[41] These lines were written before the murder of the late King of France, and many of the events of horror which have since taken place in that miserable country.

[42] Milton.

ON LEAVING A PLACE OF RESIDENCE.

If I could bid thee, pleasant shade, farewell Without a sigh, amidst whose circling bowers My stripling prime was passed, and happiest hours, Dead were I to the sympathies that swell The human breast! These woods, that whispering wave, My father reared and nursed, now to the grave Gone down; he loved their peaceful shades, and said, Perhaps, as here he mused: Live, laurels green; Ye pines that shade the solitary scene, Live blooming and rejoice! When I am dead 10 My son shall guard you, and amid your bowers, Like me, find shelter from life's beating showers. These thoughts, my father, every spot endear; And whilst I think, with self-accusing pain, A stranger shall possess the loved domain, In each low wind I seem thy voice to hear. But these are shadows of the shaping brain That now my heart, alas! can ill sustain: We must forget—the world is wide—the abode Of peace may still be found, nor hard the road. 20 It boots not, so, to every chance resigned, Where'er the spot, we bear the unaltered mind. Yet, oh! poor cottage, and thou sylvan shade, Remember, ere I left your coverts green, Where in my youth I mused, in childhood played, I gazed, I paused, I dropped a tear unseen, That bitter from the font of memory fell, Thinking on him who reared you; now, farewell!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS AT BATH.

When I lie musing on my bed alone, 1 And listen to the wintry waterfall;[43] And many moments that are past and gone, Moments of sunshine and of joy, recall;

Though the long night is dark and damp around, 2 And no still star hangs out its friendly flame; And the winds sweep the sash with sullen sound, And freezing palsy creeps o'er all my frame;

I catch consoling phantasies that spring 3 From the thick gloom, and as the night airs beat, They touch my heart, like wind-swift wires[44] that ring In mournful modulations, strange and sweet.

Was it the voice of thee, my buried friend? 4 Was it the whispered vow of faithful love? Do I in Knoyle's green shades thy steps attend, And hear the high pines murmur thus above?

'Twas not thy voice, my buried friend!—Oh, no: 5 'Twas not, O Knoyle! the murmur of thy trees; But at the thought I feel my bosom glow, And woo the dream whose air-drawn shadows please.

And I can think I see the groves again, 6 The larches that yon peaceful roof embower; The airy down, the cattle-speckled plain, And the slant sunshine on the village tower.

And I can think I hear its Sabbath chime 7 Come smoothly softened down the woody vale; Or mark on yon lone eminence sublime, Fast whirling in the wind, the white mill's sail.

Phantom, that by my bed dost beckoning glide, 8 Spectre of Death, to the damp charnel hie! Thy dim pale hand, thy festering visage hide; Thou com'st to say, I with thy worms shall lie!

Thou com'st to say that my once vacant mind 9 Amid those scenes shall never more rejoice; Nor on the day of rest the hoary hind Bend o'er his staff, attentive to my voice.

Hast thou not visited that pleasant place 10 Where in this hard world I have happiest been? And shall I tremble at thy lifted mace That hath pierced all on which life seemed to lean?

But Hope might whisper: Many a smiling day 11 And many a cheerful eve may yet be mine, Ere age's autumn strew my locks with gray, And weary to the dust my steps decline.

I argue not, but uncomplaining bow 12 To Heaven's high 'hest; secure, whate'er my lot, Meek spirit of resigned Content, that thou Wilt smooth my pillow, and forsake me not!

Thou to the turfy hut with pilgrim feet 13 Wanderest, from halls of loud tumultuous joy; Or on the naked down, when the winds beat, Dost sing to the forsaken shepherd boy.

Thou art the sick man's nurse, the poor man's friend, 14 And through each change of life thou hast been mine; In every ill thou canst a comfort blend, And bid the eye, though sad, in sadness shine.

Thee I have met on Cherwell's willowed side, 15 And when our destined road far onward lay, Thee I have found, whatever chance betide, The kind companion of my devious way.

With thee unwearied have I loved to roam, 16 By the smooth-flowing Scheldt, or rushing Rhine; And thou hast gladdened my sequestered home, And hung my peaceful porch with eglantine.

When cares and crosses my tired spirits tried, 17 When to the dust my father I resigned; Amidst the quiet shade unseen I sighed, And, blest with thee, forgot a world unkind.

Ev'n now, while toiling through the sleepless night, 18 A tearful look to distant scenes I cast, And the glad objects that once charmed my sight Remember, like soft views of "faerie" past;

I see thee come half-smiling to my bed, 19 With Fortitude more awfully severe, Whose arm sustaining holds my drooping head, Who dries with her dark locks the tender tear.

O firmer Spirit! on some craggy height 20 Who, when the tempest sails aloft, dost stand, And hear'st the ceaseless billows of the night Rolling upon the solitary strand;

At this sad hour, when no harsh thoughts intrude 21 To mar the melancholy mind's repose, When I am left to night and solitude, And languid life seems verging to its close;

Oh, let me thy pervading influence feel; 22 Be every weak and wayward thought repressed; And hide thou, as with plates of coldest steel, The faded aspect and the throbbing breast!

Silent the motley pageant may retreat, 23 And vain mortality's brief scenes remove; Yet let my bosom, whilst with life it beat, Breathe a last prayer for all on earth I love.

Slow-creeping pain weighs down my heavy eye, 24 A chiller faintness steals upon my breast; "O gentle Muse, with some sweet lullaby" Rock me in long forgetfulness to rest!

[43] The fall of the river, heard from the Parade.

[44] The AEolian harp.

ON LEAVING WINCHESTER SCHOOL.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1782.

The spring shall visit thee again, Itchin! and yonder ancient fane,[45] That casts its shadow on thy breast, As if, by many winters beat, The blooming season it would greet, With many a straggling wild-flower shall be dressed.

But I, amid the youthful train That stray at evening by thy side, No longer shall a guest remain, To mark the spring's reviving pride. I go not unrejoicing; but who knows, When I have shared, O world! thy common woes, Returning I may drop some natural tears; As these same fields I look around, And hear from yonder dome[46] the slow bell sound, And think upon the joys that crowned my stripling years!

[45] St Croix.

[46] The Cathedral.

HOPE, AN ALLEGORICAL SKETCH.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? COLLINS.

I am the comforter of them that mourn; My scenes well shadowed, and my carol sweet, Cheer the poor passengers of life's rude bourne, Till they are sheltered in that last retreat, Where human toils and troubles are forgot. These sounds I heard amid this mortal road, When I had reached with pain one pleasant spot, So that for joy some tears in silence flowed; I raised mine eyes, sickness had long depressed, And felt thy warmth, O sun! come cheering to my breast.

The storm of night had ceased upon the plain, When thoughtful in the forest-walk I strayed, To the long hollow murmur of the main Listening, and to the many leaves that made A drowsy cadence, as the high trees waved; When straight a beauteous scene burst on my sight; Smooth were the waters that the lowland laved: And lo! a form, as of some fairy sprite, Who held in her right hand a budding spray, And like a sea-maid sung her sweetly warbled lay.

Soothing as steals the summer-wave she sung: The grisly phantoms of the night are gone To hear in shades forlorn the death-bell rung; But thou whom sickness hast left weak and wan, Turn from their spectre-terrors the green sea That whispers at my feet, the matin gale That crisps its shining marge shall solace thee, And thou my long-forgotten voice shalt hail, For I am Hope, whom weary hearts confess The soothest sprite that sings on life's long wilderness.

As slowly ceased her tender voice, I stood Delighted: the hard way, so lately passed, Seemed smooth; the ocean's bright extended flood Before me stretched; the clouds that overcast Heaven's melancholy vault hurried away, Driven seaward, and the azure hills appeared; The sunbeams shone upon their summits gray, Strange saddening sounds no more by fits were heard, But birds, in new leaves shrouded, sung aloft, And o'er the level seas Spring's healing airs blew soft.

As when a traveller, who many days Hath journeyed 'mid Arabian deserts still, A dreary solitude far on surveys, And met, nor flitting bird, nor gushing rill, But near some marble ruin, gleaming pale, Sighs mindful of the haunts of cheerful man, And thinks he hears in every sickly gale The bells of some approaching caravan; At length, emerging o'er the dim tract, sees Damascus' golden fanes, and minarets, and trees:

So beat my bosom when my winding way Led through the thickets to a sheltered vale, Where the fair syren sat; a smooth clear bay Skirted with woods appeared, where many a sail Went shining o'er the watery surface still, Lessening at last in the gray ocean flood; And yonder, half-way up the fronting hill, Peeping from forth the trees, a cottage stood, Above whose peaceful umbrage, trailing high, A little smoke went up, and stained the cloudless sky.

I turned, and lo! a mountain seemed to rise, Upon whose top a spiry citadel Lifted its dim-seen turrets to the skies, Where some high lord of the domain might dwell; And onward, where the eye scarce stretched its sight, Hills over hills in long succession rose, Touched with a softer and yet softer light, And all was blended as in deep repose; The woods, the sea, the hills that shone so fair, Till woods, and sea, and hills seemed fading into air.

At once, methought, I saw a various throng To this enchanting spot their footsteps bend; All drawn, sweet Hope! by thy inspiring song, Which melodies scarce mortal seem to blend. First buxom Youth, with cheeks of glowing red, Came lightly tripping o'er the morning dew, He wore a harebell garland on his head, And stretched his hands at the bright-bursting view: A mountain fawn went bounding by his side, Around whose slender neck a silver bell was tied.

Then said I: Mistress of the magic song, Oh, pity 'twere that hearts that know no guile Should ever feel the pangs of truth or wrong! She heeded not, but sang with lovelier smile: Enjoy, O youth, the season of thy May; Hark, how the throstles in the hawthorn sing! The hoary Time, that resteth night nor day, O'er the earth's shade may speed with noiseless wing; But heed not thou; snatch the brief joys that rise, And sport beneath the light of these unclouded skies.

His fine eye flashing an unwonted fire, Then Fancy o'er the glade delighted went; He struck at times a small and silver lyre, Or gazed upon the rolling element; Sometimes he took his mirror, which did show The various landscape lovelier than the life; Beaming more bright the vivid tints did glow, And so well mingled was the colours' strife, That the fond heart, the beauteous shades once seen, Would sigh for such retreats, for vales and woods so green!

Gay was his aspect, and his airy vest, As loose it flowed, such colours did display, As paint the clouds reposing in the west, Or the moist rainbow's radiant arch inlay; And now he tripped, like fairy of the wood, And seemed with dancing spirits to rejoice, And now he hung his head in pensive mood: Meantime, O Hope! he listened to thy voice, And whilst of joy and youth it cheerly sung, He touched his answering harp, and o'er the valley sprung.

Pleasure, a frolic nymph, to the glad sound Came dancing, as all tears she might forget; And now she gazed with a sweet archness round, And wantonly displayed a silken net: She won her way with fascinating air— Her eyes illumined with a tender light, Her smile's strange blandishment, her shaded hair That lengthening hung, her teeth as ivory white, That peeped from her moist lip, seemed to inspire Tumultuous wishes warm, and dreams of fond desire.

What softer passions did thy bosom move, When those melodious measures met thine ear, Child of Sincerity, and virtuous Love! Thine eyes did shine beneath a blissful tear That still were turned towards the tranquil scene, Where the thin smoke rose from the embowered cot; And thou didst think, that there, with smile serene, In quiet shades, and every pang forgot, Thou mightest sink on pure Affection's breast, And listen to the winds that whispered thee to rest.

I thought, O Love, how seldom art thou found Without annoyance in this earthly state! For, haply, thou dost feed some rankling wound, Or on thy youth pale poverty doth wait, Till years, on heavy wing, have rolled away; Or where thou most didst hope firm faith to see, Thou meetest fickleness estranged and cold; Or if some true and tender heart there be, On which, through every change, thy soul might trust, Death comes with his fell dart, and smites it to the dust!

But lusty Enterprise, with looks of glee, Approached the drooping youth, as he would say, Come to the high woods and the hills with me, And cast thy sullen myrtle-wreath away. Upon a neighing courser he did sit, That stretched its arched neck, in conscious pride, And champed as with disdain a golden bit, But Hope her animating voice applied, And Enterprise with speed impetuous passed, Whilst the long vale returned his wreathed bugle's blast.

Suddenly, lifting high his ponderous spear, A mailed man came forth with scornful pride, I saw him, towering in his proud career, Along the valley with a giant stride: Upon his helm, in letters of bright gold, That to the sun's meridian splendour shone, Ambition's name far off I might behold. Meantime from earth there came a hollow moan; But Fame, who followed, her loud trumpet blew, And to the murmuring beach with eyes a-flame he flew.

And now already had he gained the strand, Where a tall vessel rode with sail unfurled, And soon he thought to reach the farther land, Which to his eager eye seemed like a world That he by strength might win and make his own; And in that citadel, which shone so bright, Seat him, a purple sovereign, on his throne. So he went tilting o'er the waters white, And whilst he oft looked back with stern disdain, In louder tone, methought, was heard the inspiring strain:

By the shade of cities old,[47] By many a river stained with gore, By the sword of Sesac bold, Who smote the nations from the shore Of ancient Nile to India's farthest plain, By Fame's proud pillars, and by Valour's shield By mighty chiefs in glorious battle slain, Assert thy sway; amid the bloody field Pursue thy march, and to the heights sublime Of Honour's glittering cliffs, a mighty conqueror climb!

Then said I, in my heart: Man, thou dost rear Thine eye to heaven, and vaunt thy lofty worth; The ensign of dominion thou dost bear O'er nature's works; but thou dost oft go forth, Urged by proud hopes to ravage and destroy, Thou dost build up a name by cruel deeds; Whilst to the peaceful scenes of love and joy, Sorrow, and crime, and solitude, succeeds. Hence, when her war-song Victory doth sing, Destruction flaps aloft her iron-hurtling wing.

But see, as one awakened from a trance, With hollow and dim eyes and stony stare, Captivity with faltering step advance! Dripping and knotted was her coal-black hair; For she had long been hid, as in the grave; No sounds the silence of her prison broke, Nor one companion had she in her cave, Save Terror's dismal shape, that no word spoke; But to a stony coffin on the floor With lean and hideous finger pointed evermore.

The lark's shrill song, the early village chime, The upland echo of the winding horn, The far-heard clock that spoke the passing time, Had never pierced her solitude forlorn; At length, released from the deep dungeon's gloom, She feels the fragrance of the vernal gale; She sees more sweet the living landscape bloom, And while she listens to Hope's tender tale, She thinks her long-lost friends shall bless her sight, And almost faints with joy amid the broad daylight.

And near the spot, as with reluctant feet, Slowly desponding Melancholy drew, The wind and rain her naked breast had beat, Sunk was her eye, and sallow was her hue: In the huge forest's unrejoicing shade Bewildered had she wandered day by day, And many a grisly fiend her heart dismayed, And cold and wet upon the ground she lay; But now such sounds with mellow sweetness stole, As lapped in dreams of bliss her slow-consenting soul.

Next, to the woody glen poor Mania strayed, Most pale and wild, yet gentle was her look; A slender garland she of straw had made, Of flowers and rushes from the running brook; But as she sadly passed, the tender sound Of its sharp pang her wounded heart beguiled; She dropped her half-made garland on the ground, And then she sighed, and then in tears she smiled: But in such sort, that Pity would have said, O GOD, be merciful to that poor hapless maid!

Now ravingly she cried: The whelming main— The wintry wave rolls over his cold head; I never shall behold his form again; Hence flattering fancies—he is dead, is dead! Perhaps on some wild shore he may be cast, Where on their prey barbarians howling rush, Oh, fiercer they, than is the whelming blast! Hush, my poor heart! my wakeful sorrows, hush! He lives! I yet shall press him to my heart, And cry, Oh no, no, no,—we never more will part!

So sang she, when despairing, from his cell, Hid furthest in the lone umbrageous wood, Where many a winter he had loved to dwell, Came grim Remorse; fixed in deep thought he stood, His senses pierced by the unwonted tone; Some stagnant blood-drops from his locks he shook; He saw the trees that waved, the sun that shone, He cast around an agonised look; Then with a ghastly smile, that spoke his pain, He hied him to his cave in thickest shades again.

And now the sun sank westward, and the sky Was hung with thousand lucid pictures gay; When gazing on the scene{c} with placid eye, An ancient man appeared in amice gray; His sandal shoes were by long travel worn, O'er hill and valley, many a weary mile, Yet drooped he not, like one in years forlorn; His pale cheek wore a sad, but tender smile; 'Twas sage Experience, by his look confessed, And white as frost his beard descended to his breast.

Thus said I: Master, pleasant is this place, And sweet are those melodious notes I hear, And happy they among man's toiling race Who, of their cares forgetful, wander near; Me they delight, whom sickness and slow pain Have bowed almost to death with heavy hand; The fairy scenes refresh my heart again, And, pleased, I listen to that music bland, Which seems to promise hours of joy to come, And bids me tranquil seek my poor but peaceful home.[48]

He said: Alas! these shadows soon may fly, Like the gay creatures of the element; Yet do poor mortals still with raptured eye Behold like thee the pictures they present; And, charmed by Hope's sweet music, on they fare, And think they soon shall reach that blissful goal, Where never more the sullen knell of Care For buried friends and severed loves shall toll: So on they fare, till all their troubles cease, And on a lap of earth they lie them down in peace.

But not there ceases their immortal claim; From golden clouds I heard a small voice say: Wisdom rejoiceth in a higher aim, Nor heeds the transient shadows of a day; These earthly sounds may die away, and all These perishable pictures sink in night, But Virtue from the dust her sons shall call, And lead them forth to joy, and life, and light; Though from their languid grasp earth's comforts fly, And with the silent worm their buried bodies lie.

For other scenes there are; and in a clime Purer, and other strains to earth unknown, Where heaven's high host, with symphonies sublime, Sing unto Him that sitteth on the throne. Enough for man, if he the task fulfil Which GOD ordained, and to his journey's end Bear him right on, betide him good or ill; Then Hope to soothe his death-bed shall descend, Nor leave him, till in mansions of the blest He gains his destined home, his everlasting rest.

[47] Written at the time of Bonaparte's expedition to Egypt.

[48] That of a village curate.

THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.[49]

Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously! Upon the shores of that renowned land, Where erst His mighty arm and outstretched hand He lifted high, And dashed, in pieces dashed the enemy;— Upon that ancient coast, Where Pharaoh's chariot and his host He cast into the deep, Whilst o'er their silent pomp He bid the swoll'n sea sweep; Upon that eastern shore, 10 That saw His awful arm revealed of yore, Again hath He arisen, and opposed His foes' defying vaunt: o'er them the deep hath closed!

Shades of mighty chiefs of yore, Who triumphed on the self-same shore: Ammon, who first o'er ocean's empire wide Didst bid the bold bark stem the roaring tide; Sesac, who from the East to farthest West Didst rear thy pillars over realms subdued; And thou, whose bones do rest 20 In the huge pyramid's dim solitude, Beneath the uncouth stone, Thy name and deeds unknown; And Philip's glorious son, With conquest flushed, for fields and cities won; And thou, imperial Caesar, whose sole sway The long-disputed world at length confessed, When on these shores thy bleeding rival lay! Oh, could ye, starting from your long cold rest, Burst Death's oblivious trance, 30 And once again with plumed pride advance, How would ye own your fame surpassed, And on the sand your trophies cast, When, the storm of conflict o'er, And ceased the burning battle's roar, Beneath the morning's orient light, Ye saw, with sails all swelling white, Britain's proud fleet, to many a joyful cry, Ride o'er the rolling surge in awful sovereignty!

For fierce Ambition fired your mind— 40 Beside your glittering car, Amid the thickest war, Went Superstition, sorceress blind, In dimly-figured robe, with scowling mien, Half hid in jealous hood; And Tyranny, beneath whose helm was seen His eye suffused with blood; And giant Pride, That the great sun with haughty smile defied; And Avarice, that grasped his guilty gold; 50 These, as the sorceress her loud sistrum rung, Their dismal paean sung; And still, far off, pale Pity hung her head, Whilst o'er the dying and the dead The victor's brazen wheels with gory axle rolled. Now look on him, in holy courage bold; The asserter of his country's cause behold! He lifts his gaze to heaven, serenely brave, And whilst around war's fearful banners wave, He prays: Protect us, as our cause is just; 60 For in thy might alone, Judge of the world, we trust!

And they are scattered—the destroyers die! They that usurped the bloody victor's claim, That spoke of freedom; but, behold a cry! They, that like a wasteful flame, Or the huge sandy pillar, that amain Whirls 'mid the silence of the desert plain, Deathful in their career of terror came, And scattered ruin as they passed! So rush they, like the simoom's horrid blast; 70 They sweep, and all around is wilderness! But from thy throne on high, Thou, God, hast heard the cry Of nations in distress! Britain goes forth, beneath thy might, To quell the proud blasphemers in the fight; And Egypt, far along her winding main, Echoes the shout of joy, and genuine Freedom's strain!

Now let them, who thy name, O GOD! defy, Invoke the mighty Prophet of the East; 80 Or deck, as erst, the mystic feast To Ashtaroth, queen of the starry sky! Let them, in some cavern dark, Seek Osiris' buried ark; Or call on Typhon, of gigantic form, Lifting his hundred arms, and howling 'mid the storm! Or to that grisly king In vain their cymbals let them ring, To him in Tophet's vale revered (With smoke his brazen idol smeared), 90 Grim Moloch, in whose fuming furnace blue The unpitying priest the shrieking infant threw, Whilst to shrill cries, and drums' and timbrels' sound, The frantic and unhearing troop danced round; To him despairing let them go, And tell their fearful tale of hideous overthrow!

Calm breathed the airs along the evening bay, Where, all in warlike pride, The Gallic squadron stretched its long array; And o'er the tranquil tide 100 With beauteous bend the streamers waved on high But, ah! how changed the scene ere night descends! Hark to the shout that heaven's high concave rends! Hark to that dying cry! Whilst, louder yet, the cannon's roar Resounds along the Nile's affrighted shore, Where, from his oozy bed, The cowering crocodile hath raised his head! What bursting flame Lightens the long track of the gleamy brine! 110 From yon proud ship it came, That towered the leader of the hostile line! Now loud explosion rends the midnight air! Heard ye the last deep groaning of despair? Heaven's fiery cope unwonted thunders fill, Then, with one dreadful pause, earth, air, and seas are still!

But now the mingled fight Begins its awful strife again! Through the dun shades of night Along the darkly-heaving main 120 Is seen the frequent flash; And many a towering mast with dreadful crash Rings falling. Is the scene of slaughter o'er? Is the death-cry heard no more? Lo! where the East a glimmering freckle streaks, Slow o'er the shadowy wave the gray dawn breaks. Behold, O Sun, the flood Strewed with the dead, and dark with blood! Behold, all scattered on the rocking tide, The wrecks of haughty Gallia's pride! 130 But Britain's floating bulwarks, with serene And silent pomp, amid the deathful scene Move glorious, and more beautiful display Their ensigns streaming to thy orient ray.

Awful Genius of the land! Who (thy reign of glory closed) By marble wrecks, half-hid in sand, Hast mournfully reposed; Who long, amid the wasteful desert wide, Hast loved with death-like stillness to abide; 140 Or wrapped in tenfold gloom, From noise of human things for ages hid, Hast sat upon the shapeless tomb In the forlorn and dripping pyramid; Awake! Arise! Though thou behold the day no more That saw thy pride and pomp of yore; Though, like the sounds that in the morning ray Trembled and died away From Memnon's statue; though, like these, the voice 150 That bade thy vernal plains rejoice, The voice of Science, is no longer heard; And all thy gorgeous state hath disappeared: Yet hear, with triumph, and with hope again, The shouts of joy that swell from thy forsaken main!

And, oh! might He, at whose command Deep darkness shades a mourning land; At whose command, bursting from night, And flaming with redoubled light, The Sun of Science mounts again, 160 And re-illumes the wide-extended plain! Might He, from this eventful day, Illustrious Egypt, to thy shore Science, Freedom, Peace restore, And bid thy crowded ports their ancient pomp display! No more should Superstition mark, In characters uncouth and dark, Her dreary, monumental shrine! No more should meek-eyed Piety Outcast, insulted lie 170 Beneath the mosque, whose golden crescents shine, But starting from her trance, O'er Nubia's sands advance Beyond the farthest fountains of the Nile! The dismal Gallas should behold her smile, And Abyssinia's inmost rocks rejoice To hear her awful lore, yet soft consoling voice!

Hasten, O GOD! the time, when never more Pale Pity, from her moonlight seat shall hear, And dropping at the sound a fruitless tear, 180 The far-off battle's melancholy roar; When never more Horror's portentous cry Shall sound amid the troubled sky; Or dark Destruction's grimly-smiling mien, Through the red flashes of the fight be seen! Father in heaven! our ardent hopes fulfil; Thou speakest "Peace," and the vexed world is still! Yet should Oppression huge arise, And with bloody banners spread, Upon the gasping nations tread, 190 Whilst he thy name defies, Trusting in Thee alone, we hope to quell His furious might, his purpose fell; And as the ensigns of his baffled pride O'er the seas are scattered wide, We will take up a joyous strain and cry— Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously!

[49] This poem, "Coombe Ellen," "St Michael's Mount," et cet., down to the Monody on Dr Warton, originally dedicated to the Countess of Mansfield, are dated from Donhead, 1802.

A GARDEN-SEAT AT HOME.

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home, Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose, And slender woods that the still scene inclose, For yon magnificent and ample dome[50] That glitters in my sight! yet I can praise Thee, Arundel, who, shunning the thronged ways Of glittering vice, silently dost dispense The blessings of retired munificence. Me, a sequestered cottage, on the verge Of thy outstretched domain, delights; and here I wind my walks, and sometimes drop a tear O'er Harriet's urn, scarce wishing to emerge Into the troubled ocean of that life, Where all is turbulence, and toil, and strife. Calm roll the seasons o'er my shaded niche; I dip the brush, or touch the tuneful string, Or hear at eve the unscared blackbirds sing; Enough if, from their loftier sphere, the rich Deign my abode to visit, and the poor Depart not, cold and hungry, from my door.

DONHEAD, Oct. 12, 1798.

[50] Wardour Castle.

IN HORTO REV. J. STILL,

APUD KNOYLE, VILLAM AMOENISSIMAM.

Stranger! a while beneath this aged tree Rest thee, the hills beyond, and flowery meads, Surveying; and if Nature's charms may wake A sweet and silent transport at thine heart, In spring-time, whilst the bee hums heedless nigh, Rejoice! for thee the verdant spot is dressed, Circled with laurels green, and sprinkled o'er With many a budding rose: the shrubs all ring To the birds' warblings, and by fits the air Whispers amid the foliage o'er thine head! Rejoice, and oh! if life's sweet spring be thine, So gather its brief rose-buds, and deceive The cares and crosses of humanity.

GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

Come to these peaceful seats, and think no more Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar Of Ocean, tossing on his restless bed! Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled For honour, who have traversed the great flood, Or on the battle's front with stern eye stood, When rolled its thunder, and the billows red Oft closed, with sudden flashings, o'er the dead! Oh, heavy are the sorrows that beset Old age! and hard it is—hard to forget The sunshine of our youth, our manhood's pride! But here, O aged men! ye may abide Secure, and see the last light on the wave Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave; Like the calm evening ray, that smiles serene Upon the tranquil Thames, and cheers the sinking scene.

A RUSTIC SEAT NEAR THE SEA.

To him, who, many a night upon the main, At mid-watch, from the bounding vessel's side, Shivering, has listened to the rocking tide, Oh, how delightful smile thy views again, Fair Land! the sheltered hut, and far-seen mill That safe sails round and round; the tripping rill That o'er the gray sand glitters; the clear sky, Beneath whose blue vault shines the village tower, That high elms, swaying in the wind, embower; And hedge-rows, where the small birds' melody Solace the lithe and loitering peasant lad! O Stranger! is thy pausing fancy sad At thought of many evils which do press On wide humanity!—Look up; address The GOD who made the world; but let thy heart Be thankful, though some heavy thoughts have part, That, sheltered from the human storms' career, Thou meetest innocence and quiet here.

WARDOUR CASTLE.

If rich designs of sumptuous art may please, Or Nature's loftier views, august and old, Stranger! behold this spreading scene;—behold This amphitheatre of aged trees, That solemn wave above thee, and around Darken the towering hills! Dost thou complain That thou shouldst cope with penury or pain, Or sigh to think what pleasures might be found Amid such wide possessions!—Pause awhile; Imagine thou dost see the sick man smile; See the pale exiles, that in yonder dome, Safe from the wasteful storm, have found a home;[51] And thank the Giver of all good, that lent To the humane, retired, beneficent, The power to bless. Nor lift thy heart elate, If such domains be thine; but emulate The fair example, and those deeds, that rise Like holy incense wafted to the skies; Those deeds that shall sustain the conscious soul, When all this empty world hath perished, like a scroll!

[51] French emigrants, chiefly supported by the bounty of Lord Arundel.

POLE-VELLUM, CORNWALL.

A PICTURESQUE COTTAGE AND GROUNDS BELONGING TO J. LEMON, ESQ.

Stranger! mark this lovely scene, When the evening sets serene, And starting o'er the silent wood, The last pale sunshine streaks the flood, And the water gushing near Soothes, with ceaseless drip, thine ear; Then bid each passion sink to rest;— Should ev'n one wish rise in thy breast, One tender wish, as now in mine, That some such quiet spot were thine, And thou, recalling seasons fled, Couldst wake the slumbers of the dead, And bring back her you loved, to share With thee calm peace and comfort there;— Oh, check the thought, but inly pray To HE, "who gives and takes away," That many years this fair domain Its varied beauties may retain;— So when some wanderer, who has lost His heart's best treasure, who has crossed In life bleak hills and passes rude, Should gain this lovely solitude; Delighted he may pause a while, And when he marks the landscape smile, Leave with its willows, ere he part, The blessings of a softened heart.

JULY 1786.

ON A BEAUTIFUL SPRING,

FORMING A COLD BATH, AT COOMBE, NEAR DONHEAD, BELONGING TO MY BROTHER, CHAS. BOWLES, ESQ.

Fountain, that sparklest through the shady place, Making a soft, sad murmur o'er the stones That strew thy lucid way! Oh, if some guest Should haply wander near, with slow disease Smitten, may thy cold springs the rose of health Bring back, and the quick lustre to his eye! The ancient oaks that on thy margin wave, The song of birds, and through the rocky cave The clear stream gushing, their according sounds Should mingle, and, like some strange music, steal Sadly, yet soothing, o'er his aching breast. And thou, pale exile from thy native shores,[52] Here drink,—oh, couldst thou!—as of Lethe's stream! Nor friends, nor bleeding country, nor the views Of hills or streams beloved, nor vesper bell, Heard in the twilight vale, remember more!

[52] French priests, who have a residence near.

A CENOTAPH,

TO THE MEMORY OF LIEUTENANT-COLONEL ISAAC, WHO DIED AT CAPE ST NICHOLA MOLE, 1797.

Oh, hadst thou fall'n, brave youth! on that proud day,[53] When our victorious fleet o'er the red surge Rolled in terrific glory, thou hadst fall'n Most honoured; and Remembrance, while she thought Upon thy gallant end, had dried her tear! Now far beyond the huge Atlantic wave Thy bones decay; the withering pestilence, That swept the islands of the western world, Smote thee, untimely drooping to the tomb! But 'tis enough; whate'er a soldier's fate, That firm he hied him, where stern honour bade; Though with unequal strength, he sunk and died.

[53] The 1st of June 1794, when Colonel Isaac greatly distinguished himself as commander of the military on board Lord Howe's ship.

TRANSLATION{d} OF A LATIN POEM

BY THE REV. NEWTON OGLE, DEAN OF MANCHESTER.

Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way Through my paternal vale dost stray, Working thy shallow passage to the sea! Oh, stream, thou speedest on The same as many seasons gone; But not, alas, to me Remain the feelings that beguiled My early road, when, careless and content, (Losing the hours in pastimes innocent) Upon thy banks I strayed a playful child; 10 Whether the pebbles that thy margin strew, Collecting, heedlessly I threw; Or loved in thy translucent wave My tender shrinking feet to lave; Or else ensnared your little fry, And thought how wondrous skilled was I! So passed my boyish days, unknown to pain, Days that will ne'er return again. It seems but yesterday I was a child, to-morrow to be gray! 20 So years succeeding years steal silently away. Not fleeter thy own current, hurrying thee, Rolls down to the great sea. Thither oh carry these sad thoughts; the deep Bury them!—thou, meantime, thy tenor keep, And winding through the green-wood, cheer, As erst, my native, peaceful pastures here.

ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT.

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD SOMERS.

While summer airs scarce breathe along the tide, Oft pausing, up the mountain's craggy side We climb, how beautiful, how still, how clear, The scenes that stretch around! The rocks that rear Their shapes, in rich fantastic colours dressed; The hill-tops, where the softest shadows rest; The long-retiring bay, the level sand, The fading sea-line, and the furthest land, That seems, as low it lessens from the eye, To steal away beneath the cloudless sky! 10 But yesterday, the misty morn was spread In dreariness on the bleak mountain's head; No glittering prospect from the upland smiled, The driving squall came dark, the sea heaved wild, And, lost and lonely, the wayfarer sighed, Wet with the hoar spray of the flashing tide. How changed is now the circling scene! The deep Stirs not; the glancing roofs and white towers peep Along the margin of the lucid bay; The sails, descried far in the offing gray, 20 Hang motionless, and the pale headland's height Is touched as with sweet gleams of fairy light! Oh, lives there on earth's busy-stirring scene, Whom Nature's tranquil charms, her airs serene, Her seas, her skies, her sunbeams, fail to move With stealing tenderness and grateful love! Go, thankless man, to Misery's cave—behold Captivity, stretched in her dungeon cold! Or think on those who, in yon dreary mine,[54] Sunk fathoms deep beneath the rolling brine, 30 From year to year, amid the lurid shade, O'er-wearied, ply their melancholy trade; That thou may'st bless the glorious sun; and hail Him who with beauty clothed the hill and vale; Who bent the arch of the high heavens for thee, And stretched in amplitude the broad blue sea! Now sunk are all its murmurs; and the air But moves by fits the bents, that here and there Upshoot in casual spots of faded green: Here straggling sheep the scanty pasture glean, 40 Or, on the jutting fragments that impend, Stray fearlessly, and gaze, as we ascend.[55] Mountain, no pomp of waving woods hast thou, That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow; No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread, No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed! But thou canst boast thy beauties: ample views That catch the rapt eye of the pausing Muse; Headlands around new-lighted; sails, and seas, Now glassy-smooth, now wrinkling to the breeze; 50 And when the drisly Winter, wrapped in sleet, Goes by, and winds and rain thy ramparts beat, Fancy can see thee standing thus aloof, And frowning, bleak, and bare, and tempest-proof, Look as with awful confidence, and brave The howling hurricane, the dashing wave; More graceful, when the storm's dark vapours frown, Than when the summer suns in pomp go down! And such is he, who, clad in watchet weeds, And boasting little more than nature needs, 60 Can wrap him in contentedness, and wear A port unchanged, in seasons rude or fair. His may be Fancy's sunshine, and the Muse May deck his visions with her fairest hues; And he may lift his honest front, and say To the hard storm, that rends his locks of gray, I heed thee not;—he unappalled may stand Beneath the cloud that shades a sinking land, While heedless of the storm that onward sweeps, Mad, impious Riot his loud wassail keeps, 70 Pre-eminent in native worth; nor bend, Though gathering ills on his bare head descend: And when the wasteful storm sweeps o'er its prey, And rends the kingdoms of the world away, He, firm as stands the rock's unshaken base, Yet panting for a surer resting-place, The human hurricane unmoved can see, And say, O GOD, my refuge is in Thee! States, anchored deep, that far their shadow cast, Rock, and are scattered by the ALMIGHTY'S blast; 80 As when, awakened from his horrid sleep, In fiery caves, a thousand fathoms deep, The Earthquake's Demon hies aloft; he waits, Nigh some high-turreted proud city's gates, As listening to the mingled shouts and din Of the mad crowd that feast or dance within. Mean time sad Nature feels his sway, the wave Heaves, and low sounds moan through the mountain cave; Then all at once is still, still as midnight, When not the lime-leaf moves: Oh, piteous sight! 90 For now the glittering domes crash from on high— And hark, a strange and lamentable cry! It ceases, and the tide's departing roar Alone is heard upon the desert shore, That, as it sweeps with slow huge swell away, Remorseless mutters o'er its buried prey. So Ruin hurrieth o'er this shaken ball: 97 He bids his blast go forth, and lo! doth fall A Carthage or a Rome. Then rolls the tide Of deep Forgetfulness, whelming the pride Of man, his shattered and forsaken bowers, His noiseless cities, and his prostrate towers. Some columns, eminent and awful, stand, Like Egypt's pillars on the lonely sand; We read upon their base, inscribed by Fame, A HOMER'S here, or here a SHAKESPEARE'S name; Yet think not of the surge, that soon may sweep Ourselves unnumbered to the oblivious deep. Yet time has been, as mouldering legends say,[56] When all yon western tract, and this bright bay, 110 Where now the sunshine sleeps, and wheeling white The sea-mew circles in fantastic flight, Was peopled wide; but the loud storm hath raved, Where its green top the high wood whispering waved, And many a year the slowly-rising flood Raked, where the Druids' uncooth altar stood. Thou only, aged mountain, dost remain, Stern monument amidst the deluged plain! And fruitless the big waves thy bulwarks beat; The big waves slow retire, and murmur at thy feet:[57] 120 Thou, half-encircled by the refluent tide, As if thy state its utmost rage defied, Dost tower above the scene, as in thine ancient pride. Mountain! the curious Muse might love to gaze On the dim record of thy early days; Oft fancying that she heard, like the low blast, The sounds of mighty generations past. Thee the Phoenician, as remote he sailed Along the unknown coast, exulting hailed, And when he saw thy rocky point aspire, 130 Thought on his native shores of Aradus or Tyre. Distained with many a ghastly giant's blood, Upon thy height huge Corineus[58] stood, And clashed his shield; whilst, hid in caves profound, His monstrous foe cowered at the fearful sound. Hark to the brazen clarion's pealing swell! The shout at intervals, the deepening yell! Long ages speed away, yet now again The noise of battle hurtles on the plain! Behold the dark-haired warriors!—down thy side, O mountain! sternly terrible, they stride! Ev'n now, impatient for the promised war, They rear their axes[59] huge, and shouting, cry to Thor. The sounds of conflict cease—at dead of night A voice is heard: Prepare the Druid rite! And hark! the bard upon thy summit rings The deep chords of his thrilling harp, and sings To Night's pale Queen, that through the heavens wide, Amidst her still host list'ning seems to ride! Slow sinks the cadence of the solemn lay, 150 And all the sombrous scenery steals away— The shadowy Druid throng, the darksome wood, And the hoar altar, wet with human blood! Marked ye the Angel-spectre that appeared? By other hands the holy fane[60] is reared High on the point, where, gazing o'er the flood, Confessed, the glittering apparition stood. And now the sailor, on his watch of night, Sees, like a glimmering star, the far-off light; Or, homeward bound, hears on the twilight bay 160 The slowly-chanted vespers die away! These scenes are fled and passed, yet still sublime, And wearing graceful the gray tints of Time, Upon the steep rock's craggy eminence The embattled castle sits, surveying thence The villages that strew the subject plain, And the long winding of the lucid main: Meantime the stranger marks its turrets high, And muses on the tale of changeful years gone by. Of this no more: lo! here our journey ends; 170 Wide and more wide the arch of heaven extends, And on this topmost fragment as we lean, We feel removed from dim earth's distant scene. Lift up the hollow trump[61] that on the ground Is cast, and let it, rolling its long sound, Speak to the surge below, that we may gain Tidings from those who traverse the wide main. Or tread we now some spot of wizard-land, And mark the sable trump, that may command The brazen doors to fly, and with loud call 180 Scare the grim giant in his murky hall! Hail, solitary castle! that dost crown This desert summit, and supreme look down On the long-lessening landscape stretched below; Fearless to trace thy inmost haunts we go! We climb the steps:—No warning signs are sent, No fiery shapes flash on the battlement. We enter; the long chambers without fear We traverse; no strange echoes meet the ear; No time-worn tapestry spontaneous shakes, 190 No spell-bound maiden from her trance awakes, But Taste's fair hand arrays the peaceful dome, And hither the domestic virtues come; Pleased, while to this secluded scene they bear Sweets that oft wither in a world of care. Castle! no more thou frownest on the main In the dark terror of thy ancient reign; No more thy long and dreary halls affright, Swept by the stoled spirits of the night; But calm, and heedless of the storms that beat, 200 Here Elegance and Peace assume their seat; And when the night descends, and Ocean roars, Rocking without upon his darkened shores, These vaulted roofs to gentle sounds reply, The voice of social cheer, or song of harmony.[62] So fade the modes of life with slow decay, And various ages various hues display! Fled are the grimly shadows of Romance— And, pleased, we see in beauteous troop advance New arts, new manners, from the Gothic gloom 210 Escaped, and scattering flowers that sweetlier bloom! Refinement wakes; before her beaming eye Dispersed, the fumes of feudal darkness fly. Like orient Morning on the mountain's head, A softer light on life's wide scene is shed; Lapping in bliss the sense of human cares, Hark! Melody pours forth her sweetest airs; And like the shades that on the still lake lie, Of rocks, or fringing woods, or tinted sky, Painting her hues on the clear tablet lays, 220 And her own beauteous world with tender touch displays! Then Science lifts her form, august and fair, And shakes the night-dews from her glittering hair; Meantime rich Culture clothes the living waste, And purer patterns of Athenian Taste Invite the eye, and wake the kindling sense; And milder Manners, as they play, dispense, Like tepid airs of Spring, their genial influence! Such is thy boast, Refinement. But deep dyes Oft mar the splendour of thy noontide skies: 230 Then Fancy, sick of follies that deform The face of day, and in the sunshine swarm; Sick of the fluttering fopperies that engage The vain pursuits of a degenerate age; Sick of smooth Sophistry's insidious cant, Or cold Impiety's defying rant; Sick of the muling sentiment that sighs O'er its dead bird, while Want unpitied cries; Sick of the pictures that pale Lust inflame, And flush the cheek of Love with deep, deep shame; 240 Would fain the shade of elder days recall, The Gothic battlements, the bannered hall; Or list of elfin harps the fabling rhyme, Or wrapped in melancholy trance sublime, Pause o'er the working of some wond'rous tale, Or bid the spectres of the castle hail! Oh, might I now, amid the frowning storm, Behold, great Vision of the Mount! thy form, Such and so vast as thou wert seen of yore, When looking steadfast to Bayonna's shore, 250 Thou sattest awful on the topmost stone, Making the rock thy solitary throne! For up the narrow steps, winding with pain, The watch-tower's loftiest platform now we gain. Departed spirit! fruitless is the prayer, We see alone thy long-deserted chair;[63] And never more, or in the storm of night, Or by the glimmering moon's illusive light, Or when the flash, with red and hasty glance, Sudden illumes the sea's remote expanse, 260 The shores, the cliffs, the mountain, till again Deep darkness closes on the roaring main, Shalt thou, dread Angel, with unaltered mien, Sublime upon thy cloudy seat be seen! Yet, musing much on wild tradition's lore, And many a phantom tale, believed of yore, Chiefly remembering the sweet song (whose strain Shall never die) of him who wept in vain For his loved Lycidas, in the wide sea Whelmed, when he cried, great Angel, unto thee, 270 The fabled scene of thy renown we trace, And hail, with thronging thoughts, thy hallowed resting-place! The stealing Morn goes out—here let us end Fitliest our song, and to the shore descend. Yet once more, azure ocean, and once more, Ye lighted headlands, and thou stretching shore, Down on the beauties of your scenes we cast A tender look, the longest and the last! Amid the arch of heaven, extended clear, Scarce the thin flecks of feathery clouds appear; 280 Beyond the long curve of the lessening bay The still Atlantic stretches its bright way; The tall ship moves not on the tranquil brine; Around, the solemn promontories shine; No sounds approach us, save, at times, the cry Of the gray gull, that scarce is heard so high; The billows make no noise, and on the breast Of charmed Ocean, Silence sinks to rest! Oh, might we thus from heaven's bright battlements Behold the scene Humanity presents; 290 And see, like this, all harmonised and still, And hear no far-off sounds of earthly ill! Wide landscape of the world, in purest light Arrayed, how fair, how cheering were the sight! Alas! we think upon this seat of care, And ask, if peace, if harmony be there. We hear the clangours and the cries that shake The mad world, and their dismal music make; We see gaunt Vice, of dread, enormous size, That fearless in the broad day sweltering lies, 300 And scorns the feeble arrow that assails His Heaven-defying crest and iron scales; His brows with wan and withered roses crowned, And reeling to the pipe's lascivious sound, We see Intemperance his goblet quaff; And mocking Blasphemy, with mad loud laugh, Acting before high Heaven a direr part, Sport with the weapons that shall pierce his heart! If o'er the southern wave[64] we turn our sight, More dismal shapes of hideous woe affright: 310 Grim-visaged War, that ruthless, as he hies, Drowns with his trumpet's blast a brother's cries; And Massacre, by yelling furies led, With ghastly grin and eye-balls rolling red! O'er a vast field, wide heaped with festering slain, Hark! how the Demon Passions shout amain, And cry, exulting, while the death-storm lowers, Hurrah! the kingdoms of the world are ours! O GOD! who madest man, I see these things, And wearied wish for a fleet angel's wings, 320 That I might fly away, and hear no more The surge that moans along this mortal shore! But Joy's unclouded sunshine may not be, Till, Father of all worlds, we rest with Thee! Then Truth, uplifting from thy works the pall, Shall speak: In wisdom hast Thou made them all; Then angels and archangels, as they gaze, And all the acclaiming host of heaven, shall raise The loud hosannah of eternal praise! Here all is mixed with sorrow; and the clouds 330 Hang awfully, whose shade the dim earth shrouds; Therefore I mourn for man, and sighing say, As down the steep I wind my homeward way, Oh, when will Earth's long muttering tempests cease, And all be sunshine (like this scene) and peace!

[54] A mine called the Wherry-Mine, beneath the surface of the sea near Penzance.

[55] Three or four sheep were seen rambling among the precipices, and picking here and there a blade of grass; but in general the rock is naked, and extremely steep and craggy.

[56] Tradition reports that the rock was anciently connected by a large tract of land with the Isles of Scilly, and that the whole space between was inundated by an incursion of the sea.

[57] It is only at high tide the rock is entirely surrounded by the sea; at low water it is accessible by land.

[58] One of the supposed followers of Brutus, to whom Cornwall was allotted. The rather by him liked, says Milton, for that the hugest giants in rocks and caves were said to lurk there; which kind of monsters to deal with was his old exercise.

[59] At the bottom of this mountain, as they were digging for tin, they found spear-heads, axes, et cet.—Camden.

[60] A convent built on the top of the rock, where the apparition of St Michael was said to have appeared.

[61] A speaking-trumpet lying on the ground.

[62] This and the foregoing reflections were suggested by seeing instruments of music, books, et cet., in an apartment, elegantly but appropriately fitted up.

[63] On the highest turret of the castle is a place called St Michael's Chair.

[64] Alluding to the cruelties committed in France.

ON AN UNFORTUNATE AND BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

WRITTEN DECEMBER 1783.

Oh, Mary, when distress and anguish came, And slow disease preyed on thy wasted frame; When every friend, ev'n like thy bloom, was fled, And Want bowed low thy unsupported head; Sure sad Humanity a tear might give, And Virtue say, Live, beauteous sufferer, live! But should there one be found, (amidst the few Who with compassion thy last pangs might view), One who beheld thy errors with a tear, To whom the ruins of thy heart were dear, 10 Who fondly hoped, the ruthful season past, Thy faded virtues might revive at last; Should such be found—oh! when he saw thee lie, Closing on every earthly hope thine eye; When he beheld despair, with rueful trace, Mark the strange features of thy altered face; When he beheld, as painful death drew nigh, Thy pale, pale cheek, thy feebly lifted eye, Thy chill, shrunk hand, hung down as in despair, Or slowly raised, with many a muttered prayer;— 20 When thus, in early youth, he saw thee bend Poor to the grave, and die without a friend; Some sadder feelings might unbidden start, And more than common pity touch his heart! The eventful scene is closed; with pausing dread And sorrow I drew nigh the silent bed; Thy look was calm—thy heart was cold and still, As if the world had never used it ill; Methought the last faint smile, with traces weak, Still seemed to linger on thy faded cheek. 30 Poor Mary! though most beauteous in thy face, Ere sorrow touched it, beamed each lovely grace; Yet, oh! thy living features never wore A look so sweet, so eloquent before, As this, which bids all human passions cease, And tells my pitying heart you died in peace!

HYMN TO WODEN.

God of the battle, hear our prayer! By the lifted falchion's glare; By the uncouth fane sublime, Marked with many a Runic rhyme; By the "weird sisters"[65] dread, That, posting through the battle red, Choose the slain, and with them go To Valhalla's halls below, Where the phantom-chiefs prolong Their echoing feast, a giant throng, 10 And their dreadful beverage drain From the skulls of warriors slain: God of the battle, hear our prayer; And may we thy banquet share! Save us, god, from slow disease; From pains that the brave spirit freeze; From the burning fever's rage; From wailings of unhonoured age, Drawing painful his last breath; Give us in the battle death! 20 Let us lift our glittering shield, And perish, perish in the field! Now o'er Cumri's hills of snow To death, or victory, we go; Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare; See! they bind their yellow hair; Frenzy flashes from their eye, They fly—our foes before them fly! Woden, in thy empire drear, Thou the groans of death dost hear, 30 And welcome to thy dusky hall Those that for their country fall! Hail, all hail the godlike train, That with thee the goblet drain; Or with many a huge compeer, Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear! Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread Echo to their giant tread, And ten thousand thousand shields Flash lightning o'er the glimmering fields! 40 Hark! the battle-shouts begin— Louder sounds the glorious din: Louder than the ice's roar, Bursting on the thawing shore; Or crashing pines that strew the plain, When the whirlwinds hurl the main! Riding through the death-field red, And singling fast the destined dead, See the fatal sisters fly! Now my throbbing breast beats high— 50 Now I urge my panting steed, Where the foemen thickest bleed. Soon exulting I shall go, Woden, to thy halls below; Or o'er the victims, as they die, Chaunt the song of Victory!

[65] Valkyriae, or choosers of the slain. See Gray's "Fatal Sisters," et cet.

COOMBE-ELLEN.[66]

Call the strange spirit that abides unseen In wilds, and wastes, and shaggy solitudes, And bid his dim hand lead thee through these scenes That burst immense around! By mountains, glens, And solitary cataracts that dash Through dark ravines; and trees, whose wreathed roots O'erhang the torrent's channelled course; and streams, That far below, along the narrow vale, Upon their rocky way wind musical. Stranger! if Nature charm thee, if thou lovest 10 To trace her awful steps, in glade or glen, Or under covert of the rocking wood, That sways its murmuring and mossy boughs Above thy head; now, when the wind at times Stirs its deep silence round thee, and the shower Falls on the sighing foliage, hail her here In these her haunts; and, rapt in musings high, Think that thou holdest converse with some Power Invisible and strange; such as of yore Greece, in the shades of piney Maenalaus, 20 The abode of Pan, or Ida's hoary caves, Worshipped; and our old Druids, 'mid the gloom Of rocks and woods like these, with muttered spell Invoked, and the loud ring of choral harps. Hast thou oft mourned the chidings of the world, The sound of her disquiet, that ascends For ever, mocking the high throne of GOD! Hast thou in youth known sorrow! Hast thou drooped, Heart-stricken, over youth's and beauty's grave, And ever after thought on the sad sound 30 The cold earth made, which, cast into the vault, Consigned thy heart's best treasure—dust to dust! Here, lapped into a sweet forgetfulness, Hang o'er the wreathed waterfall, and think Thou art alone in this dark world and wide! Here Melancholy, on the pale crags laid, Might muse herself to sleep; or Fancy come, Witching the mind with tender cozenage, And shaping things that are not; here all day Might Meditation listen to the lapse 40 Of the white waters, flashing through the cleft, And, gazing on the many shadowing trees, Mingle a pensive moral as she gazed. High o'er thy head, amidst the shivered slate, Behold, a sapling yet, the wild ash bend, Its dark red berries clustering, as it wished In the clear liquid mirror, ere it fell, To trace its beauties; o'er the prone cascade, Airy, and light, and elegant, the birch Displays its glossy stem, amidst the gloom 50 Of alders and jagged fern, and evermore Waves her light pensile foliage, as she wooed The passing gale to whisper flatteries. Upon the adverse bank, withered, and stripped Of all its pleasant leaves, a scathed oak Hangs desolate, once sovereign of the scene, Perhaps, proud of its beauty and its strength, And branching its broad arms along the glen: Oh, speaks it no remonstrance to the heart! It seems to say: So shall the spoiler come, 60 The season that shall shatter your fair leaves, Gay children of the summer! yet enjoy Your pleasant prime, and lift your green heads high, Exulting; but the storm will come at last, That shall lay low your strength, and give your pride To the swift-hurrying stream of age, like mine. And so severe Experience oft reproves The gay and careless children of the world; They hear the cold rebuke, and then again Turn to their sport, as likes them, and dance on! 70 And let them dance; so all their blooming prime They give not up to vanity, but learn That wisdom and that virtue which shall best Avail them, when the evil days draw nigh, And the brief blossoms of their spring-time fade. Now wind we up the glen, and hear below The dashing torrent, in deep woods concealed, And now again white-flashing on the view, O'er the huge craggy fragments. Ancient stream, That murmurest through the mountain solitudes, 80 The time has been when no eye marked thy course, Save His who made the world! Fancy might dream She saw thee thus bound on from age to age Unseen of man, whilst awful Nature sat On the rent rocks, and said: These haunts be mine. Now Taste has marked thy features; here and there Touching with tender hand, but injuring not, Thy beauties; whilst along thy woody verge Ascends the winding pathway, and the eye Catches at intervals thy varied falls. 90 But loftier scenes invite us; pass the hill, And through the woody hanging, at whose feet The tinkling Ellen winds, pursue thy way. Yon bleak and weather-whitened rock, immense, Upshoots amidst the scene, craggy and steep, And like some high-embattled citadel, That awes the low plain shadowing. Half-way up The purple heath is seen, but bare its brow, And deep-intrenched, and all beneath it spread With massy fragments riven from its top. 100 Amidst the crags, and scarce discerned so high, Hangs here and there a sheep, by its faint bleat Discovered, whilst the astonished eye looks up, And marks it on the precipice's brink Pick its scant food secure:—and fares it not Ev'n so with you, poor orphans, ye who climb The rugged path of life without a friend; And over broken crags bear hardly on, With pale imploring looks, that seem to say, My mother! she is buried, and at rest, 110 Laid in her grave-clothes; and the heart is still, The only heart that throughout all the world Beat anxiously for you! Oh, yet bear on; He who sustains the bleating lamb shall feed And comfort you: meantime the heaven's pure beam, That breaks above the sable mountain's brow, Lighting, one after one, the sunless crags, Awakes the blissful confidence, that here, Or in a world where sorrow never comes, All shall be well. 120 Now through the whispering wood We steal, and mark the old and mossy oaks Imboss the mountain slope; or the wild ash, With rich red clusters mantling; or the birch, In lonely glens light-wavering; till behold! The rapid river shooting through the gloom Its lucid line along; and on its side The bordering pastures green, where the swinked ox Lies dreaming, heedless of the numerous flies That, in the transitory sunshine, hum 130 Round his broad breast; and further up the cot, With blue, light smoke ascending; images Of peace and comfort! The wild rocks around Endear your smile the more, and the full mind, Sliding from scenes of dread magnificence, Sinks on your charms reposing; such repose The sage may feel, when, filled and half-oppressed With vast conceptions, smiling he returns To life's consoling sympathies, and hears, With heartfelt tenderness, the bells ring out; 140 Or pipe upon the mountains; or the low Of herds slow winding down the cottaged vale, Where day's last sunshine linger. Such repose He feels, who, following where his SHAKSPEARE leads, As in a dream, through an enchanted land, Here, with Macbeth, in the dread cavern hails The weird sisters, and the dismal deed Without a name; there sees the charmed isle, The lone domain of Prospero; and, hark! Wild music, such as earth scarce seems to own, 150 And Ariel o'er the slow-subsiding surge Singing her smooth air quaintly! Such repose Steals o'er her spirits, when, through storms at sea, Fancy has followed some nigh-foundered bark Full many a league, in ocean's solitude Tossed far beyond the Cape of utmost Horn, That stems the roaring deep; her dreary track Still Fancy follows, and at dead of night Hears, with strange thunder, the huge fragments fall Crashing, from mountains of high-drifting ice 160 That o'er her bows gleam fearful; till at last She hails the gallant ship in some still bay Safe moored; or of delightful Tinian; Smiling, like fairy isle, amid the waste; Or of New Zealand, where from sheltering rocks The clear cascades gush beautiful, and high The woodland scenery towers above the mast, Whose long and wavy ensign streams beneath. Far inland, clad in snow, the mountains lift Their spiry summits, and endear the more 170 The sylvan scene around; the healing air Breathes o'er green myrtles, and the poe-bird flits, Amid the shade of aromatic shrubs, With silver neck and blue enamelled wing. Now cross the stream, and up the narrow track, That winds along the mountain's edge, behold The peasant girl ascend: cheerful her look, Beneath the umbrage of her broad black hat, And loose her dark-brown hair; the plodding pad That bears her panting climbs, and with sure step 180 Avoids the jutting fragments; she, meantime, Sits unconcerned, till, lessening from the view, She gains the summit and is seen no more. All day, along that mountain's heathy waste, Booted and strapped, and in rough coat succinct, His small shrill whistle pendent at his breast, With dogs and gun, untired the sportsman roams; Nor quits his wildly-devious range, till eve, Upon the woods, the rocks, and mazy rills Descending, warns him home: then he rejoins 190 The social circle, just as the clear moon, Emerging o'er the sable mountain, sails Silent, and calm, and beautiful, and sheds Its solemn grandeur on the shadowy scene. To music then; and let some chosen strain Of HANDEL gently recreate the sense, And give the silent heart to tender joy. Pass on to the hoar cataract,[67] that foams Through the dark fissures of the riven rock; Prone-rushing it descends, and with white whirl, 200 Save where some silent shady pool receives Its dash; thence bursting, with collected sweep, And hollow sound, it hurries, till it falls Foaming in the wild stream that winds below. Dark trees, that to the mountain's height ascend, O'ershade with pendent boughs its mossy course, And, looking up, the eye beholds it flash Beneath the incumbent gloom, from ledge to ledge Shooting its silvery foam, and far within Wreathing its curve fantastic. If the harp 210 Of deep poetic inspiration, struck At times by the pale minstrel, whilst a strange And beauteous light filled his uplifted eye, Hath ever sounded into mortal ears, Here I might think I heard its tones, and saw, Sublime amidst the solitary scene, With dimly-gleaming harp, and snowy stole, And cheek in momentary frenzy flushed, The great musician stand. Hush, every wind That shakes the murmuring branches! and thou stream, 220 Descending still with hollow-sounding sweep, Hush! 'Twas the bard struck the loud strings: Arise, Son of the magic song, arise! And bid the deep-toned lyre Pour forth its manly melodies. With eyes on fire, CARADOC rushed upon the foe; He reared his arm—he laid the mighty low! O'er the plain see him urge his gore-bathed steed! They bleed, the Romans[68] bleed! 230 He lifts his lance on high, They fly! the fierce invaders fly! Fear not now the horse or spear, Fear not now the foeman's might; Victory the cry shall hear Of those who for their country fight; O'er the slain That strew the plain, Stern on her sable war-horse shall she ride, And lift her red right hand, in their heart's blood deep dyed! 240 Return, my Muse! the fearful sound is past; And now a little onward, where the way Ascends above the oaks that far below Shade the rude steep, let Contemplation lead Our footsteps; from this shady eminence 'Tis pleasant and yet fearful to look down Upon the river roaring, and far off To see it stretch in peace, and mark the rocks One after one, in solemn majesty Unfolding their wild reaches; here with wood 250 Mantled, beyond abrupt and bare, and each As if it strove, with emulous disdain, To tower in ruder, darker amplitude. Pause, ere we enter the long craggy vale; It seems the abode of Solitude. So high The rock's bleak summit[69] frowns above our head, Looking immediate down, we almost fear Lest some enormous fragment should descend With hideous sweep into the vale, and crush The intruding visitant. No sound is here, 260 Save of the stream that shrills, and now and then A cry as of faint wailing, when the kite Comes sailing o'er the crags, or straggling lamb Bleats for its mother. Here, remote from man, And life's discordant roar, might Piety Lift up her early orisons to Him Who made the world; who piled up, mighty rocks, Your huge o'ershadowing summits; who devolved The mighty rivers on their mazy course; Who bade the seasons roll, and they rolled on 270 In harmony; who filled the earth with joy, And spread it in magnificence. O GOD! Thou also madest the great water-flood, The deep that uttereth thy voice; whose waves Toss fearful at thy bidding. Thou didst speak, And lo! the great and glorious sun, from night Tenfold upspringing, through the heavens' wide way Held his untired career. These, in their course, As with one shout of acclamation, praise Thee, LORD! thee, FATHER! thee, ALMIGHTY KING! 280 Maker of earth and heaven! Nor less the flower That shakes its purple head, and smiles unseen Upon the mountain's van; nor less the stream That tinkles through the cliff-encircled bourne, Cheering with music the lone place, proclaim: In wisdom, Father, hast thou made them all! Scenes of retired sublimity, that fill With fearful ecstasy and holy trance The pausing mind! we leave your awful gloom, And lo! the footway plank, that leads across 290 The narrow torrent, foaming through the chasm Below; the rugged stones are washed and worn Into a thousand shapes, and hollows scooped By long attrition of the ceaseless surge, Smooth, deep, and polished as the marble urn, In their hard forms. Here let us sit, and watch The struggling current burst its headlong way, Hearing the noise it makes, and musing much On the strange changes of this nether world. How many ages must have swept to dust 300 The still succeeding multitudes, that "fret Their little hour" upon this restless scene, Or ere the sweeping waters could have cut The solid rock so deep! As now its roar Comes hollow from below, methinks we hear The noise of generations, as they pass, O'er the frail arch of earthly vanity, To silence and oblivion. The loud coil Ne'er ceases; as the running river sounds From age to age, though each particular wave 310 That made its brief noise, as it hurried on, Ev'n whilst we speak, is past, and heard no more; So ever to the ear of Heaven ascends The long, loud murmur of the rolling globe; Its strife, its toils, its sighs, its shouts, the same! But lo! upon the hilly croft, and scarce Distinguished from the crags, the peasant hut Forth peeping; nor unwelcome is the sight. It seems to say: Though solitude be sweet, And sweet are all the images that float 320 Like summer-clouds before the eye, and charm The pensive wanderer's way, 'tis sweeter yet To think that in this world a brother lives. And lovelier smiles the scene, that, 'mid the wilds Of rocks and mountains, the bemused thought Remembers of humanity, and calls The wildly-roving fancy back to life. Here, then, I leave my harp, which I have touched With careless hand, and here I bid farewell To Fancy's fading pictures, and farewell 330 The ideal spirit that abides unseen 'Mid rocks, and woods, and solitudes. I hail Rather the steps of Culture, that ascend The precipice's side. She bids the wild Bloom, and adorns with beauty not its own The ridged mountain's tract; she speaks, and lo! The yellow harvest nods upon the slope; And through the dark and matted moss upshoots The bursting clover, smiling to the sun. These are thy offspring, Culture! the green herb 340 Is thine, that decks with rich luxuriance The pasture's lawny range; the yellow corn, That waves upon the upland ridge, is thine; Thine too the elegant abode, that smiles Amidst the rocky scene, and wakes the thought, The tender thought, of all life's charities. And senseless were my heart, could I look back Upon the varied way my feet have trod, Without a silent prayer that health and joy, And love and happiness, may long abide 350 In the romantic vale where Ellen winds.

[66] Coombe-Ellen (in Welsh, Cwm Elan) is situated among the most romantic mountains of Radnorshire, about five miles from Rhayd'r. This poem is inscribed to Thomas Grove, Esq. of Fern, Wiltshire, at whose summer residence, in Radnorshire, it was written.

[67] Nant-Vola.

[68] The Silures, comprehending Radnorshire, Herefordshire, Brecknockshire, Monmouthshire, and Glamorganshire, were the bravest of the Britons; Caractacus, the greatest and most renowned leader Britain had ever produced, was their king.

[69] Dole-Vinoc rock.

SUMMER EVENING AT HOME.

Come, lovely Evening! with thy smile of peace Visit my humble dwelling; welcomed in, Not with loud shouts, and the thronged city's din, But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe, The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude Heard indistinctly from the village green, The bird's last twitter, from the hedge-row seen, Where, just before, the scattered crumbs I strewed, To pay him for his farewell song;—all these Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please The stilly-stirring fancies. Though my hours (For I have drooped beneath life's early showers) Pass lonely oft, and oft my heart is sad, Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand Has decked with trees and shrubs the slopes around, And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fanned, Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound, That seems to say: Forget the transient tear Thy pale youth shed—Repose and Peace are here.

WINTER EVENING AT HOME.

Fair Moon, that at the chilly day's decline Of sharp December through my cottage pane Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane! In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine, Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way; And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light, Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall, Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night! Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze, I think, around me in this twilight room, I but remark mortality's sad gloom; Whilst hope and joy cloudless and soft appear, In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere.

THE SPIRIT OF NAVIGATION.[70]

Stern Father of the storm! who dost abide Amid the solitude of the vast deep, For ever listening to the sullen tide, And whirlwinds that the billowy desert sweep! Thou at the distant death-shriek dost rejoice; The rule of the tempestuous main is thine, Outstretched and lone; thou utterest thy voice, Like solemn thunders: These wild waves are mine; Mine their dread empire; nor shall man profane The eternal secrets of my ancient reign.

The voice is vain: secure, and as in scorn, The gallant vessel scuds before the wind; Her parting sails swell stately to the morn; She leaves the green earth and its hills behind; Gallant before the wind she goes, her prow High bearing, and disparting the blue tide That foams and flashes in its rage below; Meantime the helmsman feels a conscious pride, And while far onward the long billows swell, Looks to the lessening land, that seems to say, Farewell!

Father of storms! then let thy whirlwinds roar O'er seas of solitary amplitude; Man, the poor tenant of thy rocky shore, Man, thy terrific empire hath subdued; And though thy waves toss his high-foundered bark Where no dim watch-light gleams, still he defies Thy utmost rage, and in his buoyant ark Speeds on, regardless of the darkening skies; And o'er the mountain-surges, as they roll, Subdues his destined way, and speeds from pole to pole.

Behold him now, far from his native plain, Where high woods shade some wild Hesperian bay, Or green isles glitter in the southern main, His streaming ensign to the morn display! Behold him, where the North's pale meteors dance, And icy rocks roll glimmering from afar, Fearless through night and solitude advance! Or where the pining sons of Andamar, When dark eclipse has wrapt the labouring moon, Howl to the demon of the dread monsoon!

Time was, like them, poor Nature's shivering child, Pacing the beach, and by the salt spray beat, He watched the melancholy surge, or smiled To see it burn and bicker at his feet; In some rude shaggy spot, by fortune placed, He dreamed not of strange lands, and empires spread, Beyond the rolling of the watery waste; He saw the sun shine on the mountain's head, But knew not, whilst he hailed the orient light, What myriads blessed his beam, or sickened at the sight.

From some dark promontory, that o'erbent The flashing waves, he heard their ceaseless roar; Or carolled in his light canoe content, As, bound from creek to creek, it grazed the shore; Gods of the storm the dreary space might sweep, And shapes of death, and gliding spectres gaunt, Might flit, he thought, o'er the remoter deep; And whilst strange voices cried, Avaunt, avaunt! Uncertain lights, seen through the midnight gloom, Might lure him sadly on to his cold watery tomb.

No city, then, amid the calm clear day, O'er the blue waters' undulating line, With battlements, and fans that glittered gay, And piers, and thronging masts, was seen to shine. No cheerful sounds were wafted on the gale, Nor hummed the shores with early industry; But mournful birds in hollow cliffs did wail, And there all day the cormorant did cry, While with sunk eye, and matted, dripping locks, The houseless savage slept beneath the foam-beat rocks.

Thus slumbering long upon the dreamy verge Of instinct, see, he rouses from his trance! Faint, and as glimmering yet, the Arts emerge, One after one, from darkness, and advance, Beauteous, as o'er the heavens the stars' still way. Now see the track of his dominion wide, Fair smiling as the dayspring; cities gay Lift their proud heads, and o'er the yellow tide, Whilst sounds of fervent industry arise, A thousand pennants float bright streaming in the skies!

Genius of injured Asia! once sublime And glorious, now dim seen amid the storm, And melancholy clouds of sweeping time, Who yet dost half reveal thine awful form, Pointing, with saddened aspect and slow hand, To vast emporiums, desolate and waste; To wrecks of unknown cities, sunk in sand! 'Twas at thy voice, Arts, Order, Science, Taste. Upsprung, the East adorning, like the smile Of Spring upon the banks of thy own swelling Nile.

'Twas at thy voice huge Enterprise awoke, That, long on rocky Aradus reclined, Slumbered to the hoarse surge that round her broke, And hollow pipings of the idle wind; She heard thy voice, upon the rock she stood Gigantic, the rude scene she marked—she cried, Let there be intercourse, and the great flood Waft the rich plenty to these shores denied! And soon thine eye delighted saw aspire, Crowning the midland main, thy own Imperial Tyre.

Queen of the waters! who didst ope the gate Of Commerce, and display in lands unknown Thy venturous sail, ev'n now in ancient state Methinks I see thee on thy rocky throne; I see their massy piles thy cothons[71] rear, And on the deep a solemn shadow cast; I traverse thy once echoing shores, and hear The sound of mighty generations past: I see thy kingly merchants' thronged resort, And gold and purple gleam o'er all thy spacious port.

I mark thy glittering galleys sweep along— The steady rowers to the strokes incline, And chaunt in unison their choral song; White through their oars the ivory benches shine; The fine-wrought sails, which looms of Egypt wove, Swell beautiful beneath the bending mast; Hewn from proud Lebanon's immortal grove, The oaks of Bashan brave the roaring blast! So o'er the western wave thy vessels float, For verdant Egypt bound, or Calpe's cliffs remote.

Queen of the waters! throned upon thy seat Amid the sea, thy beauty and thy fame The deep, that rolls low-murmuring at thy feet, And all the multitude of isles, proclaim! For thee Damascus piles her woolly store; To thee their flocks Arabia's princes bring; And Sheba heaps her spice and glittering ore; The ships of Tarshish of thy glory sing:[72] Queen of the waters! who is like to thee, Replenished in thy might, and throned on the sea!

The purple streamers fly, the trumpets sound, The adventurous bark glides on in tranquil state; The voyagers, with leafy garlands crowned, Draw back their arms together, and elate Sweep o'er the surge; the spray far scattered flies Beneath the stroke of their unwearied oars; To their loud shouts the circling coast replies; And now, o'er the deep ocean, where it roars They fly; till slowly lessening from the shore, Beneath the haze they sink—sink, and are seen no more.

When Night descends, and with her silver bow The Queen of Heaven[73] comes forth in radiance bright, Surveying the dim earth and seas below; Why from afar resounds the mystic rite Hymned round her uncouth altar? Virgins there (Amid the brazen cymbal's hollow ring) And aged priests the solemn feast prepare; To her their nightly orisons they sing; That she may look from her high throne, and guide The wandering bark secure along the trackless tide.

Her on his nightly watch the pilot views Careful, and by her soft and tranquil light, Along the uncertain coast his track pursues; And now he sees great Carmel's woody height, Where nightly fires to grisly Baal burn; Round the rough cape he winds; meantime far on Thick eddying scuds the hollow surf upturn; He thinks of the sweet light of summer gone! He thinks, perhaps, dashed on the rugged shore, He never shall behold his babes' loved mother more!

Slow comes the morn; but ah! what demon form,[74] While pealing thunder the high concave rends, Rises more vast amid the rushing storm! With dreadful shade his horrid bulk ascends Dark to the driving clouds; beneath him roars The deep; his troubled brow is wrapped in gloom; See, it moves onwards; now more huge it soars! Who shall avert the poor seafarer's doom! Who now shall save him from the spectre's might That treads the rocking waves in thunder and in night!

Dread phantom! art thou he whose fearful sway, As Egypt's hoary chronicles have told, The clouds, the whirlwinds, and the seas obey, Typhon, of aspect hideous to behold! Oh, spare the wretched wanderers, who, led By flattering hopes, have left the peaceful shore! Behold, they shrink, they bend with speechless dread; From their faint grasp drops the unheeded oar! It answers not, but mingling seas and sky, In clouds, and wind, and thunder, rushes by.

Hail to thy light, lord of the golden day, That, bursting through the sable clouds again, Dost cheer the seaman's solitary way, And with new splendour deck the lucid main! And lo! the voyage past, where many a palm,[75] Its green top only seen, the prospect bounds, Fringing the sunny sea-line, clear and calm; Now hark the slowly-swelling human sounds! Meantime the bark along the placid bay Of Tamiatis keeps her easy-winding way.

Here rest we safe from scenes of peril past, No danger lurks in this serene retreat; No more is heard the roaring of the blast, But pastoral sounds of scattered flocks that bleat, Or evening herds that o'er the champaign low; Here citrons tall and purple dates around Delicious fragrance and cool shade bestow; The shores with murmuring industry resound; While through the vernal pastures where he strays, The Nile, as with delight, his mazy course delays.

[70] Inscribed to the Rev. Dr Vincent Hind, Master of Westminster School.

[71] Artificial harbours.

[72] Ezekiel xxvii. 25, "The ships of Tarshish did sing of thee, and thou wast replenished, and made very glorious in the midst of the seas."

[73] Astarte, or the Moon, the goddess of the Sidonians, called the Queen of Heaven. "The women knead their dough, to make cakes to the Queen of Heaven" (Jer. vii. 18).

[74] Waterspouts are more frequent near the capes of Latikea, Grecgo, and Carmel, than in any other parts of the Mediterranean Sea.—Shaw's Travels.

[75] The coast of Egypt is not discovered till its trees are seen.

WATER-PARTY ON BEAULIEU RIVER, IN THE NEW FOREST.

I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream That leads with illusion the senses astray, And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream, While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say, Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away!

We left the loud rocking of ocean behind, And stealing along the clear current serene, The Phaedria[76] spread her white sails to the wind, And they who divided had many a day been, Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene.

Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel; We heard not the tossing, the stir, and the roar Of the ocean without; we heard only the keel, The keel that went whispering along the green shore, And the stroke, as it dipped, of the feathering oar.

Beneath the dark woods now, as winding we go, What sounds of rich harmony burst on the ear! Hark, cheer'ly the loud-swelling clarionets blow; Now the tones gently die, now more mellow we hear The horns through the high forest echoing clear!

They cease; and no longer the echoes prolong The swell of the concert; in silence we float— In silence! Oh, listen! 'tis woman's[77] sweet song— The bends of the river reply to each note, And the oar is held dripping and still from the boat.

Mark the sun that descends o'er the curve of the flood! Seize, Wilmot,[78] the pencil, and instant convey To the tablet the water, the banks, and the wood, That their colours may live without change or decay, When these beautiful tints die in darkness away.

So when we are parted, and tossed on the deep, And no longer the light on our prospect shall gleam, The semblance of one lovely scene we may keep, And remember the day, and the hour, like a dream, When we sighed with delight as we stole down the stream!

[76] Cutter belonging to Nathaniel Ogle, Esq.

[77] Mrs Sheridan.

[78] Mrs Wilmot, well known for her great talents in drawing, et cet.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DR WARTON.

Oh! I should ill thy generous cares requite Thou who didst first inspire my timid Muse, Could I one tuneful tear to thee refuse, Now that thine aged eyes are closed in night, Kind Warton! Thou hast stroked my stripling head, And sometimes, mingling soft reproof with praise, My path hast best directed through the maze Of thorny life: by thee my steps were led To that romantic valley, high o'erhung With sable woods, where many a minstrel rung 10 His bold harp to the sweeping waterfall; Whilst Fancy loved around each form to call That fill the poet's dream: to this retreat Of Fancy, (won by whose enticing lay I have forgot how sunk the summer's day), Thou first did guide my not unwilling feet; Meantime inspiring the gay breast of youth With love of taste, of science, and of truth. The first inciting sounds of human praise, A parent's love excepted, came from thee; 20 And but for thee, perhaps, my boyish days Had all passed idly, and whate'er in me Now live of hope, been buried. I was one, Long bound by cold dejection's numbing chain, As in a torpid trance, that deemed it vain To struggle; nor my eyelids to the sun Uplifted: but I heard thy cheering voice; I shook my deadly slumber off; I gazed Delighted 'round; awaked, inspired, amazed, 30 I marked another world, and in my choice Lovelier, and decked with light! On fairy ground Methought I buoyant trod, and heard the sound As of enchanting melodies, that stole, Stole gently, and entranced my captive soul. Then all was life and hope! 'Twas thy first ray, Sweet Fancy, on the heart; as when the day Of Spring, along the melancholy tract Of wintry Lapland, dawns; the cataract, From ice dissolving on the silent side 40 Of some white precipice, with paly gleam Descends, while the cold hills a slanting beam Faint tinges: till, ascending in his pride, The great Sun from the red horizon looks, And wakes the tuneless birds, the stagnant brooks, And sleeping lakes! So on my mind's cold night The ray of Fancy shone, and gave delight And hope past utterance. Thy cheering voice, O Warton! bade my silent heart rejoice, 50 And wake to love of nature; every breeze, On Itchin's brink was melody; the trees Waved in fresh beauty; and the wind and rain, That shook the battlements of Wykeham's fane, Not less delighted, when, with random pace, I trod the cloistered aisles; and witness thou, Catherine,[79] upon whose foss-encircled brow We met the morning, how I loved to trace The prospect spread around; the rills below, That shone irriguous in the gleaming plain; 60 The river's bend, where the dark barge went slow, And the pale light on yonder time-worn fane![80] So passed my days with new delight; mean time To Learning's tender eye thou didst unfold The classic page, and what high bards of old, With solemn notes, and minstrelsy sublime, Have chanted, we together heard; and thou, Warton! wouldst bid me listen, till a tear Sprang to mine eye: now the bold song we hear Of