send thy golden ray,Thou purest light above:Let no false flame seduce to strayWhere gulf or steep lie hid for harm:But lead where music's healing charmMay soothe afflicted love.
6 To them, by many a grateful songIn happier seasons vow'd,These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong:Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,Beneath yon copses stood.
7 Nor seldom, where the beechen boughsThat roofless tower invade,We came while her enchanting MuseThe radiant moon above us held:Till by a clamorous owl compell'dShe fled the solemn shade.
8 But hark; I hear her liquid tone.Now, Hesper, guide my feetDown the red marl with moss o'ergrown,Through yon wild thicket next the plain,Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane,Which leads to her retreat.
9 See the green space; on either handEnlarged it spreads around:See, in the midst she takes her stand,Where one old oak his awful shadeExtends o'er half the level meadEnclosed in woods profound.
10 Hark, through many a melting noteShe now prolongs her lays:How sweetly down the void they float!The breeze their magic path attends,The stars shine out, the forest bends,The wakeful heifers gaze.
11 Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bringTo this sequester'd spot,If then the plaintive Syren sing,Oh! softly tread beneath her bower,And think of heaven's disposing power,Of man's uncertain lot.
12 Oh! think, o'er all this mortal stage,What mournful scenes arise:What ruin waits on kingly rage,How often virtue dwells with woe,How many griefs from knowledge flow,How swiftly pleasure flies.
13 O sacred bird, let me at eve,Thus wandering all alone,Thy tender counsel oft receive,Bear witness to thy pensive airs,And pity Nature's common cares,Till I forget my own.
1 With sordid floods the wintry Urn [1]Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green;Her naked hill the Dryads mourn,No longer a poetic scene.No longer there the raptured eyeThe beauteous forms of earth or skySurveys as in their Author's mind;And London shelters from the yearThose whom thy social hours to shareThe Attic Muse design'd.
2 From Hampstead's airy summit meHer guest the city shall behold,What day the people's stern decreeTo unbelieving kings is told,When common men (the dread of fame)Adjudged as one of evil name,Before the sun, the anointed head.Then seek thou too the pious town,With no unworthy cares to crownThat evening's awful shade.
3 Deem not I call thee to deploreThe sacred martyr of the day,By fast, and penitential loreTo purge our ancient guilt away.For this, on humble faith I restThat still our advocate, the priest,From heavenly wrath will save the land;Nor ask what rites our pardon gain,Nor how his potent sounds restrainThe thunderer's lifted hand.
4 No, Hardinge; peace to church and state!That evening, let the Muse give law;While I anew the theme relateWhich my first youth enamour'd saw.Then will I oft explore thy thought,What to reject which Locke hath taught,What to pursue in Virgil's lay;Till hope ascends to loftiest things,Nor envies demagogues or kingsTheir frail and vulgar sway.
5 O versed in all the human frame,Lead thou where'er my labour lies,And English fancy's eager flameTo Grecian purity chastise;While hand in hand, at Wisdom's shrine,Beauty with truth I strive to join,And grave assent with glad applause;To paint the story of the soul,And Plato's visions to controlBy Verulamian laws.
[Footnote 1: 'The wintry Urn:' Aquarius.]
1 Come then, tell me, sage divine,Is it an offence to ownThat our bosoms e'er inclineToward immortal Glory's throne?For with me, nor pomp, nor pleasure,Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,So can Fancy's dream rejoice,So conciliate Reason's choice,As one approving word of her impartial voice.
2 If to spurn at noble praiseBe the passport to thy heaven,Follow thou those gloomy ways;No such law to me was given,Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me,Faring like my friends before me;Nor an holier place desireThan Timoleon's arms acquire,And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.
The wise and great of every clime,Through all the spacious walks of time,Where'er the Muse her power display'd,With joy have listen'd and obey'd.For, taught of heaven, the sacred NinePersuasive numbers, forms divine,To mortal sense impart:They best the soul with glory fire;They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire;And high o'er Fortune's rage enthrone the fixed heart.
Nor less prevailing is their charmThe vengeful bosom to disarm;To melt the proud with human woe,And prompt unwilling tears to flow.Can wealth a power like this afford?Can Cromwell's arts or Marlborough's sword,An equal empire claim?No, Hastings. Thou my words wilt own:Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known;Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.
The Muse's awful art,And the blest function of the poet's tongue,Ne'er shalt thou blush to honour; to assertFrom all that scorned vice or slavish fear hath sung.Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan stringsWarbling at will in Pleasure's myrtle bower;Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kingsBy flattering minstrels paid in evil hour,Move thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign.A different strain,And other themesFrom her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams(Thou well canst witness), meet the purgèd ear:Such, as when Greece to her immortal shellRejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear;To hear the sweet instructress tell(While men and heroes throng'd around)How life its noblest use may find,How well for freedom be resign'd;And how, by glory, virtue shall be crown'd.
Such was the Chian father's strainTo many a kind domestic train,Whose pious hearth and genial bowlHad cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul:When, every hospitable riteWith equal bounty to requite,He struck his magic strings,And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth,And seized their ears with tales of ancient worth,And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things.
Now oft, where happy spirits dwell,Where yet he tunes his charming shell,Oft near him, with applauding hands,The Genius of his country stands.To listening gods he makes him known,That man divine, by whom were sownThe seeds of Grecian fame:Who first the race with freedom fired;From whom Lycurgus Sparta's sons inspired;From whom Plataean palms and Cyprian trophies came.
O noblest, happiest age!When Aristides ruled, and Cimon fought;When all the generous fruits of Homer's pageExulting Pindar saw to full perfection brought.O Pindar, oft shalt thou be hail'd of me:Not that Apollo fed thee from his shrine;Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee;Nor yet that, studious of thy notes divine,Pan danced their measure with the sylvan throng:But that thy songWas proud to unfoldWhat thy base rulers trembled to behold;Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tellThe deeds of Athens and the Persian shame:Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.But thou, O faithful to thy fame,The Muse's law didst rightly know;That who would animate his lays,And other minds to virtue raise,Must feel his own with all her spirit glow.
Are there, approved of later times,Whose verse adorn'd a tyrant's [1] crimes?Who saw majestic Rome betray'd,And lent the imperial ruffian aid?Alas! not one polluted bard,No, not the strains that Mincius heard,Or Tibur's hills replied,Dare to the Muse's ear aspire;Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre,With Freedom's ancient notes their shameful task they hide.
Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands,Amid the domes of modern hands:Amid the toys of idle state,How simply, how severely great!Then turn, and, while each western climePresents her tuneful sons to Time,So mark thou Milton's name;And add, 'Thus differs from the throngThe spirit which inform'd thy awful song,Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame.'
Yet hence barbaric zealHis memory with unholy rage pursues;While from these arduous cares of public wealShe bids each bard begone, and rest him with his Muse.O fool! to think the man, whose ample mindMust grasp at all that yonder stars survey;Must join the noblest forms of every kind,The world's most perfect image to display,Can e'er his country's majesty behold,Unmoved or cold!O fool! to deemThat he, whose thought must visit every theme,Whose heart must every strong emotion knowInspired by Nature, or by Fortune taught;That he, if haply some presumptuous foe,With false ignoble science fraught,Shall spurn at Freedom's faithful band:That he their dear defence will shun,Or hide their glories from the sun,Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand!
I care not that in Arno's plain,Or on the sportive banks of Seine,From public themes the Muse's choirContent with polish'd ease retire.Where priests the studious head command,Where tyrants bow the warlike handTo vile ambition's aim,Say, what can public themes afford,Save venal honours to a hateful lord,Reserved for angry heaven and scorn'd of honest fame?
But here, where Freedom's equal throneTo all her valiant sons is known;Where all are conscious of her cares,And each the power, that rules him, shares;Here let the bard, whose dastard tongueLeaves public arguments unsung,Bid public praise farewell:Let him to fitter climes remove,Far from the hero's and the patriot's love,And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.
O Hastings, not to allCan ruling Heaven the same endowments lend:Yet still doth Nature to her offspring call,That to one general weal their different powers they bend,Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divineInform the bosom of the Muse's son;Though with new honours the patrician's lineAdvance from age to age; yet thus aloneThey win the suffrage of impartial fame.
The poet's nameHe best shall prove,Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move.But thee, O progeny of heroes old,Thee to severer toils thy fate requires:The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould,The grateful country of thy sires,Thee to sublimer paths demand;Sublimer than thy sires could trace,Or thy own Edward teach his race,Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.
From rich domains, and subject farms,They led the rustic youth to arms;And kings their stern achievements fear'd,While private strife their banners rear'd.But loftier scenes to thee are shown,Where empire's wide establish'd throneNo private master fills:Where, long foretold, the People reigns;Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains;And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.
Here be it thine to calm and guideThe swelling democratic tide;To watch the state's uncertain frame,And baffle Faction's partial aim:But chiefly, with determined zeal,To quell that servile band, who kneelTo Freedom's banish'd foes;That monster, which is daily foundExpert and bold thy country's peace to wound;Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.
'Tis highest Heaven's command,That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue;That what ensnares the heart should maim the hand,And Virtue's worthless foes be false to glory too.But look on Freedom;—see, through every age,What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd!What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage,Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd!For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strainsOf happy swains,Which now resoundWhere Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures bound,Bear witness;—there, oft let the farmer hailThe sacred orchard which embowers his gate,And show to strangers passing down the vale,Where Candish, Booth, and Osborne sate;When, bursting from their country's chain,Even in the midst of deadly harms,Of papal snares and lawless arms,They plann'd for Freedom this her noblest reign.
This reign, these laws, this public care,Which Nassau gave us all to share,Had ne'er adorn'd the English name,Could Fear have silenced Freedom's claim.But Fear in vain attempts to bindThose lofty efforts of the mindWhich social good inspires;Where men, for this, assault a throne,Each adds the common welfare to his own;And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all acquires.
Say, was it thus, when late we view'dOur fields in civil blood imbrued?When fortune crown'd the barbarous host,And half the astonish'd isle was lost?Did one of all that vaunting train,Who dare affront a peaceful reign,Durst one in arms appear?Durst one in counsels pledge his life?Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife?Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to cheer?
Yet, Hastings, these are theyWho challenge to themselves thy country's love;The true; the constant: who alone can weigh,What glory should demand, or liberty approve!But let their works declare them. Thy free powers,The generous powers of thy prevailing mind,Not for the tasks of their confederate hours,Lewd brawls and lurking slander, were design'd.Be thou thy own approver. Honest praiseOft nobly swaysIngenuous youth;But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth,Praise is reproach. Eternal God aloneFor mortals fixeth that sublime award.He, from the faithful records of his throne,Bids the historian and the bardDispose of honour and of scorn;Discern the patriot from the slave;And write the good, the wise, the brave,For lessons to the multitude unborn.
[Footnote 1: 'A tyrant:' Octavianus Cæsar.]
If, yet regardful of your native land,Old Shakspeare's tongue you deign to understand,Lo, from the blissful bowers where heaven rewardsInstructive sages and unblemish'd bards,I come, the ancient founder of the stage,Intent to learn, in this discerning age,What form of wit your fancies have embraced,And whither tends your elegance of taste,That thus at length our homely toils you spurn,That thus to foreign scenes you proudly turn, 10That from my brow the laurel wreath you claimTo crown the rivals of your country's fame.
What though the footsteps of my devious MuseThe measured walks of Grecian art refuse?Or though the frankness of my hardy styleMock the nice touches of the critic's file?Yet, what my age and climate held to view,Impartial I survey'd and fearless drew.And say, ye skilful in the human heart,Who know to prize a poet's noblest part, 20What age, what clime, could e'er an ampler fieldFor lofty thought, for daring fancy, yield?I saw this England break the shameful bandsForged for the souls of men by sacred hands:I saw each groaning realm her aid implore;Her sons the heroes of each warlike shore:Her naval standard (the dire Spaniard's bane)Obey'd through all the circuit of the main.Then, too, great Commerce, for a late found world,Around your coast her eager sails unfurl'd! 30New hopes, new passions, thence the bosom fired;New plans, new arts, the genius thence inspired;Thence every scene, which private fortune knows,In stronger life, with bolder spirit, rose.
Disgraced I this full prospect which I drew,My colours languid, or my strokes untrue?Have not your sages, warriors, swains, and kings,Confess'd the living draught of men and things?What other bard in any clime appearsAlike the master of your smiles and tears? 40Yet have I deign'd your audience to enticeWith wretched bribes to luxury and vice?Or have my various scenes a purpose knownWhich freedom, virtue, glory, might not own?
Such from the first was my dramatic plan;It should be yours to crown what I began:And now that England spurns her Gothic chain,And equal laws and social science reign,I thought, Now surely shall my zealous eyesView nobler bards and juster critics rise, 50Intent with learned labour to refineThe copious ore of Albion's native mine,Our stately Muse more graceful airs to teach,And form her tongue to more attractive speech,Till rival nations listen at her feet,And own her polish'd as they own her great.
But do you thus my favourite hopes fulfil?Is France at last the standard of your skill?Alas for you! that so betray a mindOf art unconscious and to beauty blind. 60Say, does her language your ambition raise,Her barren, trivial, unharmonious phrase,Which fetters eloquence to scantiest bounds,And maims the cadence of poetic sounds?Say, does your humble admiration chooseThe gentle prattle of her Comic Muse,While wits, plain-dealers, fops, and fools appear,Charged to say nought but what the king may hear?Or rather melt your sympathising heartsWon by her tragic scene's romantic arts, 70Where old and young declaim on soft desire,And heroes never, but for love, expire?
No. Though the charms of novelty, a while,Perhaps too fondly win your thoughtless smile,Yet not for you design'd indulgent fateThe modes or manners of the Bourbon state.And ill your minds my partial judgment reads,And many an augury my hope misleads,If the fair maids of yonder blooming trainTo their light courtship would an audience deign, 80Or those chaste matrons a Parisian wifeChoose for the model of domestic life;Or if one youth of all that generous band,The strength and splendour of their native land,Would yield his portion of his country's fame,And quit old freedom's patrimonial claim,With lying smiles oppression's pomp to see,And judge of glory by a king's decree.
O bless'd at home with justly-envied laws,O long the chiefs of Europe's general cause, 90Whom heaven hath chosen at each dangerous hourTo check the inroads of barbaric power,The rights of trampled nations to reclaim,And guard the social world from bonds and shame;Oh! let not luxury's fantastic charmsThus give the lie to your heroic arms:Nor for the ornaments of life embraceDishonest lessons from that vaunting race,Whom fate's dread laws (for, in eternal fateDespotic rule was heir to freedom's hate), 100Whom in each warlike, each commercial part,In civil council, and in pleasing art,The judge of earth predestined for your foes,And made it fame and virtue to oppose.