Greece's sightless master-bard:[81] the breast 70 Beats high; with stern Pelides to the plain We rush; or o'er the corpse of Hector slain Hang pitying;—and lo! where pale, oppressed With age and grief, sad Priam comes;[82] with beard All white he bows, kissing the hands besmeared With his last hope's best blood! The oaten reed[83] Now from the mountain sounds; the sylvan Muse, Reclined by the clear stream of Arethuse, Wakes the Sicilian pipe; the sunny mead 80 Swarms with the bees, whose drowsy lullaby Soothes the reclining ox with half-closed eye; While in soft cadence to the madrigal, From rock to rock the whispering waters fall! But who is he,[84] that, by yon gloomy cave, Bids heaven and earth bear witness to his woe! And hark! how hollowly the ocean-wave Echoes his plaint, and murmurs deep below! Haste, let the tall ship stem the tossing tide, That he may leave his cave, and hear no more 90 The Lemnian surges unrejoicing roar; And be great Fate through the dark world thy guide, Sad Philoctetes![85] So Instruction bland, With young-eyed Sympathy, went hand in hand O'er classic fields; and let my heart confess Its holier joy, when I essayed to climb The lonely heights where Shakspeare sat sublime, Lord of the mighty spell: around him press Spirits and fairy-forms. He, ruling wide 100 His visionary world, bids terror fill The shivering breast, or softer pity thrill Ev'n to the inmost heart. Within me died All thoughts of this low earth, and higher powers Seemed in my soul to stir; till, strained too long, The senses sunk. Then, Ossian, thy wild song Haply beguiled the unheeded midnight hours, And, like the blast that swept Berrathron's towers, Came pleasant and yet mournful to my soul! 110 See o'er the autumnal heath the gray mists roll! Hark to the dim ghosts' faint and feeble cry, As on the cloudy tempest they pass by! Saw ye huge Loda's spectre-shape advance, Through which the stars look pale! Nor ceased the trance Which bound the erring fancy, till dark night Flew silent by, and at my window-grate The morning bird sang loud: nor less delight The spirit felt, when still and charmed I sate 120 Great Milton's solemn harmonies to hear, That swell from the full chord, and strong and clear, Beyond the tuneless couplets' weak control, Their long-commingling diapason roll, In varied sweetness. Nor, amidst the choir Of pealing minstrelsy, was thy own lyre, Warton, unheard;—as Fancy poured the song, The measured music flowed along, Till all the heart and all the sense 130 Felt her divinest influence, In throbbing sympathy:—Prepare the car,[86] And whirl us, goddess, to the war, Where crimson banners fire the skies, Where the mingled shouts arise, Where the steed, with fetlock red, Tramples the dying and the dead; And amain, from side to side, Death his pale horse is seen to ride! Or rather, sweet enthusiast, lead 140 Our footsteps to the cowslip mead, Where, as the magic spell is wound, Dying music floats around:— Or seek we some gray ruin's shade, And pity the cold beggar,[87] laid Beneath the ivy-rustling tower, At the dreary midnight hour, Scarce sheltered from the drifting snow; While her dark locks the bleak winds blow O'er her sleeping infant's cheek! 150 Then let the shrilling trumpet speak, And pierce in louder tones the ear, Till, while it peals, we seem to hear The sounding march, as of the Theban's song;[88] And varied numbers, in their course, With gathering fulness, and collected force, Like the broad cataract, swell and sweep along! Struck by the sounds, what wonder that I laid, As thou, O Warton! didst the theme inspire, My inexperienced hand upon the lyre, 160 And soon with transient touch faint music made, As soon forgotten! So I loved to lie By the wild streams of elfin poesy, Rapt in strange musings; but when life began, I never roamed a visionary man; For, taught by thee, I learned with sober eyes To look on life's severe realities. I never made (a dream-distempered thing) Poor Fiction's realm my world; but to cold Truth 170 Subdued the vivid shapings of my youth. Save when the drisly woods were murmuring, Or some hard crosses had my spirit bowed; Then I have left, unseen, the careless crowd, And sought the dark sea roaring, or the steep That braved the storm; or in the forest deep, As all its gray leaves rustled, wooed the tone Of the loved lyre, that, in my springtide gone, Waked me to transport. Eighteen summers now 180 Have smiled on Itchin's margin, since the time When these delightful visions of our prime Rose on my view in loveliness. And thou Friend of my muse, in thy death-bed art cold, Who, with the tenderest touches, didst unfold The shrinking leaves of Fancy, else unseen And shelterless: therefore to thee are due Whate'er their summer sweetness; and I strew, Sadly, such flowerets as on hillocks green, Or mountain-slope, or hedge-row, yet my hand 190 May cull, with many a recollection bland, And mingled sorrow, Warton, on thy tomb, To whom, if bloom they boast, they owe their bloom!

[79] Catherine Hill.

[80] St Cross Hospital.

[81] Homer.

[82] See the last book.

[83] Theocritus.

[84] [Greek: Megale moira.]—Soph.

[85] Philoctetes, see Sophocles. Youthful impressions on first reading it.

[86] See Warton's "Ode to Fancy."

[87] Alluding to some pathetic lines in Warton's "Ode to Fancy."

[88] See Warton's "Ode on West's Translation of Pindar."

EPITAPH ON H. WALMSLEY, ESQ.,

IN ALVERSTOKE CHURCH, HANTS.

Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true; The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed, Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed; Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze, Pale from thy hospitable home depart, Thy hand still open, and yet warm thy heart! But how shall she her love, her loss express, Thy widow, in this uttermost distress, When she with anguish hears her lisping train Upon their buried father call in vain! She wipes the tear despair had forced to flow, She lifts her look beyond this vale of woe, And rests (while humbled in the dust she kneels) On Him who only knows how much she feels.

AGE.

Age, thou the loss of health and friends shalt mourn! But thou art passing to that night-still bourne, Where labour sleeps. The linnet, chattering loud To the May morn, shall sing; thou, in thy shroud, Forgetful and forgotten, sink to rest; And grass-green be the sod upon thy breast!

ON A LANDSCAPE BY RUBENS.

Nay, let us gaze, ev'n till the sense is full, Upon the rich creation, shadowed so That not great Nature, in her loftiest pomp Of living beauty, ever on the sight Rose more magnificent; nor aught so fair Hath Fancy, in her wildest, brightest mood, Imaged of things most lovely, when the sounds Of this cold cloudy world at distance sink, And all alone the warm idea lives Of what is great, or beautiful, or good, 10 In Nature's general plan. So the vast scope, O Rubens! of thy mighty mind, and such The fervour of thy pencil, pouring wide The still illumination, that the mind Pauses, absorbed, and scarcely thinks what powers Of mortal art the sweet enchantment wrought. She sees the painter, with no human touch, Create, embellish, animate at will, The mimic scenes, from Nature's ampler range 20 Caught as by inspiration; while the clouds, High wandering, and the fairest form of things, Seem at his bidding to emerge, and burn With radiance and with life! Let us, subdued, Now to the magic of the moment lose The thoughts of life, and mingle every sense Ev'n in the scenes before us! The fresh morn Of summer shines; the white clouds of the east 30 Are crisped; beneath, the bright blue champaign steams; The banks, the meadows, and the flowers, send up An incensed exhalation, like the meek And holy praise of Him whose soul's deep joy The lone woods witness. Thou, whose heart is sick Of vanities; who, in the throng of men, Dost feel no lenient fellowship; whose eye Turns, with a languid carelessness, around Upon the toiling crowd, still murmuring on, Restless;—oh, think, in summer scenes like these, 40 How sweet the sense of quiet gladness is, That, like the silent breath of morning, steals From lowly nooks, and feels itself expand Amid the works of Nature, to the Power That made them: to the awful thought of HIM Who, when the morning stars shouted for joy, Bade the great sun from tenfold darkness burst, The green earth roll in light, and solitude First hear the voice of man, whilst hills and woods Stood eminent, in orient hues arrayed, 50 His dwelling; and all living Nature smiled, As in this pictured semblance, beaming full Before us! Mark again the various view: Some city's far-off spires and domes appear, Breaking the long horizon, where the morn Sits blue and soft: what glowing imagery Is spread beneath!—Towns, villages, light smoke, And scarce-seen windmill-sails, and devious woods, Chequering 'mid sunshine the grass-level land, 60 That stretches from the sight. Now nearer trace The forms of trees distinct—the broad brown oak; The poplars, that, with silvery trunks, incline, Shading the lonely castle; flakes of light Are flung behind the massy groups, that, now Enlarging and enlarging still, unfold Their separate beauties. But awhile delay; Pass the foot-bridge, and listen (for we hear, Or think we hear her), listen to the song 70 Of yonder milkmaid, as she brims her pail; Whilst, in the yellow pasture, pensive near, The red cows ruminate. Break off, break off, for lo! where, all alarmed, The small birds,[89] from the late resounding perch, Fly various, hushed their early song; and mark, Beneath the darkness of the bramble-bank That overhangs the half-seen brook, where nod The flowing rushes, dew-besprent, with breast Ruddy, and emerald wing, the kingfisher 80 Steals through the dripping sedge away. What shape Of terrors scares the woodland habitants, Marring the music of the dawn? Look round; See, where he creeps, beneath the willowy stump, Cowering and low, step silent after step, The booted fowler: keen his look, and fixed Upon the adverse bank, while, with firm hand, He grasps the deadly tube; his dog, with ears Hung back, and still and steady eye of fire, Points to the prey; the boor, intent, moves on 90 Panting, and creeping close beneath the leaves, And fears lest ev'n the rustling reeds betray His footfall; nearer yet, and yet more near, He stalks. Who now shall save the heedless group, The speckled partridges, that in the sun, On yonder hillock green, across the stream, Bask unalarmed beneath the hawthorn bush, Whose aged boughs the crawling blackberry Entwines! And thus, upon the sweetest scenes 100 Of human loveliness, and social peace Domestic, when the full fond heart reclines Upon its hopes, and almost mingles tears Of joy, to think that in this hollow world Such bliss should be its portion; then (alas, The bitter change!), then, with his unheard step, In darkness shrouded, yet approaching fast, Death, from amidst the sunny flowers, lifts up His giant dread anatomy, and smites, Smites the fair prospect once, whilst every bloom 110 Hangs shrivelled, and a sound of mourning fills The lone and blasted valley: but no sound Is here of sorrow or of death, though she, The country Kate, with shining morning cheek (Who, in the tumbril, with her market-gear, Sits seated high), seems to expect the flash Exploding, that shall lay the innocent And feathered tenants of the landscape low. Not so the clown, who, heedless whether life Or death betide, across the plashy ford 120 Drives slow; the beasts plod on, foot following foot, Aged and grave, with half-erected ears, As now his whip above their matted manes Hangs tremulous, while the dark and shallow stream Flashes beneath their fetlock: he, astride On harness saddle, not a sidelong look Deigns at the breathing landscape, or the maid Smiling behind; the cold and lifeless calf Her sole companion: and so mated oft Is some sweet maid, whose thrilling heart was formed 130 For dearer fellowship. But lift the eye, And hail the abode of rural ease. The man Walks forth, from yonder antique hall, that looks The mistress of the scene; its turrets gleam Amid the trees, and cheerful smoke is seen, As if no spectred shape (though most retired The spot) there ever wandered, stoled in white, Along the midnight chambers; but quaint Mab Her tiny revels led, till the rare dawn Peeped out, and chanticleer his shrill alarm 140 Beneath the window rang, then, with a wink, The shadowy rout have vanished! As the morn Jocund ascends, how lovely is the view To him who owns the fair domain! The friend Of his still hours is near, to whom he vowed His truth; her eyes reflect his bliss; his heart Beats high with joy; his little children play, Pleased, in his pathway; one the scattered flowers Straggling collects, the other spreads its arms, 150 In speechless blandishment, upon the neck Of its caressing nurse. Still let us gaze, And image every form of heartfelt joy Which scenes like these bestow, that charm the sight, Yet soothe the spirit. All is quiet here, Yet cheerful as the green sea, when it shines In some still bay, shines in its loneliness Beneath the breeze, that moves, and hardly moves, The placid surface. 160 On the balustrade Of the old bridge, that o'er the moat is thrown, The fisher with his angle leans intent, And turns, from the bright pomp of spreading plains, To watch the nimble fry, that glancing oft Beneath the gray arch shoot! Oh, happiest he Who steals through life, untroubled as unseen! The distant city, with its crowded spires, That dimly shines upon his view, awakes No thought but that of pleasure more composed, 170 As the winds whisper him to sounder sleep. He leans upon the faithful arm of her For whom his youthful heart beat, fondly beat, When life was new: time steals away, yet health And exercise are his; and in these shades, Though sometimes he has mourned a proud world's wrong, He feels an independence that all cares Breasts with a carol of content; he hears The green leaves of his old paternal trees Make music, soothing as they stir: the elm, 180 And poplar with its silvery trunk, that shades The green sward of the bank before his porch, Are to him as companions;—whilst he turns With more endearment to the living smile Of those his infants, who, when he is dead, Shall hear the music of the self-same trees Waving, till years roll on, and their gray hairs Go to the dust in peace. Away, sad thought! Lo! where the morning light, through the dark wood, 190 Upon the window-pane is flung like fire, Hail, Life and Hope; and thou, great work of art, That 'mid this populous and busy swarm Of men dost smile serene, as with the hues Of fairest, grandest Nature; may'st thou speak Not vainly of the endearments and best joys That Nature yields. The manliest heart that swells With honest English feelings,—while the eye, Saddened, but not cast down, beholds far off The darkness of the onward rolling storm,— 200 Charmed for a moment by this mantling view, Its anxious tumults shall suspend: and such, The pensive patriot shall exclaim, thy scenes, My own beloved country, such the abode Of rural peace! and while the soul has warmth, And voice has energy, the brave arm strength, England, thou shalt not fall! The day shall come, Yes, and now is, that thou shalt lift thyself; And woe to him who sets upon thy shores His hostile foot! Proud victor though he be, 210 His bloody march shall never soil a flower That hangs its sweet head, in the morning dew, On thy green village banks! His mustered hosts Shall be rolled back in thousands, and the surge Bury them! Then, when peace illumes once more, My country, thy green nooks and inmost vales, It will be sweet amidst the forest glens To stray, and think upon the distant storm That howled, but injured not! At thoughts like these, 220 What heart, what English heart, but shall beat high! Meantime, its keen flash passed, thine eye intent, Beaumont, shall trace the master-strokes of art, And view the assemblage of the finished piece, As with his skill who formed it: ruder views, Savage, with solitary pines, hung high Amid the broken crags (where scowling wait The fierce banditti), stern Salvator's hand Shall aptly shade: o'er Poussin's clustering domes, With ampler umbrage, the black woods shall hang, 230 Beneath whose waving gloom the sudden flash Of broken light upon the brawling stream Is flung below. Aerial Claude shall paint The gray fane peering o'er the summer woods, The azure lake below, or distant seas, And sails, in the pellucid atmosphere, Soft gleaming to the morn. Dark on the rock, Where the red lightnings burst, shall Wilson stand, Like mighty Shakspeare, whom the imps of fire 240 Await. Nor oh, sweet Gainsborough! shall thee The Muse forget, whose simple landscape smiles Attractive, whether we delight to view The cottage chimney through the high wood peep; Or beggar beauty stretch her little hand, With look most innocent; or homeward kine Wind through the hollow road at eventide, Or browse the straggling branches. Scenes like these Shall charm all hearts, while truth and beauty live, 250 And Nature's pictured loveliness shall own Each master's varied touch; but chiefly thou, Great Rubens! shalt the willing senses lead, Enamoured of the varied imagery, That fills the vivid canvas, swelling still On the enraptured eye of taste, and still New charms unfolding; though minute, yet grand, Simple, yet most luxuriant; every light And every shade, greatly opposed, and all Subserving to one magical effect 260 Of truth and harmony. So glows the scene; And to the pensive thought refined displays The richest rural poem. Oh, may views So pictured animate thy classic mind, Beaumont, to wander 'mid Sicilian scenes, And catch the beauties of the pastoral bard,[90] Shadowing his wildest landscapes! AEtna's fires, Bebrycian rocks, Anapus' holy stream, And woods of ancient Pan; the broken crag 270 And the old fisher here; the purple vines There bending; and the smiling boy set down To guard, who, innocent and happy, weaves, Intent, his rushy basket, to ensnare The chirping grasshoppers, nor sees the while The lean fox meditate her morning meal, Eyeing his scrip askance; whilst further on Another treads the purple grapes—he sits, Nor aught regards, but the green rush he weaves. O Beaumont! let this pomp of light and shade 280 Wake thee, to paint the woods that the sweet Muse Has consecrated: then the summer scenes Of Phasidamus, clad in richer light, Shall glow, the glancing poplars, and clear fount; While distant times admire (as now we trace This summer-mantling view) hoar AEtna's pines, The vine-hung grotts, and branching planes, that shade The silver Arethusa's stealing wave.

[89] The landscape is on so large a scale, that all these circumstances are most accurately delineated.

[90] Theocritus. Alluding to a design of illustrating the picturesque character of the venerable Sicilian, by paintings of Sir George, from new translations of Messrs Sotheby, Rogers, Howley, W. Spencer, and the author.

THE HARP, AND DESPAIR, OF COWPER.

Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve, And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere, Turning to the sound his ear, Bend down a look of sympathy and love; Oh, swell the lyre again, As if in full accord it poured an angel's strain! But oh! what means that look aghast, Ev'n whilst it seemed in holy trance, On scenes of bliss above to glance! Was it a fiend of darkness passed! Oh, speak— Paleness is upon his cheek— On his brow the big drops stand, To airy vacancy Points the dread silence of his eye, And the loved lyre it falls, falls from his nerveless hand! Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Oh, come, and make thy downy nest Once more on his sad heart! Meek Faith, a drop of comfort shed; Sweet Hope, support his aged head; And Charity, avert the burning dart! Fruitless the prayer—the night of deeper woes Seems o'er the head even now to close; In vain the path of purity he trod, In vain, in vain, He poured from Fancy's shell his sweetest hermit strain— He has no hope on earth: forsake him not, O God!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I trust the happy hour will come, 1 That shall to peace thy breast restore; And that we two, beloved friend, Shall one day meet to part no more.

It grieves me most, that parting thus, 2 All my soul feels I dare not speak; And when I turn me from thy sight, The tears in silence wet my cheek.

Yet I look forward to the time, 3 That shall each wound of sorrow heal; When I may press thee to my heart, And tell thee all that now I feel.{e}

MUSIC.

O Music! if thou hast a charm That may the sense of pain disarm, Be all thy tender tones addressed To soothe to peace my Harriet's breast; And bid the magic of thy strain So still the wakeful throb of pain, That, rapt in the delightful measure, Sweet Hope again may whisper pleasure, And seem the notes of Spring to hear, Prelusive to a happier year! And if thy magic can restore The shade of days that smile no more, And softer, sweeter colours give To scenes that in remembrance live; Be to her pensive heart a friend, And, whilst the tender shadows blend, Recall, ere the brief trace be lost, Each moment that she prized the most. Perhaps, when many a cheerful day Hereafter shall have stolen away, If then some old and favourite strain Should bring back to her thoughts again The hours when, silent by her side, I listened to her song and sighed; Perhaps a long-forgotten name, A thought, if not a tear may claim; And when in distant plains away, Alone I count each lingering day, She may a silent prayer prefer For him whose heart once bled for her.

ABSENCE.

OCTOBER 26, 1791.

How shall I cheat the heavy hours, of thee Deprived, of thy kind looks and converse sweet, Now that the waving grove the dark storms beat, And wintry winds sad sounding o'er the lea,[91] Scatter the sallow leaf! I would believe, Thou, at this hour, with tearful tenderness Dost muse on absent images, and press In thought my hand, and say: Oh do not grieve, Friend of my heart! at wayward fortune's power; One day we shall be happy, and each hour Of pain forget, cheered by the summer ray. These thoughts beguile my sorrow for thy loss, And, as the aged pines their dark heads toss, Oft steal the sense of solitude away. So am I sadly soothed, yet do I cast A wishful glance upon the seasons past, And think how different was the happy tide, When thou, with looks of love, wert smiling by my side.

[91] Summer-Lees, near Knoyle.

FAIRY SKETCH.

SCENE—NETLEY ABBEY.

There was a morrice on the moonlight plain, And music echoed in the woody glade, For fay-like forms, as of Titania's train, Upon a summer eve, beneath the shade Of Netley's ivied ruins, to the sound Of sprightly minstrelsy did beat the ground:— Come, take hands! and lightly move, While our boat, in yonder cove, Rests upon the darkening sea; Come, take hands, and follow me!

Netley! thy dim and desolated fane Hath heard, perhaps, the spirits of the night Shrieking, at times, amid the wind and rain; Or haply, when the full-orbed moon shone bright, Thy glimmering aisles have echoed to the song Of fairy Mab, who led her shadowy masque along. Now, as to the sprightly sound Of moonlight minstrelsy we beat the ground; From the pale nooks, in accent clear, Now, methinks, her voice I hear, Sounding o'er the darksome sea; Come, take hands, and follow me!

Here, beneath the solemn wood, When faintly-blue is all the sky, And the moon is still on high, To the murmurs of the flood, To the glimpses of the night, We perform our airy rite;— Care and pain to us unknown, To the darkening seas are flown.

Hear no more life's fretful noise, Heed not here pale Envy's sting, Far from life's distempered joys; To the waters murmuring, To the shadows of the sky, To the moon that rides on high, To the glimpses of the night, We perform our airy rite, While care and pain, to us unknown, To the darkening seas are flown.

INSCRIPTION.

Come, and where these runnels fall, Listen to my madrigal! Far from all sounds of all the strife, That murmur through the walks of life; From grief, inquietude, and fears, From scenes of riot, or of tears; From passions, cankering day by day, That wear the inmost heart away; From pale Detraction's envious spite, That worries where it fears to bite; From mad Ambition's worldly chase, Come, and in this shady place, Be thine Contentment's humble joys, And a life that makes no noise, Save when fancy, musing long, Turns to desultory song;[92] And wakes some lonely melody, Like the water dripping by. Come, and where these runnels fall, Listen to my madrigal!

BREMHILL GARDEN, Sept. 1808.

[92] "And Fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song."—Parnell.

PICTURES FROM THEOCRITUS.

FROM IDYL I.

[Greek: Ady ti to psthyrisma], etc.

Goat-herd, how sweet above the lucid spring The high pines wave with breezy murmuring! So sweet thy song, whose music might succeed To the wild melodies of Pan's own reed.

THYRSIS.

More sweet thy pipe's enchanting melody Than streams that fall from broken rocks on high. Say, by the nymphs, that guard the sacred scene, Where lowly tamarisks shade these hillocks green, At noontide shall we lie? No; for o'erwearied with the forest chase, Pan, the great hunter god, sleeps in this place. Beneath the branching elm, while thy sad verse, O Thyrsis! Daphnis' sorrows shall rehearse, Fronting the wood-nymph's solitary seat, Whose fountains flash amid the dark retreat; Where the old statue leans, and brown oaks wave Their ancient umbrage o'er the pastoral cave; There will we rest, and thou, as erst, prolong The sweet enchantment of the Doric song!

FROM THE SAME IDYL.

Mark, where the beetling precipice appears, The toil of the old fisher, gray with years; Mark, as to drag the laden net he strains, The labouring muscle and the swelling veins! There, in the sun, the clustered vineyard bends, And shines empurpled, as the morn ascends! A little boy, with idly-happy mien, To guard the grapes upon the ground is seen; Two wily foxes creeping round appear,— The scrip that holds his morning meal is near,— One breaks the bending vines; with longing lip, And look askance, one eyes the tempting scrip. He plats and plats his rushy net all day, And makes the vagrant grasshopper his prey; He plats his net, intent with idle care, Nor heeds how vineyard, grape, or scrip may fare.

FROM THE SAME.

Where were ye, nymphs, when Daphnis drooped with love? In fair Peneus' Tempe, or the grove Of Pindus! Nor your pastimes did ye keep, Where huge Anapus' torrent waters sweep; On AEtna's height, ah! impotent to save, Nor yet where Akis winds his holy wave!

FROM THE SAME.

Pan, Pan, oh mighty hunter! whether now, Thou roamest o'er Lyceus' shaggy brow, Or Moenalaus, outstretched in amplest shade, Thy solitary footsteps have delayed; Leave Helice's romantic rock a while, And haste, oh haste, to the Sicilian isle; Leave the dread monument, approached with fear, That Lycaonian tomb the gods revere. Here cease, Sicilian Muse, the Doric lay;— Come, Forest King, and bear this pipe away; Daphnis, subdued by love, and bowed with woe, Sinks, sinks for ever to the shades below.

FROM IDYL VII.

He left us;—we, the hour of parting come, To Prasidamus' hospitable home, Myself and Eucritus, together wend, With young Amynticus, our blooming friend: There, all delighted, through the summer day, On beds of rushes, pillowed deep, we lay; Around, the lentils, newly cut, were spread; Dark elms and poplars whispered o'er our head; A hallowed stream, to all the wood-nymphs dear, Fresh from the rocky cavern murmured near; Beneath the fruit-leaves' many-mantling shade, The grasshoppers a coil incessant made; From the wild thorny thickets, heard remote, The wood-lark trilled his far-resounding note; Loud sung the thrush, musician of the scene, And soft and sweet was heard the dove's sad note between; Then yellow bees, whose murmur soothed the ear, Went idly flitting round the fountain clear. Summer and Autumn seemed at once to meet, Filling with redolence the blest retreat, While the ripe pear came rolling to our feet.

FROM IDYL XXII.

When the famed Argo now secure had passed The crushing rocks,[93] and that terrific strait That guards the wintry Pontic, the tall ship Reached wild Bebrycia's shores; bearing like gods Her god-descended chiefs. They, from her sides, With scaling steps descend, and on the shore, Savage, and sad, and beat by ocean winds, Strewed their rough beds, and on the casual fire The vessels place. The brothers, by themselves, CASTOR and red-haired POLLUX, wander far Into the forest solitudes. A wood Immense and dark, shagging the mountain side, Before them rose; a cold and sparkling fount Welled with perpetual lapse, beneath its feet, Of purest water clear; scattering below, Streams as of silver and of crystal rose, Bright from the bottom: Pines, of stateliest height, Poplar, and plane, and cypress, branching wide, Were near, thick bordered by the scented flowers That lured the honeyed bee, when spring declines, Thick swarming o'er the meadows. There all day A huge man sat, of savage, wild aspect; His breast stood roundly forward, his broad back Seemed as of iron, such as might befit A vast Colossus sculptured. Full to view The muscles of his brawny shoulders stood, Like the round mountain-stones the torrent wave Has polished; from his neck and back hung down A lion's skin, held by its claws. Him first The red-haired youth addressed: Hail, stranger, hail, And say, what tribes unknown inhabit here! Take to the seas thy Hail: I ask it not, Who never saw before, or thee, or thine. Courage! thou seest not men that are unjust Or cruel. Courage shall I learn from thee! Thy heart is savage; thou art passion's slave. Such as I am thou seest; but land of thine I tread not. Come, these hospitable gifts Accept, and part in peace. No: not from thee. My gifts are yet in store. Say, may we drink Of this clear fount? Ask, when wan thirst has parched Thy lips. What present shall I give to thee? None. Stand before me as a man; lift high Thy brandished arms, and try, weak pugilist, Thy strength. But say, with whom shall I contend? Thou seest him here; nor in his art unskilled. Then what shall be the prize of him who wins? Or thou shalt be my slave, or I be thine. The crested birds so fight. Whether like birds Or lions, for no other prize fight we! He said: and sounded loud his hollow conch; The gaunt Bebrycian brethren, at the sound, With long lank hair, come flocking to the shade Of that vast plain. Then Castor hied, and called The hero chiefs from the Magnesian[94] ship.

[93] Rocks which were supposed to strike one against the other, and so crush the ship that attempted to pass between.

[94] So called, from the country where it was built.

SKETCHES IN THE EXHIBITION, 1805.

What various objects strike with various force, Achilles, Hebe, and Sir Watkin's horse! Here summer scenes, there Pentland's stormy ridge, Lords, ladies, Noah's ark, and Cranford bridge! Some that display the elegant design, The lucid colours, and the flowing line; Some that might make, alas! Walsh Porter[95] stare, And wonder how the devil they got there!

LADY M——VE.

How clear a strife of light and shade is spread! The face how touched with nature's loveliest red! The eye, how eloquent, and yet how meek! The glow subdued, yet mantling on thy cheek! M——ve! I mark alone thy beauteous face, But all is nature, dignity, and grace!

HON. MISS MERCER.—HOPNER.

Oh! hide those tempting eyes, that faultless form, Those looks with feeling and with nature warm; The neck, the softly-swelling bosom hide, Nor, wanton gales, blow the light vest aside; For who, when beauties more than life excite Silent applause, can gaze without delight! But innocence, enchanting maid, is thine; Thine eyes in liquid light unconscious shine; And may thy breast no other feelings prove, Than those of sympathy and mutual love!

[95] A gentleman well known for his taste and fine collection.

EXHIBITION, 1807.

BLIND FIDDLER.—WILKIE.

With mirth unfeigned the cottage chimney rings, Though only vocal with four fiddle-strings: And see, the poor blind fiddler draws his bow, And lifts intent his time-denoting toe; While yonder maid, as blythe as birds in June, You almost hear her whistle to the tune! Hard by, a lad, in imitative guise, Fixed, fiddle-like, the broken bellows plies; Before the hearth, with looks of honest joy, The father chirrups to the chattering boy, And snaps his lifted thumbs with mimic glee, To the glad urchin on his mother's knee!

MORNING.—TURNER.

Up! for the morning shines with welcome ray, And to the sunny seabeach let us stray. What orient hues proclaim the master's hand! How light the wave upon the half-wet sand! How beautiful the sun, as still we gaze, Streams all diffusive through the opening haze! Artist—when to the thunder's pealing sound, Fire mixed with hailstones ran upon the ground, When partial darkness the dread prospect hid, And sole aspired the aged pyramid— Sublimity thy genius seemed to guide O'er Egypt's champaign, desolate and wide; But here delightful beauty reigns alone, And decks the morning scene with graces all her own.

KESWICK.—SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

How shall I praise thee, Beaumont, whose nice skill Can mould the soft and shadowy scene at will; Chastise to harmony each gaudy ray, Simple, yet grand, the mountain scene display; The lake where sober evening seems to sleep, Hills far retiring into umbrage deep; Blend all with classic, pure, poetic taste, And strike the more with forms and colours chaste!

MARKET-DAY.—CALCOT.

Through the wood's maze our eyes delighted stray, To mark the rustics on the market-day. Beneath the branches winds the long white road; Here peeps the rustic cottager's abode; There in the morning sun, the children play, Or the crone creeps along the dusty way.

SCENE IN FRANCE.—LOUTHERBOURG.

Artist, I own thy genius; but the touch May be too restless, and the glare too much: And sure none ever saw a landscape shine, Basking in beams of such a sun as thine, But felt a fervid dew upon his phiz, And panting cried, O Lord, how hot it is!

DEATH OF NELSON.—WEST.

Turn to Britannia's triumphs on the main: See Nelson, pale and fainting, 'mid the slain, Whilst Victory sighs, stern in the garb of war, And points through clouds the rocks of Trafalgar! Here cease the strain; but while thy hulls shall ride, Britain, dark shadowing the tumultuous tide, May other Nelsons, on the sanguine main, Guide, like a god, the battle's hurricane; And when the funeral's transient pomp is past, High hung the banner, hushed the battle's blast, May the brave character to ages shine, And Genius consecrate the immortal shrine!

SOUTHAMPTON CASTLE.[96]

INSCRIBED TO THE MARQUIS OF LANSDOWNE.

The moonlight is without; and I could lose An hour to gaze, though Taste and Splendour here, As in a lustrous fairy palace, reign! Regardless of the lights that blaze within, I look upon the wide and silent sea, That in the shadowy moonbeam sleeps: How still, Nor heard to murmur, or to move, it lies; Shining in Fancy's eye, like the soft gleam, The eve of pleasant yesterdays! 10 The clouds Have all sunk westward, and the host of stars Seem in their watches set, as gazing on; While night's fair empress, sole and beautiful, Holds her illustrious course through the mid heavens Supreme, the spectacle, for such she looks, Of gazing worlds! How different is the scene That lies beneath this arched window's height! The town, that murmured through the busy day, 20 Is hushed; the roofs one solemn breadth of shade Veils; but the towers, and taper spires above, The pinnets, and the gray embattled walls, And masts that throng around the southern pier, Shine all distinct in light; and mark, remote, O'er yonder elms, St Mary's modest fane. Oh! if such views may please, to me they shine How more attractive! but few years have passed, Since there I saw youth, health, and happiness, All circling round an aged sire,[97] whose hairs 30 Are now in peace gone down; he was to me A friend, and almost with a father's smile Hung o'er my infant Muse. The cheerful voice Of fellowship, the song of harmony, And mirth, and wit,[98] were there. That scene is passed: Cold death and separation have dissolved The evening circle of once-happy friends! So has it ever fared, and so must fare, With all! I see the moonlight watery tract 40 That shines far off, beneath the forest-shades: What seems it, but the mirror of that tide, Which noiseless, 'mid the changes of the world, Holds its inevitable course, the tide Of years departing; to the distant eye Still seeming motionless, though hurrying on From morn till midnight, bearing, as it flows, The sails of pleasurable barks! These gleam To-day, to-morrow other passing sails Catch the like sunshine of the vernal morn. 50 Our pleasant days are as the moon's brief light On the pale ripple, passing as it shines! But shall the pensive bard for this lament, Who knows how transitory are all worlds Before His eye who made them! Cease the strain; And welcome still the social intercourse That soothes the world's loud jarring, till the hour When, universal darkness wrapping all This nether scene, a light from heaven shall stream 60 Through clouds dividing, and a voice be heard: Here only pure and lasting bliss is found!

[96] Southampton Castle is a magnificent pile, erected by the Marquis of Lansdowne, commanding the most striking views of the river, the Isle of Wight, the New Forest, et cet.

[97] Late Dean of Winchester, Dr Newton Ogle.

[98] I speak this of Mr Sheridan, who was often of the party.

THE WINDS.

When dark November bade the leaves adieu, And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds, Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew, With garments streaming light, amid the clouds; From adverse regions of the sky, In dim succession, they went by. The first, as o'er the billowy deep he passed, Blew from its brazen trump a far-resounding blast. Upon a beaked promontory high, With streaming heart, and cloudy brow severe, 10 Marked ye the father of the frowning year![99] Dark vapours rolled o'er the tempestuous sky, When creeping WINTER from his cave came forth; Stern courier of the storm, he cried, what from the north?

NORTH WIND.

From the vast and desert deeps, Where the lonely Kraken sleeps, Where fixed the icy mountains high Glimmer to the twilight sky; Where, six lingering months to last, 20 The night has closed, the day is past, Father, lo, I come, I come: I have heard the wizard's drum, And the withered Lapland hag, Seal, with muttered spell, her bag: O'er mountains white, and forests sere, I flew, and with a wink am here.

WINTER.

Spirit of unwearied wing, From the Baltic's frozen main, From the Russ's bleak domain, 30 Say, what tidings dost thou bring! Shouts, and the noise of battle! and again The winged wind blew loud a deadly blast; Shouts, and the noise of battle! the long main Seemed with hoarse voice to answer as he passed. The moody South went by, and silence kept; The cloudy rack oft hid his mournful mien, And frequent fell the showers, as if he wept The eternal havoc of this mortal scene. He had heard the yell, and cry, 40 And howling dance of Anarchy, Where the Rhone, with rushing flood, Murmured to the main, through blood:— He seemed to wish he could for ever throw His misty mantle o'er a world of woe. But rousing him from his desponding trance, Cold Eurus blew his sharp and shrilling horn; In his right hand he bore an icy lance, That far off glittered in the frost of morn; The old man knew the clarion from afar, 50 What from the East? he cried.

EAST WIND.

Shouts, and the noise of war! Far o'er the land hath been my flight, O'er many a forest dark as night, O'er champaigns where the Tartar speeds, O'er Wolga's wild and giant reeds, O'er the Carpathian summits hoar, Beneath whose snows and shadows frore, Poland's level length unfolds Her trackless woods and wildering wolds, 60 Like a spirit, seeking rest, I have passed from east to west, While sounds of discord and lament Rose from the earth where'er I went. I care not; hurrying, as in scorn, I shook my lance, and blew my horn; The day shows clear; and merrily Along the Atlantic now I fly. Who comes in soft and spicy vest, From the mild regions of the West? 70 An azure veil bends waving o'er his head, And showers of violets from his hands are shed. 'Tis Zephyr, with a look as young and fair As when his lucid wings conveyed That beautiful and gentle maid Psyche, transported through the air, The blissful couch of Love's own god to share. Winter, avaunt! thy haggard eye Will scare him, as he wanders by, Him and the timid butterfly. 80 He brings again the morn of May; The lark, amid the clear blue sky, Carols, but is not seen so high, And all the winter's winds fly far away! I cried: O Father of the world, whose might The storm, the darkness, and the winds obey, Oh, when will thus the long tempestuous night Of warfare and of woe be rolled away! Oh, when will cease the uproar and the din, And Peace breathe soft, Summer is coming in! 90

[99] "Then comes the father of the tempest forth."—Thomson.

ON WILLIAM SOMMERS OF BREMHILL.

When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs, O aged man! Thy sand is almost run, And many a year, in vain, to meet the sun, Thine eyes have rolled in darkness; want and cares Have been thy visitants from morn to morn. While trembling on existence thou dost live, Accept what human charity can give; But standing thus, time-palsied, and forlorn, Like a scathed oak, of all its boughs bereft, God and the grave are thy best refuge left. When the bells rung, and summer's smiling ray Welcomed again the merry Whitsuntide, And all my humble villagers were gay; I saw thee sitting on the highway side, To feel once more the warm sun's blessed beam: Didst thou then think upon thy own gay prime, On such a holiday, and the glad time When thou wert young and happy, like a dream Now perished! No; the murmured prayer alone Rose from the trembling lips towards the Throne Of Mercy; that ere spring returned again, And the long winter blew its dreary blast, To sweep the verdure from the fading plain, Thy burden would be dropped, thy sorrows past! O blind and aged man, bowed down with cares, When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs!

THE VISIONARY BOY.

Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me! Enough of care and heaviness The weary lids of life depress, And doubly blest that gentle heart shall be, That wooes of poesy the visions bland, And strays forgetful o'er enchanted land! Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me! So spoke, with ardent look, yet eyebrow sad, When he had passed o'er many a mountain rude, And many a wild and weary solitude, 10 'Mid a green vale, a wandering minstrel-lad. With eyes that shone in softened flame, With wings and wand, young Fancy came; And as she touched a trembling lute, The lone enthusiast stood entranced and mute. It was a sound that made his soul forego All thoughts of sadness in a world of woe. Oh, lend that lute! he cried: Hope, Pity, Love, Shall listen; and each valley, rock, and grove, Shall witness, as with deep delight, 20 From orient morn to dewy-stealing night. My spirit, rapt in trance of sweetness high, Shall drink the heartfelt sound with tears of ecstasy! As thus he spoke, soft voices seemed to say, Come away, come away; Where shall the heart-sick minstrel stray, But (viewing all things like a dream) By haunted wood, or wizard stream? That, like a hermit weeping, Amid the gray stones creeping; 30 With voice distinct, yet faint, Calls on Repose herself to hear its soothing plaint. For him, romantic Solitude Shall pile sublime her mountains rude; For him, with shades more soft impressed, The lucid lake's transparent breast Shall show the banks, the woods, the hill, More clear, more beautiful, more still. For him more musical shall wave The pines o'er Echo's moonlit cave; 40 While sounds as of a fairy lyre Amid the shadowy cliffs expire! This valley where the raptured minstrel stood Was shaded with a circling slope of wood, And rich in beauty, with that valley vied, Thessalian Tempe, crowned with verdant bay, Where smooth and clear Peneus winds his way; And Ossa and Olympus, on each side, Rise dark with woods; or that Sicilian plain Which Arethusa's clearest waters lave, 50 By many a haunt of Pan, and wood-nymph's cave, Lingering and listening to the Doric strain Of him,[100] the bard whose music might succeed To the wild melodies of Pan's own reed! This scene the mistress of the valley held, Fancy, a magic maid; and at her will, Aerial castles crowned the gleaming hill, Or forests rose, or lapse of water welled. Sometimes she sat with lifted eye, And marked the dark storm in the western sky; 60 Sometimes she looked, and scarce her breath would draw, As fearful things, not to be told, she saw; And sometimes, like a vision of the air, On wings of shifting light she floated here and there. In the breeze her garments flew, Of the brightest skiey blue, Lucid as the tints of morn, When Summer trills his pipe of corn: Her tresses to each wing descending fall, Or, lifted by the wind, 70 Stream loose and unconfined, Like golden threads, beneath her myrtle coronal. The listening passions stood aloof and mute, As oft the west wind touched her trembling lute. But when its sounds the youthful minstrel heard, Strange mingled feelings, not to be expressed, Rose undefined, yet blissful, on his breast, And all the softened scene in sweeter light appeared. Then Fancy waved her wand, and lo! An airy troop went beckoning by: 80 Come, from toil and worldly woe; Come, live with us in vales remote! they cry. These are the flitting phantasies; the dreams That lead the heart through all that elfin land, Where half-seen shapes entice with whispers bland. Meantime the clouds, impressed with livelier beams, Roll, in the lucid track of air, Arrayed in coloured brede, with semblances more fair. The airy troop, as on they sail, Thus the pensive stranger hail: 90 In the pure and argent sky, There our distant chambers lie; The bed is strewed with blushing roses, When Quietude at eve reposes, Oft trembling lest her bowers should fade, In the cold earth's humid shade. Come, rest with us! evanishing, they cried— Come, rest with us! the lonely vale replied. Then Fancy beckoned, and with smiling mien, A radiant form arose, like the fair Queen 100 Of Beauty: from her eye divinely bright, A richer lustre shot, a more attractive light. She said: With fairer tints I can adorn The living landscape, fairer than the morn. The summer clouds in shapes romantic rolled, And those they edge the fading west, like gold; The lake that sleeps in sunlight, yet impressed With shades more sweet than real on its breast; 'Mid baffling stones, beneath a partial ray, The small brook huddling its uneven way; 110 The blue far distant hills, the silvery sea, And every scene of summer speaks of me: But most I wake the sweetest wishes warm, Where the fond gaze is turned on woman's breathing form. So passing silent through a myrtle grove, Beauty first led him to the bower of Love. A mellow light through the dim covert strayed, And opening roses canopied the shade. Why does the hurrying pulse unbidden leap! Behold, in yonder glade that nymph asleep! 120 The heart-struck minstrel hangs, with lingering gaze, O'er every charm his eye impassioned strays! An edge of white is seen, and scarcely seen, As soft she breathes, her coral lips between; A lambent ray steals from her half-closed eye, As her breast heaves a short imperfect sigh. Sleep, winds of summer, o'er the leafy bower, Nor move the light bells of the nodding flower; Lest but a sound of stirring leaves might seem To break the charm of her delicious dream! 130 And ye, fond, rising, throbbing thoughts, away, Lest syren Pleasure all the soul betray! Oh! turn, and listen to the ditty From the lowly cave of Pity. On slaughter's plain, while Valour grieves, There he sunk to rest, And the ring-dove scattered leaves Upon his bleeding breast! Her face was hid, while her pale arms enfold What seemed an urn of alabaster cold; 140 To this she pressed her heaving bosom bare: The drops that gathered in the dank abode Fell dripping, on her long dishevelled hair; And still her tears, renewed, and silent, flowed: And when the winds of autumn ceased to swell, At times was heard a slow and melancholy knell! 'Twas in the twilight of the deepest wood, Beneath whose boughs like sad Cocytus, famed Through fabling Greece, from lamentation named[101] A river dark and silent flowed, there stood 150 A pale and melancholy man, intent His look upon that drowsy stream he bent, As ever counting, when the fitful breeze With strange and hollow sound sung through the trees, Counting the sallow leaves, that down the current went. He saw them not: Earth seemed to him one universal blot. Sometimes, as most distempered, to and fro He paced; and sometimes fixed his chilling look Upon a dreadful book, 160 Inscribed with secret characters of woe; While gibbering imps, as mocking him, appeared, And airy laughter 'mid the dusk was heard. Then Fancy waved her wand again, And all that valley that so lovely smiled Was changed to a bare champaign, waste and wild. "What pale and phantom-horseman rides amain?" 'Tis Terror;—all the plain, far on, is spread With skulls and bones, and relics of the dead! From his black trump he blew a louder blast, 170 And earthquakes muttered as the giant passed. Then said that magic maid, with aspect bland, 'Tis thine to seize his phantom spear, 'Tis thine his sable trumpet to command, And thrill the inmost heart with shuddering fear. But hark! to Music's softer sound, New scenes and fairer views accordant rise: Above, around, The mingled measure swells in air, and dies. Music, in thy charmed shell, 180 What sounds of holy magic dwell! Oft when that shell was to the ear applied, Confusion of rich harmonies, All swelling rose, That came, as with a gently-swelling tide: Then at the close, Angelic voices seemed, aloft, To answer as it died the cadence soft. Now, like the hum of distant ocean's stream, The murmurs of the wond'rous concave seem; 190 And now exultingly their tones prolong The chorded paeans of the choral song, Then Music, with a voice more wildly sweet Than winds that pipe on the forsaken shore, When the last rain-drops of the west are o'er, Warbled: Oh, welcome to my blest retreat, And give my sounds to the responsive lyre: With me to these melodious groves retire, And such pure feelings share, As, far from noise and folly, soothe thee there. 200 Here Fancy, as the prize were won, And now she hailed her favourite son, With energy impatient cried: The weary world is dark and wide, Lo! I am with thee still to comfort and to guide.[102] Nor fear, if, grim before thine eyes, Pale worldly Want, a spectre, lowers; What is a world of vanities To a world as sweet as ours! When thy heart is sad and lone, 210 And loves to dwell on pleasures flown, When that heart no more shall bound At some kind voice's well-known sound, My spells thy drooping languor shall relieve, And airy spirits touch thy lonely harp at eve. Look!—Delight and Hope advancing, Music joins her thrilling notes, O'er the level lea come dancing; Seize the vision as it floats, Bright-eyed Rapture hovers o'er them, 220 Waving light his seraph wings, Youth exulting flies before them, Scattering cowslips as he sings! Come now, my car pursue, The wayward Fairy cried; And high amid the fields of air, Above the clouds, together we will ride, And posting on the viewless winds, So leave the cares of earth and all its thoughts behind. I can sail, and I can fly, 230 To all regions of the sky, On the shooting meteor's course, On a winged griffin-horse! She spoke: when Wisdom's self drew nigh, A noble sternness in her searching eye; Like Pallas helmed, and in her hand a spear, As not in idle warfare bent, but still, As resolute, to cope with every earthly ill. In youthful dignity severe, She stood: And shall the aspiring mind, 240 To Fancy be alone resigned! Alas! she cried, her witching lay Too often leads the heart astray! Still, weak minstrel, wouldst thou rove, Drooping in the distant grove, Forgetful of all ties that bind Thee, a brother, to mankind? Has Fancy's feeble voice defied The ills to poor humanity allied? Can she, like Wisdom, bid thy soul sustain 250 Its post of duty in a life of pain! Can she, like meek Religion, bid thee bear Contempt and hardship in a world of care! Yet let not my rebuke decry, In all, her blameless witchery, Or from the languid bosom tear Each sweet illusion nourished there. With dignity and truth, combined, Still may she rule the manly mind; Her sweetest magic still impart 260 To soften, not subdue, the heart: Still may she warm the chosen breast, Not as the sovereign, but the guest. Then shall she lead the blameless Muse Through all her fairest, wildest views; To mark amid the flowers of morn, The bee go forth with early horn; Or when the moon, a softer light Sheds on the rocks and seas of night, To hear the circling fairy bands 270 Sing, Come unto these yellow sands! Sweeter is our light than day, Fond enthusiast, come away! Then Chivalry again shall call The champions to her bannered hall! The pipe, and song, with many a mingled shout, Ring through the forest, as the satyr-rout, Dance round the dragon-chariot of Romance; Forth pricks the errant knight with rested lance; Imps, demons, fays, in antic train succeed, 280 The wandering maiden, and the winged steed! The muttering wizard turns, with haggard look, The bloody leaves of the accursed book, Whilst giants, from the gloomy castle tower, With lifted bats of steel, more dreadful lower! At times, the magic shall prevail Of the wild and wonderous tale; At times, high rapture shall prolong The deep, enthusiastic song. Hence, at midnight, thou shalt stray, 290 Where dark ocean flings its spray, To hear o'er heaven's resounding arch The Thunder-Lord begin his march! Or mark the flashes, that present Some far-off shattered monument; Whilst along the rocky vale, Red fires, mingled with the hail, Run along upon the ground, And the thunders deeper sound! The loftier Muse, with awful mien, 300 Upon a lonely rock is seen: Full is the eye that speaks the dauntless soul; She seems to hear the gathering tempest roll Beneath her feet; she bids an eagle fly, Breasting the whirlwind, through the dark-red sky; Or, with elated look, lifts high the spear, As sounds of distant battles roll more near. Now deep-hushed in holy trance, She sees the powers of Heaven advance, And wheels, instinct with spirit, bear 310 God's living chariot through the air; Now on the wings of morn she seems to rise, And join the strain of more than mortal harmonies. Thy heart shall beat exulting as she sings, And thou shalt cry: Give me an angel's wings! With sadder sound, o'er Pity's cave, The willow in the wind shall wave; And all the listening passions stand, 318 Obedient to thy great command. With Poesy's sweet charm impressed, Fancy thus shall warm thy breast; Still her smiling train be thine, Still her lovely visions shine, To cheer, beyond my boasted power, A sad or solitary hour. Thus let them soothe a while thy heart, "Come like shadows, so depart;" But never may the witching lay Lead each sense from life astray; For vain the poet's muse of fire, 330 Vain the magic of his lyre, Unless the touch subdued impart Truth and wisdom to the heart!

[100] Theocritus.

[101] "From lamentation named, and loud lament."—Milton.

[102] I have placed Music last, as I think a perfect musical ear implies the highest degree of cultivation.

CADLAND,[103] SOUTHAMPTON RIVER.

If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave, Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved To pass delighted from her green abode, And, seated on a summer bank, to sing No earthly music; in a spot like this, The bard might feign he heard her, as she dried Her golden hair, yet dripping from the main, In the slant sunbeam. So the pensive bard Might image, warmed by this enchanting scene, 10 The ideal form; but though such things are not, He who has ever felt a thought refined; He who has wandered on the sea of life, Forming delightful visions of a home Of beauty and repose; he who has loved, With filial warmth his country, will not pass Without a look of more than tenderness On all the scene; from where the pensile birch Bends on the bank, amid the clustered group Of the dark hollies; to the woody shore 20 That steals diminished, to the distant spires Of Hampton, crowning the long lucid wave. White in the sun, beneath the forest-shade, Full shines the frequent sail, like Vanity, As she goes onward in her glittering trim, Amid the glances of life's transient morn, Calling on all to view her! Vectis[104] there, That slopes its greensward to the lambent wave, And shows through softest haze its woods and domes, 30 With gray St Catherine's[105] creeping to the sky, Seems like a modest maid, who charms the more Concealing half her beauties. To the East, Proud, yet complacent, on its subject realm, With masts innumerable thronged, and hulls Seen indistinct, but formidable, mark Albion's vast fleet, that, like the impatient storm, Waits but the word to thunder and flash death On him who dares approach to violate 40 The shores and living scenes that smile secure Beneath its dragon-watch! Long may they smile! And long, majestic Albion (while the sound From East to West, from Albis[106] to the Po, Of dark contention hurtles), may'st thou rest, As calm and beautiful this sylvan scene Looks on the refluent wave that steals below.

[103] A beautiful seat of Henry Drummond, Esq.

[104] The Isle of Wight.

[105] The highest slowly-rising eminence in the Isle of Wight, seen from the river.

[106] The Elbe.

THE LAST SONG OF CAMOENS.[107]

The morning shone on Tagus' rocky side, And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide, When, rising from his melancholy bed, And faint, and feebly by Antonio[108] led, Poor Camoens, subdued by want and woe, Along the winding margin wandered slow, His harp, that once could each warm feeling move Of patriot glory or of tenderest love, His sole and sable friend[109] (while a faint tone Rose from the wires) placed by a mossy stone. 10 How beautiful the sun ascending shines From ridge to ridge, along the purple vines! How pure the azure of the opening skies! How resonant the nearer rock replies To call of early mariners! and, hark! The distant whistle from yon parting bark, That down the channel as serene she strays, Her gray sail mingles with the morning haze, Bound to explore, o'er ocean's stormy reign, New lands that lurk amid the lonely main! 20 A transient fervour touched the old man's breast; He raised his eyes, so long by care depressed, And while they shone with momentary fire, Ardent he struck the long-forgotten lyre. From Tagus' yellow-sanded shore, O'er the billows, as they roar, O'er the blue sea, waste and wide, Our bark threw back the burning tide, By northern breezes cheer'ly borne, On to the kingdoms of the morn. 30 Blanco, whose cold shadow vast Chills the western wave, is past! Huge Bojador, frowning high, Thy dismal terrors we defy! But who may violate the sleep And silence of the sultry deep; Where, beneath the intenser sun,[110] Hot showers descend, red lightnings run; Whilst all the pale expanse beneath Lies burning wide, without a breath; 40 And at mid-day from the mast, No shadow on the deck is cast! Night by night, still seen the same, Strange lights along the cordage flame, Perhaps, the spirits of the good,[111] That wander this forsaken flood Sing to the seas, as slow we float, A solemn and a holy note! Spectre[112] of the southern main, Thou barr'st our onward way in vain, 50 Wrapping the terrors of thy form, In the thunder's rolling storm! Fearless o'er the indignant tide, On to the east our galleys ride. Triumph! for the toil is o'er— We kiss the far-sought Indian shore! Glittering to the orient ray, The banners of the Cross display! Does my heart exulting bound? Alas, forlorn, I gaze around: 60 Feeble, poor, and old, I stand, A stranger in my native land! My sable slave (ah, no! my only friend, Whose steps upon my rugged path attend) Sees, but with tenderness that fears to speak, The tear that trickles down my aged cheek! My harp is silent,—famine shrinks mine eye,— "Give me a little food for charity!"[113]

[107] Inscribed to Lord Strangford.

[108] The faithful Indian who attended him in all his sorrows, a native of Java.

[109] Antonio, "who begged alms through Lisbon, and at night shared the produce with his broken-hearted master."—Strangford's Preface.

[110] Crossing the Line.

[111] Lights called by the Portuguese Corpo Sancto's, supposed to be the spirits of saints, hovering on the shrouds.

[112] The terrific Phantom of the Cape, described by Camoens.

[113] Camoens, the great poet of Portugal, is supposed to have gone to the East Indies in the same ship with the first Discoverer, round the Cape of Good Hope, Vasco de Gama. This is not the case, though he wrote the noble poem descriptive of the voyage. He went to India some years afterwards, but the general idea is sufficient for poetical purposes. His subsequent sorrows and poverty, in his native land, are well known.

THE SYLPH OF SUMMER.[114]

God said, Let there be light, and there was light! At once the glorious sun, at his command, From space illimitable, void and dark, Sprang jubilant, and angel hierarchies, Whose long hosannahs pealed from orb to orb, Sang, Glory be to Thee, God of all worlds! Then beautiful the ball of this terrene Rolled in the beam of first-created day, And all its elements obeyed the voice Of Him, the great Creator; Air, and Fire, 10 And Earth, and Water, each its ministry Performed, whilst Chaos from his ebon throne Leaped up; and so magnificent, and decked, And mantled in its ambient atmosphere, The living world began its state! To thee, Spirit of Air, I lift the venturous song, Whose viewless presence fills the living scene, Whose element ten thousand thousand wings Fan joyous; o'er whose fields the morning clouds 20 Ride high; whose rule the lightning-shafts obey, And the deep thunder's long-careering march! The Winds too are thy subjects; from the breeze, That, like a child upon a holiday, On the high mountain's van pursues the down Of the gray thistle, ere the autumnal shower Steals soft, and mars his pastime; to the King Of Hurricanes, that sounds his mighty shell, And bids Tornado sweep the Western world. Sylph of the Summer Gale, on thee I call! 30 Oh, come, when now gay June is in her car, Wafting the breath of roses as she moves; Come to this garden bower, which I have hung With tendrils, and the fragrant eglantine, And mandrake, rich with many mantling stars! 'Tis pleasant, when thy breath is on the leaves Without, to rest in this embowering shade, And mark the green fly, circling to and fro, O'er the still water, with his dragon wings, Shooting from bank to bank, now in quick turns, 40 Then swift athwart, as is the gazer's glance, Pursuing still his mate; they, with delight, As if they moved in morris, to the sound Harmonious of this ever-dripping rill, Now in advance, now in retreat, now round, Dart through their mazy rings, and seem to say: The Summer and the Sun are ours! But thou, Sylph of the Summer Gale, delay a while Thy airy flight, whilst here Francesca leans, 50 And, charmed by Ossian's harp, seems in the breeze To hear Malvina's plaint; thou to her ear Come unperceived, like music of the song From Cona's vale of streams; then with the bee, That sounds his horn, busied from flower to flower, Speed o'er the yellow meadows, breathing ripe Their summer incense; or amid the furze, That paints with bloom intense the upland crofts, With momentary essence tinge thy wings; Or in the grassy lanes, one after one, 60 Lift light the nodding foxglove's purple bell. Thence, to the distant sea, and where the flag Hangs idly down, without a wavy curl, Thou hoverest o'er the topmast, or dost raise The full and flowing mainsail: Steadily, The helmsman cries, as now thy breath is heard Among the stirring cordage o'er his head; So, steadily, he cries, as right he steers, Speeds our proud ship along the world of waves. Sylph, may thy favouring breath more gently blow, 70 More gently round the temples and the cheek Of him, who, leaving home and friends behind, In silence musing o'er the ocean leans, And watches every passing shade that marks The southern Channel's fast-retiring line; Then, as the ship rolls on, keeps a long look Fixed on the lessening Lizard,[115] the last point Of that delightful country, where he left All his fond hopes behind: it lessens still; Still, still it lessens, and now disappears! 80 He turns, and only sees the waves that rock Boundless. How many anxious morns shall rise, How many moons shall light the farthest seas, O'er what new scenes and regions shall he stray, A weary man, still thinking of his home, Ere he again that shore shall view, and greet With blissful thronging hopes and starting tears, Of heartfelt welcome, and of warmest love! Perhaps, ah! never! So didst thou go forth, My poor lost brother![116] 90 The airs of morning as enticing played, And gently, round thee, and their whisperings Might sooth (if aught could sooth) a boding heart; For thou wert bound to visit scenes of death, Where the sick gale (alas! unlike the breeze That bore the gently-swelling sail along) Was tainted with the breath of pestilence, That smote the silent camp, and night and day Sat mocking on the putrid carcases. Thou too didst perish! As the south-west blows, 100 Thy bones, perhaps, now whiten on the coast Of old Algarva.[117] I, meantime, these shades Of village solitude, hoping erewhile To welcome thee from many a toil restored, Still deck, and now thy empty urn[118] alone I meet, where, swaying in the summer gale, The willow whispers in my evening walk. Sylph, in thy airy robe, I see thee float, A rainbow o'er thy head, and in thy hand The magic instrument,[119] that, as thy wing, 110 Lucid, and painted like the butterfly's, Waves to and from, most musically rings; Sometimes in joyance, as the flaunting leaf Of the white poplar, sometimes sad and slow, As bearing pensive airs from Pity's grave. Soft child of air, thou tendest on his sway, As gentle Ariel at the bidding hies Of mighty Prospero; yet other winds Throng to his wizard 'hest, inspiring some, Some melancholy, and yet soothing much 120 The drooping wanderer in the fading copse; Some terrible, with solitude and death Attendant on their march:—the wild Simoom,[120] Riding on whirling spires of burning sand, That move along the Nubian wilderness, And bury deep the silent caravan;— Monsoon, up-starting from his half-year sleep, Upon the vernal shores of Hindostan, And tempesting with sounds of torrent rain, And hail, the darkening main;—and red Sameel, 130 Blasting and withering, like a rivelled leaf, The pilgrim as he roams;—Sirocco sad, That pants, all summer, on the cloudless shores Of faint Parthenope;—deep in the mine Oft lurks the lurid messenger of death, The ghastly fiend that blows, when the pale light Quivers, and leaves the gasping wretch to die;— The imp, that when the hollow curfew knolls, Wanders the misty marish, lighting it At night with errant and fantastic flame. 140 Spirit of air, these are thy ministers, That wait thy will; but thou art all in all, And dead without thee were the flower, the leaf, The waving forest rivelled, the great sea Still, the lithe birds of heaven extinct, and ceased The soul of melting music. This fair scene Lives in thy tender touch, for so it seems; Whilst universal nature owns thy sway; From the mute insect on the summer pool, 150 That with long cobweb legs, firm as on earth The ostrich skims, flits idly to and fro, Making no dimple on the watery mass; To the huge grampus, spouting, as he rolls, A cataract, amid the cold clear sky, And furrowing far and wide the northern deep. Thy presence permeates and fills the whole! As the poor butterfly, that, painted gay, With mealy wings, red, amber, white, or dropped With golden stains, floats o'er the yellow corn, 160 Idly, as bent on pastime, while the morn Smiles on his devious voyage; if inclosed In the exhausted prison,[121] whence thy breath With suction slow is drawn, he feels the change How dire! in palsied inanition drops! Weak flags his weary wing, and weaker yet; His frame with tremulous convulsion moves A moment, and the next is still in death. So were the great and glorious world itself; The tenants of its continents, all ceased! 170 A wide, a motionless, a putrid waste, Its seas! How droops the languid mariner, When not a breath, along the sluggish main, Strays on the sultry surface as it sleeps; When far away the winds are flown, to dash The congregated ocean on the Cape Of Southern Africa, leaving the while The flood's vast surface noiseless, waveless, white, Beneath Mozambique's long-reflected woods, A gleaming mirror, spread from east to west, 180 Where the still ship, as on a bed of glass, Sits motionless. Awake, ye hurricanes! Ye winds that harrow up the wintry waste, Awake! for Thunder in his sounding car, Flashing thick lightning from the rolling wheels, And the red volley, charged with instant death, Were music to this lingering, sickening calm, The same eternal sunshine; still, all still, Without a vapour, or a sound. If thus, 190 Beneath the burning, breathless atmosphere, Faint Nature sickening droop; who shall ascend The height, where Silence, since the world began, Has sat on Cimborazzo's highest peak, A thousand toises o'er the cloud's career, Soaring in finest ether? Far below, He sees the mountains burning at his feet, Whose smoke ne'er reached his forehead; never there, Though the black whirlwind shake the distant shores, The passing gale has murmured; never there 200 The eagle's cry has echoed; never there The solitary condor's weary wing Hath yet ascended! Let the rising thought Beyond the confines of this vapoury vault Be lifted, to the boundless void of space, How dread, how infinite! where other worlds, Ten million and ten million leagues aloft, In other precincts with their shadows roll. There roams the sole erratic comet, borne 210 With lightning speed, yet twice three hundred years Its destined course accomplishing. Then whirled, Far from the attractive orb of central fire, Back through the dim and infinite abyss, Dread flaming visitant, ere thou return'st, Empires may rise and fail; the palaces, That shone on earth, may vanish like the dews Of morning, scarce illumined ere they fly. Dread flaming visitant, who that pursues 220 Thy long and lonely voyage, ev'n in thought, (Till thought itself seem in the effort lost,) But tremblingly exclaims, There is a God: There is a God who lights ten thousand suns,[122] Round which revolve worlds wheeling amid worlds. He launched thy voyage through the vast abyss, He hears his universe, through all its orbs, As with one voice, proclaim, There is a God! Lifted above this dim diurnal sphere, 230 So fancy, rising with her theme, ascends, And voyaging the illimitable void, Where comets flame, sees other worlds and suns Emerge, and on this earth, like a dim speck, Looks down: nor in the wonderful and vast Of the dread scene magnificent, she views Alone the Almighty Ruler, but the web That shines in summer time, and only seen In the slant sunbeam, wakes a moral thought. In autumn, when the thin long spider gains 240 The leafy bush's top, he from his seat Shoots the soft filament, like threads of air, Scarce seen, into the sky; and thus sustained, Boldly ascends into the breezy void, Dependent on the trembling line he wove, Insidious, and intent on scenes of spoil And death:—So mounts Ambition, and aloft On his proud summit meditates new scenes Of plunder and dominion, till the breeze Of fortune change, that blows to empty air 250 His feeble, frail support, and once again Leaves him a reptile, struggling in the dust! But what the world itself, what in His view Whose dread Omnipotence is over all! A twinkling air-thread in the vast of space. And what the works of that proud insect, Man! His mausoleums, fanes, and pyramids, Frown in the dusk of long-revolving years, While generations, as they rise and drop, Each following each to silence and to dust, 260 Point as they pass, and say, It was a God[123] That made them: but nor date, nor name Oblivion shows; cloud only, rolling on, And wrapping darker as it rolls, the works Of man! Now raised on Contemplation's wing, The blue vault, fervent with unnumbered stars, He ranges: speeds, as with an angel's flight, From orb to orb; sees distant suns illume The boundless space, then bends his head to earth, 270 So poor is all he knows! O'er sanguine fields Now rides he, armed and crested like the god Of fabled battles; where he points, pale Death Strides over weltering carcases; nor leaves,— But still a horrid shadow, step by step, Stalks mocking after him, till now the noise Of rolling acclamation, and the shout Of multitude on multitude, is past: The scene of all his triumphs, wormy earth, 280 Closes upon his perishable pride; For "dust he is, and shall to dust return"! But Conscience, a small voice from heaven replies, Conscience shall meet him in another world. Let man, then, walk meek, humble, pure, and just; Though meek, yet dignified; though humble, raised, The heir of life and immortality; Conscious that in this awful world he stands, He only of all living things, ordained To think, and know, and feel, there is a God! 290 Child of the air, though most I love to hear Thy gentle summons whisper, when the Spring, At the first carol of the village lark, Looks out and smiles, or June is in her car; Not undelightful is the purer air In winter, when the keen north-east is high, When frost fantastic his cold garland weaves Of brittle flowers, or soft-succeeding snows Gather without apace, and heavy load The berried sweetbrier, clinging to my pane. 300 The blackbird, then, that marks the ruddy pods Peep through the snow, though silent is his song, Yet, pressed by cold and hunger, ventures near. The robin group, familiar, muster round The garden-shed, where, at his dinner set, The laboured hind strews here and there a crumb From his brown bread; then heedless of the winds That blow without, and sweep the shivered snow, Sees from his broken tube the smoke ascend On an inverted barrow, as in state 310 He sits, though poor, the monarch of the scene, As pondering deep the garden's future state, His kingdom; the rude instruments of death Lie at his feet, fashioned with simple skill, With which he hopes to snare the prowling race, The mice, rapacious of his vernal hopes. So seated, on the spring he ruminates, And solemn as a sophi,[124] moves nor hand, Nor eye, till haply some more venturous bird, (The crumbs exhausted that he lately strewed 320 Upon the groundsill,) with often dipping beak, And sidelong look, as asking larger dole, Comes hopping to his feet: and say, ye great, Ye mighty monarchs of this earthly scene, What nobler views can elevate the heart Of a proud patriot king, than thus to chase The bold rapacious spoilers from the field, And with an eye of merciful regard To look on humble worth, wet from the storm, And chilled by indigence! 330 But thoughts like these Ill suit the radiant summer's rosy prime, And the still temper of the calm blue sky. The sunny shower is past; at intervals The silent glittering drops descend; and mark, Upon the blue bank of yon western cloud, That looms direct against the emerging orb, How bright, how beautiful the rainbow's hues Steal out, how stately bends the graceful arch Above the hills, and tinging at his foot 340 The mead and trees! Fancy might think young Hope Pants for the vision, and with ardent eye Pursues the unreal shade, and spreads her hands, Weeping to see it fade, as all her dreams Have faded. These, O Air! are but the toys, That sometimes deck thy fairy element; So oft the eye observant loves to trace The colours, and the shadows, and the forms, That wander o'er the veering atmosphere. 350 See, in the east, the rare parhelia shine In mimic glory, and so seem to mock (Fixed parallel to the ascending orb) The majesty, the splendour, and the shape, Of the sole luminary that informs The world with light and heat! The halo-ring Bends over all! With desultory shafts, And long and arrowy glance, the night-lights[125] shoot Pale coruscations o'er the northern sky; 360 Now lancing to the cope, in sheets of flame, Now wavering wild, as the reflected wave, On the arched roof of the umbrageous grot. Hence Superstition dreams of armaments, Of fiery conflicts, and of bleeding fields Of slaughter; so on great Jerusalem, Ere yet she fell, the flaming meteor glared; A waving sword ensanguined seemed to point To the devoted city, and a voice Was heard, Depart, depart![126] 370 The atmosphere, That with the ceaseless hurry of its clouds, Encircles the round globe, resembles oft The passing sunshine, or the glooms that stray O'er every human spirit. Thin light streaks Of thought pass vapoury o'er the vacant mind, And fade to nothing. Now fantastic gleams Play, flashing or expiring, of gay hope, Or deep despair; then clouds of sadness close 380 In one dark settled gloom, and all the man Droops, in despondence lost. Aerial tints Please most the pensive poet: and the views He forms, though evanescent, and as vain As the air's mockery, seem to his eye Ev'n as substantial images, and shapes, Till in a hurrying rack they all dissolve. So in the cloudless sky, amusive shines The soft and mimic scenery; distant hills 390 That, in refracted light, hang beautiful Beneath the golden car of eve, ere yet The daylight lingering fades. Hence, on the heights Of Apennine, far stretching to the south, The goat-herd, while the westering sun, far off, Hangs o'er the hazy ocean's brim, beholds In the horizon's faintly-glowing verge A landscape,[127] like the rainbow, rise, with rocks That softened shine, and shores that trend away, 400 Beneath the winding woods of Sicily, And Etna, smouldering in the still pale sky; And dim Messina, with her spires, and bays That wind among the mountains, and the tower Of Faro, gleaming on the tranquil straits; Unreal all, yet on the air impressed, From light's refracted ray,[128] the shadow seems The certain scene: the hind astonished views, Yet most delighted, till at once the light Changes, and all has vanished! 410 But to him, How different in still air the unreal view, Who wanders in Arabian solitudes, When, faint with thirst, he sees illusive streams[129] Shine in the arid desert! All around, A silent waste of dark gray sand is spread, Like ashes; not a speck in heaven appears, But the red sun, high in his burning noon, Shoots down intolerable fire: no sound 420 Of beast, or blast, or moving insect, stirs The horrid stillness. Oh! what hand will guide The pilgrim, panting in the trackless dust, To where the pure and sparkling fountain cheers The green oasis.[130] See, as now his lip Hangs parched and quivering, see before him spread The long and level lake! He gazes; still He gazes, till he drops upon the sands, And to the vision stretches, as he faints, 430 His feeble hand. Come, Sylph of Summer, come! Return to these green pastures, that, remote From fiery blasts, or deadly blistering frosts, Beneath the temperate atmosphere rejoice! A crown of flame, a javelin in his hand, Like the red arrow that the lightning shoots Through night, impetuous steeds, and burning wheels, That, as they whirl, flash to the cope of heaven, Proclaim the angel of the world of fire! 440 The ocean-king, lord of the waters, rides High on his hissing car, whose concave skirrs The azure deep beneath him, flashing wide, As to the sun the dark-green wave upturns, And foaming far behind: sea-horses breast The bickering surge, with nostrils sounding far, And eyes that flash above the wave, and necks, Whose mane, like breakers whitening in the wind, Toss through the broken foam: he kingly bears His trident sceptre high; around him play 450 Nereids, and sea-maids, singing as he rides Their choral song: huge Triton, weltering on, With scaly train, at times his wreathed shell Sounds, that the caverns of old ocean shake! But milder thou, soft daughter of the air, Sylph of the Summer, come! the silent shower Is past, and 'mid the dripping fern, the wren Peeps, till the sun looks through the clouds again. Oh, come, and breathe thy gentler influence, And send a home-felt quiet to my heart, 460 Soothed as I hear, by fits, thy whisper run, Stirring the tall acacia's pendent leaves, And through yon hazel alley rustling soft Upon the vacant ear! Yon eastern downs, That weather-fence the blossoms of the vale, Where winds from hill to hill the mighty Dike,[131] Of Woden named, with many an antique mound, The warrior's grave, bids exercise awake, And health, the breeze of morning to inhale: 470 Meantime, remote from storms, the myrtle blooms Beneath my southern sash. The hurricane May rend the pines of snowy Labrador, The blasting whirlwinds of the desert sweep The Nubian wilderness—we fear them not; Nor yet, my country, do thy breezes bear, From citrons, or the blooming orange-grove, As in Rousillon's jasmine-bordered vales, Incense at eve. 480 But temperate airs are thine, England; and as thy climate, so thy sons Partake the temper of thine isle; not rude, Nor soft, voluptuous, nor effeminate; Sincere, indeed, and hardy, as becomes Those who can lift their look elate, and say, We strike for injured freedom; and yet mild, And gentle, when the voice of charity Pleads like a voice from heaven: and, thanks to GOD, The chain that fettered Afric's groaning race, 490 The murderous chain, that, link by link, dropped blood, Is severed; we have lost that foul reproach To all our virtuous boast! Humanity, England, is thine! not that false substitute, That meretricious sadness, which, all sighs For lark or lambkin, yet can hear unmoved The bloodiest orgies of blood-boltered France; Thine is consistent, manly, rational, Nor needing the false glow of sentiment 500 To melt it into sympathy, but mild, And looking with a gentle eye on all; Thy manners open, social, yet refined, Are tempered with reflection; gaiety, In her long-lighted halls, may lead the dance, Or wake the sprightly chord; yet nature, truth, Still warm the ingenuous heart: there is a blush With those most gay, and lovely; and a tear With those most manly! Temperate Liberty 510 Hath yet the fairest altar on thy shores; Such, and so warm with patriot energy, As raised its arm when a false Stuart fled; Yet mingled with deep wisdom's cautious lore, That when it bade a Papal tyrant pause And tremble, held the undeviating reins On the fierce neck of headlong Anarchy. Thy Church, (nor here let zealot bigotry, Vaunting, condemn all altars but its own), Thy Church, majestic, but not sumptuous, 520 Sober, but not austere, with lenity Tempering her fair pre-eminence, sustains Her liberal charities, yet decent state. The tempest is abroad; the fearful sounds Of armament, and gathering tumult, fill The ear of anxious Europe. If, O GOD! It is thy will, that in the storm of death, When we have lifted the brave sword in vain, We too should sink, sustain us in that hour! Meantime be mine, in cheerful privacy, 530 To wait Thy will, not sanguine, nor depressed; In even course, nor splendid, nor obscure, To steal through life among my villagers! The hum of the discordant crowd, the buzz Of faction, the poor fly that threads the air Self-pleased, the wasp that points its tiny sting Unfelt, pass by me like the idle wind That I regard not; while the Summer Sylph, That whispers through the laurels, wakes the thought Of quietude, and home-felt happiness, 540 And independence, in a land I love!

[114] Inscribed to William Sotheby, Esq.

[115] The last point of Cornwall.

[116] Dr Henry Bowles, on the medical staff sent to Gibraltar during the pestilential fever there.

[117] South coast of Portugal.

[118] An urn is erected to his memory in Bremhill Garden.

[119] AEolian harp.

[120] Simoom, Sameel, destructive winds in the deserts of Asia. See Bruce, &c.

[121] Air-pump.

[122] Fixed stars.

[123] So the Arabs say, speaking of the stupendous monuments in the deserts.

[124] Title of the Persian Emperor.

[125] Aurora Borealis.

[126] From Josephus.

[127] A curious effect of vision in the air from refraction, by which objects appear distinct, and as real, which are below the horizon. This often appears on the coast of Italy, and has been sometimes observed from our shores, where a line of the opposite coast appears.

[128] The Fata Morgana are all explained in books; the effect is ascribed to reflection and refraction, as one alone will not correspond with the effects. The time when they occur is not the evening; but the looming in our country is towards the evening.