Butwhen her sweet smile, modest and benign,No longer hides from us its beauties rare,At the spent forge his stout and sinewy armsPlieth that old Sicilian smith in vain,For from the hands of Jove his bolts are takenTemper'd in Ætna to extremest proof;And his cold sister by degrees grows calmAnd genial in Apollo's kindling beams.Moves from the rosy west a summer breath,Which safe and easy wafts the seaward bark,And wakes the sweet flowers in each grassy mead.Malignant stars on every side depart,Dispersed before that bright enchanting face,For which already many tears are shed.Macgregor.
Butwhen her sweet smile, modest and benign,No longer hides from us its beauties rare,At the spent forge his stout and sinewy armsPlieth that old Sicilian smith in vain,For from the hands of Jove his bolts are takenTemper'd in Ætna to extremest proof;And his cold sister by degrees grows calmAnd genial in Apollo's kindling beams.Moves from the rosy west a summer breath,Which safe and easy wafts the seaward bark,And wakes the sweet flowers in each grassy mead.Malignant stars on every side depart,Dispersed before that bright enchanting face,For which already many tears are shed.
Macgregor.
Ninetimes already had Latona's sonLook'd from the highest balcony of heavenFor her, who whilom waked his sighs in vain,And sighs as vain now wakes in other breasts;Then seeking wearily, nor knowing whereShe dwelt, or far or near, and why delay'd,He show'd himself to us as one, insaneFor grief, who cannot find some loved lost thing:And thus, for clouds of sorrow held aloof,Saw not the fair face turn, which, if I live,In many a page shall praised and honour'd be,The misery of her loss so changed her mienThat her bright eyes were dimm'd, for once, with tears,Thereon its former gloom the air resumed.Macgregor.
Ninetimes already had Latona's sonLook'd from the highest balcony of heavenFor her, who whilom waked his sighs in vain,And sighs as vain now wakes in other breasts;Then seeking wearily, nor knowing whereShe dwelt, or far or near, and why delay'd,He show'd himself to us as one, insaneFor grief, who cannot find some loved lost thing:And thus, for clouds of sorrow held aloof,Saw not the fair face turn, which, if I live,In many a page shall praised and honour'd be,The misery of her loss so changed her mienThat her bright eyes were dimm'd, for once, with tears,Thereon its former gloom the air resumed.
Macgregor.
Hewho for empire at Pharsalia threw,Reddening its beauteous plain with civil gore,As Pompey's corse his conquering soldiers bore,Wept when the well-known features met his view:The shepherd youth, who fierce Goliath slew,Had long rebellious children to deplore,And bent, in generous grief, the brave Saul o'erHis shame and fall when proud Gilboa knew:But you, whose cheek with pity never paled,Who still have shields at hand to guard you wellAgainst Love's bow, which shoots its darts in vain,Behold me by a thousand deaths assail'd,And yet no tears of thine compassion tell,But in those bright eyes anger and disdain.Macgregor.
Hewho for empire at Pharsalia threw,Reddening its beauteous plain with civil gore,As Pompey's corse his conquering soldiers bore,Wept when the well-known features met his view:The shepherd youth, who fierce Goliath slew,Had long rebellious children to deplore,And bent, in generous grief, the brave Saul o'erHis shame and fall when proud Gilboa knew:But you, whose cheek with pity never paled,Who still have shields at hand to guard you wellAgainst Love's bow, which shoots its darts in vain,Behold me by a thousand deaths assail'd,And yet no tears of thine compassion tell,But in those bright eyes anger and disdain.
Macgregor.
Myfoe, in whom you see your own bright eyes,Adored by Love and Heaven with honour due,With beauties not its own enamours you,Sweeter and happier than in mortal guise.Me, by its counsel, lady, from your breast,My chosen cherish'd home, your scorn expell'dIn wretched banishment, perchance not heldWorthy to dwell where you alone should rest.But were I fasten'd there with strongest keys,That mirror should not make you, at my cost,Severe and proud yourself alone to please.Remember how Narcissus erst was lost!His course and thine to one conclusion lead,Of flower so fair though worthless here the mead.Macgregor.
Myfoe, in whom you see your own bright eyes,Adored by Love and Heaven with honour due,With beauties not its own enamours you,Sweeter and happier than in mortal guise.Me, by its counsel, lady, from your breast,My chosen cherish'd home, your scorn expell'dIn wretched banishment, perchance not heldWorthy to dwell where you alone should rest.But were I fasten'd there with strongest keys,That mirror should not make you, at my cost,Severe and proud yourself alone to please.Remember how Narcissus erst was lost!His course and thine to one conclusion lead,Of flower so fair though worthless here the mead.
Macgregor.
Mymirror'd foe reflects, alas! so fairThose eyes which Heaven and Love have honour'd too!Yet not his charms thou dost enamour'd view,But all thine own, and they beyond compare:O lady! thou hast chased me at its prayerFrom thy heart's throne, where I so fondly grew;O wretched exile! though too well I knewA reign with thee I were unfit to share.But were I ever fix'd thy bosom's mate,A flattering mirror should not me supplant,And make thee scorn me in thy self-delight;Thou surely must recall Narcissus' fate,But if like him thy doom should thee enchant,What mead were worthy of a flower so bright?Wollaston.
Mymirror'd foe reflects, alas! so fairThose eyes which Heaven and Love have honour'd too!Yet not his charms thou dost enamour'd view,But all thine own, and they beyond compare:O lady! thou hast chased me at its prayerFrom thy heart's throne, where I so fondly grew;O wretched exile! though too well I knewA reign with thee I were unfit to share.But were I ever fix'd thy bosom's mate,A flattering mirror should not me supplant,And make thee scorn me in thy self-delight;Thou surely must recall Narcissus' fate,But if like him thy doom should thee enchant,What mead were worthy of a flower so bright?
Wollaston.
Thosegolden tresses, teeth of pearly white,Those cheeks' fair roses blooming to decay,Do in their beauty to my soul conveyThe poison'd arrows from my aching sight.Thus sad and briefly must my days take flight,For life with woe not long on earth will stay;But more I blame that mirror's flattering sway,Which thou hast wearied with thy self-delight.Its power my bosom's sovereign too hath still'd,Who pray'd thee in my suit—now he is mute,Since thou art captured by thyself alone:Death's seeds it hath within my heart instill'd,For Lethe's stream its form doth constitute,And makes thee lose each image but thine own.Wollaston.
Thosegolden tresses, teeth of pearly white,Those cheeks' fair roses blooming to decay,Do in their beauty to my soul conveyThe poison'd arrows from my aching sight.Thus sad and briefly must my days take flight,For life with woe not long on earth will stay;But more I blame that mirror's flattering sway,Which thou hast wearied with thy self-delight.Its power my bosom's sovereign too hath still'd,Who pray'd thee in my suit—now he is mute,Since thou art captured by thyself alone:Death's seeds it hath within my heart instill'd,For Lethe's stream its form doth constitute,And makes thee lose each image but thine own.
Wollaston.
Thegold and pearls, the lily and the roseWhich weak and dry in winter wont to be,Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts to me,As my sore-stricken bosom aptly shows:Thus all my days now sadly shortly close,For seldom with great grief long years agree;But in that fatal glass most blame I see,That weary with your oft self-liking grows.It on my lord placed silence, when my suitHe would have urged, but, seeing your desireEnd in yourself alone, he soon was mute.'Twas fashion'd in hell's wave and o'er its fire,And tinted in eternal Lethe: thenceThe spring and secret of my death commence.Macgregor.
Thegold and pearls, the lily and the roseWhich weak and dry in winter wont to be,Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts to me,As my sore-stricken bosom aptly shows:Thus all my days now sadly shortly close,For seldom with great grief long years agree;But in that fatal glass most blame I see,That weary with your oft self-liking grows.It on my lord placed silence, when my suitHe would have urged, but, seeing your desireEnd in yourself alone, he soon was mute.'Twas fashion'd in hell's wave and o'er its fire,And tinted in eternal Lethe: thenceThe spring and secret of my death commence.
Macgregor.
I nowperceived that from within me fledThose spirits to which you their being lend;And since by nature's dictates to defendThemselves from death all animals are made,The reins I loosed, with which Desire I stay'd,And sent him on his way without a friend;There whither day and night my course he'd bend,Though still from thence by me reluctant led.And me ashamed and slow along he drewTo see your eyes their matchless influence shower,Which much I shun, afraid to give you pain.Yet for myself this once I'll live; such powerHas o'er this wayward life one look from you:—Then die, unless Desire prevails again.Anon., Ox., 1795.
I nowperceived that from within me fledThose spirits to which you their being lend;And since by nature's dictates to defendThemselves from death all animals are made,The reins I loosed, with which Desire I stay'd,And sent him on his way without a friend;There whither day and night my course he'd bend,Though still from thence by me reluctant led.And me ashamed and slow along he drewTo see your eyes their matchless influence shower,Which much I shun, afraid to give you pain.Yet for myself this once I'll live; such powerHas o'er this wayward life one look from you:—Then die, unless Desire prevails again.
Anon., Ox., 1795.
Becausethe powers that take their life from youAlready had I felt within decay,And because Nature, death to shield or slay,Arms every animal with instinct true,To my long-curb'd desire the rein I threw,And turn'd it in the old forgotten way,Where fondly it invites me night and day,Though 'gainst its will, another I pursue.And thus it led me back, ashamed and slow,To see those eyes with love's own lustre rifeWhich I am watchful never to offend:Thus may I live perchance awhile below;One glance of yours such power has o'er my lifeWhich sure, if I oppose desire, shall end.Macgregor.
Becausethe powers that take their life from youAlready had I felt within decay,And because Nature, death to shield or slay,Arms every animal with instinct true,To my long-curb'd desire the rein I threw,And turn'd it in the old forgotten way,Where fondly it invites me night and day,Though 'gainst its will, another I pursue.And thus it led me back, ashamed and slow,To see those eyes with love's own lustre rifeWhich I am watchful never to offend:Thus may I live perchance awhile below;One glance of yours such power has o'er my lifeWhich sure, if I oppose desire, shall end.
Macgregor.
Iffire was never yet by fire subdued,If never flood fell dry by frequent rain,But, like to like, if each by other gain,And contraries are often mutual food;Love, who our thoughts controllest in each mood,Through whom two bodies thus one soul sustain,How, why in her, with such unusual strainMake the want less by wishes long renewed?Perchance, as falleth the broad Nile from high,Deafening with his great voice all nature round,And as the sun still dazzles the fix'd eye,So with itself desire in discord foundLoses in its impetuous object force,As the too frequent spur oft checks the course.Macgregor.
Iffire was never yet by fire subdued,If never flood fell dry by frequent rain,But, like to like, if each by other gain,And contraries are often mutual food;Love, who our thoughts controllest in each mood,Through whom two bodies thus one soul sustain,How, why in her, with such unusual strainMake the want less by wishes long renewed?Perchance, as falleth the broad Nile from high,Deafening with his great voice all nature round,And as the sun still dazzles the fix'd eye,So with itself desire in discord foundLoses in its impetuous object force,As the too frequent spur oft checks the course.
Macgregor.
Althoughfrom falsehood I did thee restrainWith all my power, and paid thee honour due,Ungrateful tongue; yet never did accrueHonour from thee, but shame, and fierce disdain:Most art thou cold, when most I want the strainThy aid should lend while I for pity sue;And all thy utterance is imperfect too,When thou dost speak, and as the dreamer's vain.Ye too, sad tears, throughout each lingering nightUpon me wait, when I alone would stay;But, needed by my peace, you take your flight:And, all so prompt anguish and grief t' impart,Ye sighs, then slow, and broken breathe your way:My looks alone truly reveal my heart.Nott.
Althoughfrom falsehood I did thee restrainWith all my power, and paid thee honour due,Ungrateful tongue; yet never did accrueHonour from thee, but shame, and fierce disdain:Most art thou cold, when most I want the strainThy aid should lend while I for pity sue;And all thy utterance is imperfect too,When thou dost speak, and as the dreamer's vain.Ye too, sad tears, throughout each lingering nightUpon me wait, when I alone would stay;But, needed by my peace, you take your flight:And, all so prompt anguish and grief t' impart,Ye sighs, then slow, and broken breathe your way:My looks alone truly reveal my heart.
Nott.
Withall my power, lest falsehood should invade,I guarded thee and still thy honour sought,Ungrateful tongue! who honour ne'er hast brought,But still my care with rage and shame repaid:For, though to me most requisite, thine aid,When mercy I would ask, availeth nought,Still cold and mute, and e'en to words if wroughtThey seem as sounds in sleep by dreamers made.And ye, sad tears, o' nights, when I would fainBe left alone, my sure companions, flow,But, summon'd for my peace, ye soon depart:Ye too, mine anguish'd sighs, so prompt to pain,Then breathe before her brokenly and slow,And my face only speaks my suffering heart.Macgregor.
Withall my power, lest falsehood should invade,I guarded thee and still thy honour sought,Ungrateful tongue! who honour ne'er hast brought,But still my care with rage and shame repaid:For, though to me most requisite, thine aid,When mercy I would ask, availeth nought,Still cold and mute, and e'en to words if wroughtThey seem as sounds in sleep by dreamers made.And ye, sad tears, o' nights, when I would fainBe left alone, my sure companions, flow,But, summon'd for my peace, ye soon depart:Ye too, mine anguish'd sighs, so prompt to pain,Then breathe before her brokenly and slow,And my face only speaks my suffering heart.
Macgregor.
Inthat still season, when the rapid sunDrives down the west, and daylight flies to greetNations that haply wait his kindling flame;In some strange land, alone, her weary feetThe time-worn pilgrim finds, with toil fordone,Yet but the more speeds on her languid frame;Her solitude the same,When night has closed around;Yet has the wanderer foundA deep though short forgetfulness at lastOf every woe, and every labour past.But ah! my grief, that with each moment grows,As fast, and yet more fast,Day urges on, is heaviest at its close.When Phœbus rolls his everlasting wheelsTo give night room; and from encircling wood,Broader and broader yet descends the shade;The labourer arms him for his evening trade,And all the weight his burthen'd heart concealsLightens with glad discourse or descant rude;Then spreads his board with food,Such as the forest hoarTo our first fathers bore,By us disdain'd, yet praised in hall and bower,But, let who will the cup of joyance pour,I never knew, I will not say of mirth,But of repose, an hour,When Phœbus leaves, and stars salute the earth.Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of dayHe sees descending to its western bed,And the wide Orient all with shade embrown'd,Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head,Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way,Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around;Then far from human sound,Some desert cave he strowsWith leaves and verdant boughs,And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep.Ah, cruel Love!—then dost thou bid me keepMy idle chase, the airy steps pursuingOf her I ever weep,Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.E'en the rude seaman, in some cave confined,Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene,On the hard deck, with vilest mat o'erspread;And when the Sun in orient wave sereneBathes his resplendent front, and leaves behindThose antique pillars of his boundless bed;Forgetfulness has shedO'er man, and beast, and flower,Her mild restoring power:But my determined grief finds no repose;And every day but aggravates the woesOf that remorseless flood, that, ten long years,Flowing, yet ever flows,Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.Merivale.
Inthat still season, when the rapid sunDrives down the west, and daylight flies to greetNations that haply wait his kindling flame;In some strange land, alone, her weary feetThe time-worn pilgrim finds, with toil fordone,Yet but the more speeds on her languid frame;Her solitude the same,When night has closed around;Yet has the wanderer foundA deep though short forgetfulness at lastOf every woe, and every labour past.But ah! my grief, that with each moment grows,As fast, and yet more fast,Day urges on, is heaviest at its close.
When Phœbus rolls his everlasting wheelsTo give night room; and from encircling wood,Broader and broader yet descends the shade;The labourer arms him for his evening trade,And all the weight his burthen'd heart concealsLightens with glad discourse or descant rude;Then spreads his board with food,Such as the forest hoarTo our first fathers bore,By us disdain'd, yet praised in hall and bower,But, let who will the cup of joyance pour,I never knew, I will not say of mirth,But of repose, an hour,When Phœbus leaves, and stars salute the earth.
Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of dayHe sees descending to its western bed,And the wide Orient all with shade embrown'd,Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head,Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way,Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around;Then far from human sound,Some desert cave he strowsWith leaves and verdant boughs,And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep.Ah, cruel Love!—then dost thou bid me keepMy idle chase, the airy steps pursuingOf her I ever weep,Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.
E'en the rude seaman, in some cave confined,Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene,On the hard deck, with vilest mat o'erspread;And when the Sun in orient wave sereneBathes his resplendent front, and leaves behindThose antique pillars of his boundless bed;Forgetfulness has shedO'er man, and beast, and flower,Her mild restoring power:But my determined grief finds no repose;And every day but aggravates the woesOf that remorseless flood, that, ten long years,Flowing, yet ever flows,Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.
Merivale.
Whattime towards the western skiesThe sun with parting radiance flies,And other climes gilds with expected light,Some aged pilgrim dame who straysAlone, fatigued, through pathless ways,Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of nightThen, the day's journey o'er, she'll steepHer sense awhile in grateful sleep;Forgetting all the pain, and peril past;But I, alas! find no repose,Each sun to me brings added woes,While light's eternal orb rolls from us fast.When the sun's wheels no longer glow,And hills their lengthen'd shadows throw,The hind collects his tools, and carols gay;Then spreads his board with frugal fare,Such as those homely acorns were,Which all revere, yet casting them away,Let those, who pleasure can enjoy,In cheerfulness their hours employ;While I, of all earth's wretches most unblest,Whether the sun fierce darts his beams,Whether the moon more mildly gleams,Taste no delight, no momentary rest!When the swain views the star of dayQuench in the pillowing waves its ray,And scatter darkness o'er the eastern skiesRising, his custom'd crook he takes,The beech-wood, fountain, plain forsakes,As calmly homeward with his flock he hiesRemote from man, then on his bedIn cot, or cave, with fresh leaves spread,He courts soft slumber, and suspense from care,While thou, fell Love, bidst me pursueThat voice, those footsteps which subdueMy soul; yet movest not th' obdurate fair!Lock'd in some bay, to taste reposeOn the hard deck, the sailor throwsHis coarse garb o'er him, when the car of lightGranada, with Marocco leaves,The Pillars famed, Iberia's waves,And the world's hush'd, and all its race, in night.But never will my sorrows cease,Successive days their sum increase,Though just ten annual suns have mark'd my pain;Say, to this bosom's poignant griefWho shall administer relief?Say, who at length shall free me from my chain?And, since there's comfort in the strain,I see at eve along each plain.And furrow'd hill, the unyoked team return:Why at that hour will no one stayMy sighs, or bear my yoke away?Why bathed in tears must I unceasing mourn?Wretch that I was, to fix my sightFirst on that face with such delight,Till on my thought its charms were strong imprest,Which force shall not efface, nor art,Ere from this frame my soul dispart!Nor know I then if passion's votaries rest.O hasty strain, devoid of worth,Sad as the bard who brought thee forth,Show not thyself, be with the world at strife,From nook to nook indulge thy grief;While thy lorn parent seeks relief,Nursing that amorous flame which feeds his life!Nott.
Whattime towards the western skiesThe sun with parting radiance flies,And other climes gilds with expected light,Some aged pilgrim dame who straysAlone, fatigued, through pathless ways,Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of nightThen, the day's journey o'er, she'll steepHer sense awhile in grateful sleep;Forgetting all the pain, and peril past;But I, alas! find no repose,Each sun to me brings added woes,While light's eternal orb rolls from us fast.
When the sun's wheels no longer glow,And hills their lengthen'd shadows throw,The hind collects his tools, and carols gay;Then spreads his board with frugal fare,Such as those homely acorns were,Which all revere, yet casting them away,Let those, who pleasure can enjoy,In cheerfulness their hours employ;While I, of all earth's wretches most unblest,Whether the sun fierce darts his beams,Whether the moon more mildly gleams,Taste no delight, no momentary rest!
When the swain views the star of dayQuench in the pillowing waves its ray,And scatter darkness o'er the eastern skiesRising, his custom'd crook he takes,The beech-wood, fountain, plain forsakes,As calmly homeward with his flock he hiesRemote from man, then on his bedIn cot, or cave, with fresh leaves spread,He courts soft slumber, and suspense from care,While thou, fell Love, bidst me pursueThat voice, those footsteps which subdueMy soul; yet movest not th' obdurate fair!
Lock'd in some bay, to taste reposeOn the hard deck, the sailor throwsHis coarse garb o'er him, when the car of lightGranada, with Marocco leaves,The Pillars famed, Iberia's waves,And the world's hush'd, and all its race, in night.But never will my sorrows cease,Successive days their sum increase,Though just ten annual suns have mark'd my pain;Say, to this bosom's poignant griefWho shall administer relief?Say, who at length shall free me from my chain?
And, since there's comfort in the strain,I see at eve along each plain.And furrow'd hill, the unyoked team return:Why at that hour will no one stayMy sighs, or bear my yoke away?Why bathed in tears must I unceasing mourn?Wretch that I was, to fix my sightFirst on that face with such delight,Till on my thought its charms were strong imprest,Which force shall not efface, nor art,Ere from this frame my soul dispart!Nor know I then if passion's votaries rest.
O hasty strain, devoid of worth,Sad as the bard who brought thee forth,Show not thyself, be with the world at strife,From nook to nook indulge thy grief;While thy lorn parent seeks relief,Nursing that amorous flame which feeds his life!
Nott.
Hadbut the light which dazzled them afarDrawn but a little nearer to mine eyes,Methinks I would have wholly changed my form,Even as in Thessaly her form she changed:But if I cannot lose myself in herMore than I have—small mercy though it won—I would to-day in aspect thoughtful be,Of harder stone than chisel ever wrought,Of adamant, or marble cold and white,Perchance through terror, or of jasper rareAnd therefore prized by the blind greedy crowd.Then were I free from this hard heavy yokeWhich makes me envy Atlas, old and worn,Who with his shoulders brings Morocco night.Anon.
Hadbut the light which dazzled them afarDrawn but a little nearer to mine eyes,Methinks I would have wholly changed my form,Even as in Thessaly her form she changed:But if I cannot lose myself in herMore than I have—small mercy though it won—I would to-day in aspect thoughtful be,Of harder stone than chisel ever wrought,Of adamant, or marble cold and white,Perchance through terror, or of jasper rareAnd therefore prized by the blind greedy crowd.Then were I free from this hard heavy yokeWhich makes me envy Atlas, old and worn,Who with his shoulders brings Morocco night.
Anon.
NotDian to her lover was more dear,When fortune 'mid the waters cold and clear,Gave him her naked beauties all to see,Than seem'd the rustic ruddy nymph to me,Who, in yon flashing stream, the light veil laved,Whence Laura's lovely tresses lately waved;I saw, and through me felt an amorous chill,Though summer burn, to tremble and to thrill.Macgregor.
NotDian to her lover was more dear,When fortune 'mid the waters cold and clear,Gave him her naked beauties all to see,Than seem'd the rustic ruddy nymph to me,Who, in yon flashing stream, the light veil laved,Whence Laura's lovely tresses lately waved;I saw, and through me felt an amorous chill,Though summer burn, to tremble and to thrill.
Macgregor.
Spiritheroic! who with fire divineKindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim holdOn earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold;Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thineRome and her wandering children to confine,And yet reclaim her to the old good way:To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a rayOf virtue can I find, extinct below,Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame.Why Italy still waits, and what her aimI know not, callous to her proper woe,Indolent, aged, slow,Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found?Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound.So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e'erShe yet will waken from her heavy sleep:But not, methinks, without some better endWas this our Rome entrusted to thy care,Who surest may revive and best defend.Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,'Mid her dishevell'd locks, thy fingers spread,And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,For this, in thee, have fix'd my certain trust,That, if her sons yet turn.And their eyes ever to true honour raise.The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!Her ancient walls, which still with fear and loveThe world admires, whene'er it calls to mindThe days of Eld, and turns to look behind;Her hoar and cavern'd monuments aboveThe dust of men, whose fame, until the worldIn dissolution sink, can never fail;Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl'd,Hopes to have heal'd by thee its every ail.O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead!To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,If of our worthy choice the fame have spread:And how his laurell'd crest,Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show,The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,And their mere mortal frames have left below,Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,Which kills all confidence, nips every good,Which bars the way to many a roof, where menOnce holy, hospitable lived, the denOf fearless rapine now and frequent blood,Whose doors to virtue only are denied.While beneath plunder'd Saints, in outraged fanesPlots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains;And, contrast sad and wide,The very bells which sweetly wont to flingSummons to prayer and praise now Battle's tocsin ring!Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowdOf tender years, infirm and desolate Age,Which hates itself and its superfluous days,With each blest order to religion vow'd,Whom works of love through lives of want engage,To thee for help their hands and voices raise;While our poor panic-stricken land displaysThe thousand wounds which now so mar her frame,That e'en from foes compassion they command;Or more if Christendom thy care may claim.Lo! God's own house on fire, while not a handMoves to subdue the flame:—Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,And on the holy work Heaven's blessing shall descend!Often against our marble Column highWolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base SnakeEven to their own injury insult shower;Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry,The noble Dame who calls thee here to breakAway the evil weeds which will not flower.A thousand years and more! and gallant menThere fix'd her seat in beauty and in power;The breed of patriot hearts has fail'd since then!And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now,A race, which ne'er to her in reverence bends,Her husband, father thou!Like care from thee and counsel she attends,As o'er his other works the Sire of all extends.'Tis seldom e'en that with our fairest schemeSome adverse fortune will not mix, and marWith instant ill ambition's noblest dreams;But thou, once ta'en thy path, so walk that IMay pardon her past faults, great as they are,If now at least she give herself the lie.For never, in all memory, as to thee,To mortal man so sure and straight the wayOf everlasting honour open lay,For thine the power and will, if right I see,To lift our empire to its old proud state.Let this thy glory be!They succour'd her when young, and strong, and great,He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate.Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the boldTarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold,Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own,The chief, by general Italy revered,Tell him from me, to whom he is but knownAs one to Virtue and by Fame endear'd,Till stamp'd upon his heart the sad truth be,That, day by day to thee,With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,For justice and relief our seven-hill'd city cries.Macgregor.
Spiritheroic! who with fire divineKindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim holdOn earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold;Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thineRome and her wandering children to confine,And yet reclaim her to the old good way:To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a rayOf virtue can I find, extinct below,Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame.Why Italy still waits, and what her aimI know not, callous to her proper woe,Indolent, aged, slow,Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found?Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound.
So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e'erShe yet will waken from her heavy sleep:But not, methinks, without some better endWas this our Rome entrusted to thy care,Who surest may revive and best defend.Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,'Mid her dishevell'd locks, thy fingers spread,And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,For this, in thee, have fix'd my certain trust,That, if her sons yet turn.And their eyes ever to true honour raise.The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!
Her ancient walls, which still with fear and loveThe world admires, whene'er it calls to mindThe days of Eld, and turns to look behind;Her hoar and cavern'd monuments aboveThe dust of men, whose fame, until the worldIn dissolution sink, can never fail;Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl'd,Hopes to have heal'd by thee its every ail.O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead!To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,If of our worthy choice the fame have spread:And how his laurell'd crest,Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!
And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show,The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,And their mere mortal frames have left below,Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,Which kills all confidence, nips every good,Which bars the way to many a roof, where menOnce holy, hospitable lived, the denOf fearless rapine now and frequent blood,Whose doors to virtue only are denied.While beneath plunder'd Saints, in outraged fanesPlots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains;And, contrast sad and wide,The very bells which sweetly wont to flingSummons to prayer and praise now Battle's tocsin ring!
Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowdOf tender years, infirm and desolate Age,Which hates itself and its superfluous days,With each blest order to religion vow'd,Whom works of love through lives of want engage,To thee for help their hands and voices raise;While our poor panic-stricken land displaysThe thousand wounds which now so mar her frame,That e'en from foes compassion they command;Or more if Christendom thy care may claim.Lo! God's own house on fire, while not a handMoves to subdue the flame:—Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,And on the holy work Heaven's blessing shall descend!
Often against our marble Column highWolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base SnakeEven to their own injury insult shower;Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry,The noble Dame who calls thee here to breakAway the evil weeds which will not flower.A thousand years and more! and gallant menThere fix'd her seat in beauty and in power;The breed of patriot hearts has fail'd since then!And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now,A race, which ne'er to her in reverence bends,Her husband, father thou!Like care from thee and counsel she attends,As o'er his other works the Sire of all extends.
'Tis seldom e'en that with our fairest schemeSome adverse fortune will not mix, and marWith instant ill ambition's noblest dreams;But thou, once ta'en thy path, so walk that IMay pardon her past faults, great as they are,If now at least she give herself the lie.For never, in all memory, as to thee,To mortal man so sure and straight the wayOf everlasting honour open lay,For thine the power and will, if right I see,To lift our empire to its old proud state.Let this thy glory be!They succour'd her when young, and strong, and great,He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate.Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the boldTarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold,Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own,The chief, by general Italy revered,Tell him from me, to whom he is but knownAs one to Virtue and by Fame endear'd,Till stamp'd upon his heart the sad truth be,That, day by day to thee,With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,For justice and relief our seven-hill'd city cries.
Macgregor.
Brightin whose face Love's conquering ensign stream'd,A foreign fair so won me, young and vain,That of her sex all others worthless seem'd:Her as I follow'd o'er the verdant plain,I heard a loud voice speaking from afar,"How lost in these lone woods his footsteps are!"Then paused I, and, beneath the tall beech shade,All wrapt in thought, around me well survey'd,Till, seeing how much danger block'd my way,Homeward I turn'd me though at noon of day.Macgregor.
Brightin whose face Love's conquering ensign stream'd,A foreign fair so won me, young and vain,That of her sex all others worthless seem'd:Her as I follow'd o'er the verdant plain,I heard a loud voice speaking from afar,"How lost in these lone woods his footsteps are!"Then paused I, and, beneath the tall beech shade,All wrapt in thought, around me well survey'd,Till, seeing how much danger block'd my way,Homeward I turn'd me though at noon of day.
Macgregor.
Thatfire for ever which I thought at rest,Quench'd in the chill blood of my ripen'd years,Awakes new flames and torment in my breast.Its sparks were never all, from what I see,Extinct, but merely slumbering, smoulder'd o'er;Haply this second error worse may be,For, by the tears, which I, in torrents, pour,Grief, through these eyes, distill'd from my heart's core,Which holds within itself the spark and bait,Remains not as it was, but grows more great.What fire, save mine, had not been quench'd and kill'dBeneath the flood these sad eyes ceaseless shed?Struggling 'mid opposites—so Love has will'd—Now here, now there, my vain life must be led,For in so many ways his snares are spread,When most I hope him from my heart expell'dThen most of her fair face its slave I'm held.Macgregor.
Thatfire for ever which I thought at rest,Quench'd in the chill blood of my ripen'd years,Awakes new flames and torment in my breast.Its sparks were never all, from what I see,Extinct, but merely slumbering, smoulder'd o'er;Haply this second error worse may be,For, by the tears, which I, in torrents, pour,Grief, through these eyes, distill'd from my heart's core,Which holds within itself the spark and bait,Remains not as it was, but grows more great.What fire, save mine, had not been quench'd and kill'dBeneath the flood these sad eyes ceaseless shed?Struggling 'mid opposites—so Love has will'd—Now here, now there, my vain life must be led,For in so many ways his snares are spread,When most I hope him from my heart expell'dThen most of her fair face its slave I'm held.
Macgregor.
Eitherthat blind desire, which life destroysCounting the hours, deceives my misery,Or, even while yet I speak, the moment flies,Promised at once to pity and to me.Alas! what baneful shade o'erhangs and driesThe seed so near its full maturity?'Twixt me and hope what brazen walls arise?From murderous wolves not even my fold is free.Ah, woe is me! Too clearly now I findThat felon Love, to aggravate my pain,Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined;And now the maxim sage I call to mind,That mortal bliss must doubtful still remainTill death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.Charlemont.
Eitherthat blind desire, which life destroysCounting the hours, deceives my misery,Or, even while yet I speak, the moment flies,Promised at once to pity and to me.Alas! what baneful shade o'erhangs and driesThe seed so near its full maturity?'Twixt me and hope what brazen walls arise?From murderous wolves not even my fold is free.Ah, woe is me! Too clearly now I findThat felon Love, to aggravate my pain,Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined;And now the maxim sage I call to mind,That mortal bliss must doubtful still remainTill death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.
Charlemont.
Countingthe hours, lest I myself misleadBy blind desire wherewith my heart is torn,E'en while I speak away the moments speed,To me and pity which alike were sworn.What shade so cruel as to blight the seedWhence the wish'd fruitage should so soon be born?What beast within my fold has leap'd to feed?What wall is built between the hand and corn?Alas! I know not, but, if right I guess,Love to such joyful hope has only ledTo plunge my weary life in worse distress;And I remember now what once I read,Until the moment of his full releaseMan's bliss begins not, nor his troubles cease.Macgregor.
Countingthe hours, lest I myself misleadBy blind desire wherewith my heart is torn,E'en while I speak away the moments speed,To me and pity which alike were sworn.What shade so cruel as to blight the seedWhence the wish'd fruitage should so soon be born?What beast within my fold has leap'd to feed?What wall is built between the hand and corn?Alas! I know not, but, if right I guess,Love to such joyful hope has only ledTo plunge my weary life in worse distress;And I remember now what once I read,Until the moment of his full releaseMan's bliss begins not, nor his troubles cease.
Macgregor.
Evermy hap is slack and slow in coming,Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertainWith doubtful love, that but increaseth pain;For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting.Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding,The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,The Thames shall back return into his fountain,And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging,Ere I in this find peace or quietness;Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely,Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.And if I have, after such bitterness,One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,That all my trust and travail is but waste.Wyatt.
Evermy hap is slack and slow in coming,Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertainWith doubtful love, that but increaseth pain;For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting.Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding,The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,The Thames shall back return into his fountain,And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging,Ere I in this find peace or quietness;Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely,Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.And if I have, after such bitterness,One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,That all my trust and travail is but waste.
Wyatt.
Lateto arrive my fortunes are and slow—Hopes are unsure, desires ascend and swell,Suspense, expectancy in me rebel—But swifter to depart than tigers go.Tepid and dark shall be the cold pure snow,The ocean dry, its fish on mountains dwell,The sun set in the East, by that old wellAlike whence Tigris and Euphrates flow,Ere in this strife I peace or truce shall find,Ere Love or Laura practise kinder ways,Sworn friends, against me wrongfully combined.After such bitters, if some sweet allays,Balk'd by long fasts my palate spurns the fare,Sole grace from them that falleth to my share.Macgregor.
Lateto arrive my fortunes are and slow—Hopes are unsure, desires ascend and swell,Suspense, expectancy in me rebel—But swifter to depart than tigers go.Tepid and dark shall be the cold pure snow,The ocean dry, its fish on mountains dwell,The sun set in the East, by that old wellAlike whence Tigris and Euphrates flow,Ere in this strife I peace or truce shall find,Ere Love or Laura practise kinder ways,Sworn friends, against me wrongfully combined.After such bitters, if some sweet allays,Balk'd by long fasts my palate spurns the fare,Sole grace from them that falleth to my share.
Macgregor.
Thyweary cheek that channell'd sorrow shows,My much loved lord, upon the one repose;More careful of thyself against Love be,Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see;And with the other close the left-hand pathToo easy entrance where his message hath;In sun and storm thyself the same display,Because time faileth for the lengthen'd way.And, with the third, drink of the precious herbWhich purges every thought that would disturb,Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste:But me enshrine where your best joys are placed,So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx,If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.Macgregor.
Thyweary cheek that channell'd sorrow shows,My much loved lord, upon the one repose;More careful of thyself against Love be,Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see;And with the other close the left-hand pathToo easy entrance where his message hath;In sun and storm thyself the same display,Because time faileth for the lengthen'd way.And, with the third, drink of the precious herbWhich purges every thought that would disturb,Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste:But me enshrine where your best joys are placed,So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx,If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.
Macgregor.
Thoughcruelty denies my viewThose charms which led me first to love;To passion yet will I be true,Nor shall my will rebellious prove.Amid the curls of golden hairThat wave those beauteous temples round,Cupid spread craftily the snareWith which my captive heart he bound:And from those eyes he caught the rayWhich thaw'd the ice that fenced my breast,Chasing all other thoughts away,With brightness suddenly imprest.But now that hair of sunny gleam,Ah me! is ravish'd from my sight;Those beauteous eyes withdraw their beam,And change to sadness past delight.A glorious death by all is prized;Tis death alone shall break my chain:Oh! be Love's timid wail despised.Lovers should nobly suffer pain.Nott.
Thoughcruelty denies my viewThose charms which led me first to love;To passion yet will I be true,Nor shall my will rebellious prove.Amid the curls of golden hairThat wave those beauteous temples round,Cupid spread craftily the snareWith which my captive heart he bound:And from those eyes he caught the rayWhich thaw'd the ice that fenced my breast,Chasing all other thoughts away,With brightness suddenly imprest.But now that hair of sunny gleam,Ah me! is ravish'd from my sight;Those beauteous eyes withdraw their beam,And change to sadness past delight.A glorious death by all is prized;Tis death alone shall break my chain:Oh! be Love's timid wail despised.Lovers should nobly suffer pain.
Nott.