George Dyer: Verses about Life

Greatest of beings! Source of life!
Sovereign of air, and earth, and sea!
All nature feels thy power, and all
A silent homage pays to Thee.

Children, whose little minds, unformed,
Ne'er raised a tender thought to heaven;
And men, whom reason lifts to God,
Though oft by passion downward driven;

Those too who bend with age and care,
And faint and tremble near the tomb,
Who, sickening at the present scenes,
Sigh for that better state to come;

All, great Creator! all are thine;
All feel thy providential care;
And through each varying stage of life,
Alike thy constant pity share.

And whether grief oppress the heart,
Or whether joy elate the breast,
Or life still keep its little course,
Or death invite the heart to rest:

All are thy messengers; and all
Thy sacred pleasure, Lord! obey:
And all are training man to dwell
Nearer to bliss, and nearer Thee.

— whom I met in earlier day,
Following, as SCIENCE led the way,
And warmly hail'd a gen'rous name
Glowing with FREEDOM'S sacred flame,
What time, by Cam's slow-gliding stream,
I mus'd at ease the pensive theme;
Or, as in some Aonian Grove,
Where Bards ecstatic lov'd to rove,
I struck, at FANCY'S call, the Classic Lyre,
And felt, or seem'd to feel, some Prophet's holy fire!

We saw no Alps in grandeur climb,
Nor Ocean rous'd to thought sublime,
No Mountain-torrents roll'd around,
Nor Rocks gave out the mystic sound:
Yet clear was Morning's earliest Light,
The Star of Evening mild and bright;
And, lofty on his mid-day throne,
The Sun, in beauty glorious, shone;
Sweet was the Gale that brush'd the wavy field,
And NATURE'S simplest forms could charms unnumber'd yield!

But now no more! — for time has sped,
And many a golden Day-dream fled;
While backward as I turn my eye,
Friends, now no more, awake the sigh;
And, ah, as swift the Rivers glide,
To lose themselves in Ocean's tide;
And, as the Birds forget to sing,
And Trees put off the dress of Spring,
So thou, my Friend, art hast'ning on to death,
And I shall cease from Song, and soon resign my breath!

But, rise some scenes of fresh delight—
Some vision'd bliss still charm my sight;
And, long as aught of Life shall last,
Let some new Day-dream chace the past;
Still fire me, FREEDOM'S ardent throng,
And fill me, soul-enchanting Song;
Still, FRIENDSHIP, deign with me to rest,
And raise your Altar in my Breast!
But, when the nobler Virtues cease to fire,
Oh, thou, ye Visions, close, and Life itself expire!

From Lomond's light-blue lake, and verdant isles,
Long-winding glens, and rude romantic woods,
And hills, that hide their summits in the clouds,
Light, as a vessel borne by western gales,
I journey'd, musing many a rural theme.
The hours I counted not, as nimble-wing'd
They circling flew, soft smiling, as they pass'd:
Thy mansion, gentle THOMSON! I approach,
The sweet retreat of poesy and love;
Thy friendly converse, and the grateful smiles
Of fair LOUISA, chear me, while around
Thy pratlers play. — 'Oh! may domestic bliss,'
Thus pray'd my soul, 'here fix its lasting seat.'

Then o'er poetic ground with thee I rove,
Scenes fancy-colour'd: bright before me rise
Beauty's rich Garden: soon, a mourner pale,
I tread the Vale of Pity: till the House
Of Ridicule pours forth her wanton tribe.
Soon circling high I climb the mount sublime,
Round whose bold top the muttering thunders roll,
And forked lightnings flash: with tremulous joy
The height I reach: then look triumphant down:
Till Fancy, pointing with her fairy wand,
Calls me to range her wild-enchanted bowers,
'Mid visionary forms, and shadowy scenes.
Enthusiast sweet! Oh, I could wander still
With her, the muse of Spencer, and no less
Of him, who Scotia's fairy regions sung,
From every clime would crop some fragrant flower,
Till Superstition, opening all her stores,
And gazing on me with a mother's eye,
Should bless her fondling's large credulities.

But now from Fancy's magic wilds I go
To Nature's living green: straight I repose
As wont, my head, where I may best survey
The various landscape: full before me rises
A row of well-rang'd buildings, and beyond
A thick umbrageous wood: down the fair vale
The sylvan Teath devolves her rapid stream,
As hastening on to tell the stately Forth,
E'er she commix her stores, how fair a scene
She pass'd at Deanston: on her sloping side
Towers a proud castle, beauteous in decay:
High on the bank it frowns, and still o'erlooks
The modest stream, as seeming yet to boast
Of ancient grandeur. — Here the sated eye
Inquires no farther: thence the moral muse
Pours forth the strain: — 'Ah! thus shall human greatness
Sit like a mourner; thus in ruins ly
All that is mortal.'

Now, once more I seek
Domestic scenes, as tho' to smooth the brow
Ruffled by too much musing: — Stern-ey'd Fate:
Say didst thou doubt my heart's sincerity?
Think, that I did but moralise in song,
A formal minstrel? that, whene'er of death
I ponder, thou resolvest to o'ertake me,
And, with blood-reeking dart, to point my eye
To some fresh victim? 'Mortal here is death.'—
I see! I see! while softly falls the tear;
Yes, Armstrong falls, and pity drops the tear.
Relentless Tyrant! like a vernal flower
I view him fall, thine easy-yielding prey:
Blossom of early genius, blighted soon,
Industry, like a self-destroying insect,
Beating itself to dust; a sacred love
Of Freedom, like the vestal's purer flame,
Sparkling tho' life, that but with life expires:
These tell what Armstrong was; these still proclaim
How Armstrong lives in Friendship's faithful breast.

But, Thomson, let us hear the warning voice:
'— Whatever schemes thy mind may meditate,
Dispatch with well-tim'd zeal; but yet that zeal
Let matron prudence guide: for in the grave
Satire shall dropp the scourge; sage history
Cease to instruct; and rapture-breathing song,
To silence hush'd, delight the world no more.'