No riches from his scanty store
My lover could impart;
He gave a meant his love.
But now for me, in search of gain
From shore to shore he flies:
Why wander riches to obtain,boon I valued more—
He gave me all his heart!
His soul sincere, his gen'rous worth,
Might well this bosom move;
And when I ask'd for bliss on earth,
When love is all I prize?
The frugal meal, the lowly cot
If blest my love with thee!
That simple fare, that humble lot,
Were more than wealth to me.
While he the dang'rous ocean braves,
My tears but vainly flow:
Is pity in the faithless waves
To which I pour my woe?
The night is dark, the waters deep,
Yet soft the billows roll;
Alas! at every breeze I weep—
The storm is in my soul.
The Travellers In Haste;
THOMAS CLARKSON, ESQ.
WHEN MANY ENGLISH ARRIVED AT PARIS, BUT
REMAINED A VERY SHORT TIME.
LOV'D ENGLAND ! now the narrow sea
In vain would sep'rate France and thee:
May fav'ring zephyrs swell the sail
That wafts the crowd my wishes hail!
Strangers to me, they hither roam,
But English accents speak of home;
And SCOTIA , still more dear to me
Are those which lead me back to thee!
Accents that wake with magic powers
The spirits of departed hours!--
Ah, lost to me thy fir-clad hills,
The music of thy mountain-rills,--
Yet ever shall the mem'ry last,
'Pleasant and mournful' of the past.
But here, from scenes so new, so strange,
Where meditation long might range,
And taste might fix her ardent eye,
How swift the rapid travellers fly!
What haste to come, what haste to go,
Unknowing half they wish to know;
Delighted as they rush along,
But not less eager to be gone.
In vain the arts unfold their gates,
For there no stranger ever waits;
In vain unlock that wealth sublime
Immortal genius wrests from time:--
Ah, wherefore ope the classic book,
For those who have no time to look?
Who 'midst the academic bowers,
On BREGUET call to mark the hours;
Through the long gall'ry swift advance,
And judge perfection with a glance!
But to what class does he belong
Who comes less eager to be gone,
And yet inflexibly refuses
To heed the Arts, or court the Muses?
The groups that press to give th' 'Apollo'
A parting glance, he scorns to follow;
In vain the 'Venus' may expect
One look, and wonder at neglect;
For CLARKSON slights all forms of beauty,--
Not that he thinks indiff'rence duty,
But dearer pleasures fill the space
Of classic charms, and attic grace:--
He comes at this decisive hour
In Pity's cause, to plead with power;
His embassy is from the slave,
His diplomatic skill to save!
He comes the fetter'd to unbind,
To stipulate for half mankind;
And when applause records his name,
Sighs that philanthropy is fame.
Ode To Peace
She comes, benign enchantress, heav'n born PEACE!
With mercy beaming in her radiant eye;
She bids the horrid din of battle cease,
And at her glance the savage passions die.
'Tis Nature's festival, let earth rejoice,
And pour to Liberty exulting songs,
In distant regions, with according voice,
Let Man the vict'ry bless, its prize to Man belongs.
Resistless Freedom! when she nerves the arm,
No vulgar triumph crowns the hero's might;
She, she alone can spread a moral charm
O'er war's fell deeds, and sanctify the fight.
O, GALLIA ! in this bright immortal hour,
How proud a trophy binds thy laurel'd brow!
Republic, hail! whose independent power
All earth contested once, all earth confesses now.
Protecting spirits of the glorious dead!
Ah, not in vain the hero's noble toil,
Ah, not in vain the patriot's blood is shed,
That blood shall consecrate his native soil.
Illustrious names! to hist'ry's record dear,
And breath'd when some high impulse fires the bard,
For you shall virtue pour the glowing tear,
And your remember'd deeds shall still your country guard.
And thou, lov'd BRITAIN , my parental Isle!
Secure, encircled by thy subject waves,
Thou, land august, where Freedom rear'd her pile,
While gothic night obscur'd a world of slaves;
Thy genius, that indignant heard the shock
Of frantic combat, strife unmeet for thee,
Now views triumphant, from his sea-girt rock,
Thee unsubdued alone, for thou alone wert free!
O, happy thy misguided efforts fail'd,
My Country! when with tyrant-hosts combin'd--
O, hideous conquest, had thy sword prevail'd,
And crown'd the impious league against mankind!
Thou nurse of great design, of lofty thought,
What homicide, had thy insensate rage
Effac'd the sacred lesson thou hast taught,
And with thy purest blood inscrib'd on glory's page.
Ah, rather haste to Concord's holy shrine,
Ye rival nations, haste with joy elate;
Your blending garlands round her altar twine,
And bind the wounds of no immortal hate:
Go--breathe responsive rituals o'er the sod
Where Freedom martyrs press an early grave;
Go--vow that never shall their turf be trod
By the polluting step of tyrant or of slave.
And from your shores the abject vices chase,
That low Ambition generous souls disdain,
Corruption blasting every moral grace,
Servility that kneels to bless his chain;
O, Liberty, those demons far remove,
Come, nymph severely good, sublimely great!
Nor to the raptur'd hope of mortals prove
Like those illusive dreams that pass the iv'ry gate.
New Age! that roll'st o'er man thy dawning year,
Ah, sure all happy omens hail thy birth,
Sure whiter annals in thy train appear,
And purer glory cheers the gladden'd earth:
Like the young eagle, when his stedfast glance
Meets the full sun-beam in his upward flight,
So thou shalt with majestic step advance,
And fix thy dauntless eye on Liberty and Light.
Verses Addressed To My Two Nephews
ON SAINT HELEN'S DAY, 1809.
DEAR Boys!--dismiss'd awhile from school,
From sober learning's thorny rule,--
The annual race of glory run,
The prize bestow'd, the laurels won,--
Ye leave the scientific dome,
While noisy rapture hails your home:
Home--cherish'd spot! whose magic power
Can charm with hope the studious hour;
And where the heart--however far--
Points, like the needle to its star!
And now, with many a fond oration,
Ye ask, to crown this dear vacation,
Saturnian time of sport and play,
A FÊTE !--to grace SAINT HELEN'S DAY !
But will the Saint propitious see
A Fête dear Boys! prepar'd for me?
I!--who her altar never sought,
An heretic! who idly thought
She liv'd alone in pagan fame,
And half forgot her sainted name!
But--since that name, entwin'd with palms,
The legend's deathless page embalms,
And since historic truth must own
Her crested votary fill'd a throne--
We'll lay our offerings at her shrine,
And call her, as she is, divine!
Then haste, dear Boys! and deck the bowers,
This chosen day, with festive flowers!
The votive bouquet joyful bring;
And bid your muse, on lofty wing,
The steep Parnassian summits climb,
And weave the tributary rhyme.
The soothing song which ye rehearse--
Though form'd of perishable verse,
And, like the bouquet , born to die--
Shall fill with tears affection's eye;
Shall touch, with eloquence confest,
The chords which vibrate in her breast!
Then hither bring the early friend,
With whom your bounding hearts unbend;
Till then, in vain the Fête prepared--
What Fête, unless by friendship shar'd?
Together, happy band! advance;
Together frame the sportive dance;
Together tread the mimic stage,
The TALMAS of another age;
And then, to crown this favor'd night,
Unquestion'd symbol of delight,
The soaring rocket swift shall rise,
And, sweeping, gild the midnight skies;
Bright wheels of fire shall rapid turn;
And suns, that soon must set, shall burn;
SAINT HELEN , with a smile, shall view
Her rites all paid in order due.
The Saint, become my patron now,
To her and you I breathe my vow:
Listen, dear Boys! nor take amiss
A lesson, with a parting kiss--
Your life has clos'd its baby span,
And childhood ripens into man:
On youth's gay threshold now ye tread;
The path unfolds, with roses spread,
That leads the unsuspecting guest
Where Pleasure holds her Circean feast;
With bosoms yet from evil free,
Now promise to the Saint and me,
Oft as the years, on circling wing,
This fond returning day shall bring,
While o'er the world ye lightly roam,
Far from the long-lost scene of home,
This day in Pleasure's course to pause,
This day let Reason plead her cause!
When come the years--for come they must--
When her ye love is laid in dust;
Her who for you has learn'd to prove
A mother's care--a mother's love!
From you all ill has sought to chase,
And fill a mother's vacant place:
Still on this day, to duty true,
Remember that she liv'd for you!
Ah! give her one recording sigh,
Nor pass this day with tearless eye!
Still may its chosen hours impart
The throb of virtue to the heart,
And be the talisman whose spell
Shall Passion's wild delirium quell;
Controul, with some good angel's power,
Seduction in her smiling hour.
This day, from all her wiles secure,
With nobler hopes, with purpose pure,
Resolve to feel that best delight
Reserv'd for those who live aright:
And thus, dear Boys! your tribute pay;
Thus consecrate SAINT HELEN'S DAY!
An Address To Poetry
While envious crowds the summit view,
Where Danger with Ambition strays;
Or far, with anxious step, pursue
Pale Av'rice, thro' his winding ways;
The selfish passions in their train,
Whose force the social ties unbind,
And chill the love of human kind,
And make fond Nature's best emotions vain;
O, poesy! O nymph most dear,
To whom I early gave my heart,--
Whose voice is sweetest to my ear
Of aught in nature or in art;
Thou, who canst all my breast controul,
Come, and thy harp of various cadence bring,
And long with melting music swell the string
That suits the present temper of my soul.
O! ever gild my path of woe,
And I the ills of life can bear;
Let but thy lovely visions glow,
And chase the forms of real care;
O still, when tempted to repine
At partial Fortune's frown severe,
Wipe from my eyes the anxious tear,
And whisper that thy soothing joys are mine!
When did my fancy ever frame
A dream of joy by thee unblest?
When first my lips pronounc'd thy name,
New pleasure warm'd my infant breast.
I lov'd to form the jingling rhyme,
The measur'd sounds, tho' rude, my ear could please,
Could give the little pains of childhood ease,
And long have sooth'd the keener pains of time.
The idle crowd in fashion's train,
Their trifling comment, pert reply,
Who talk so much, yet talk in vain,
How pleas'd for thee, O nymph, I fly!
For thine is all the wealth of mind,
Thine the unborrow'd gems of thought;
The flash of light by souls refin'd,
From heav'n's empyreal source exulting caught.
And ah! when destin'd to forego
The social hour with those I love,--
That charm which brightens all below,
That joy all other joys above,
And dearer to this breast of mine,
O Muse! than aught thy magic power can give,--
Then on the gloom of lonely sadness shine,
And bid thy airy forms around me live.
Thy page, O SHAKESPEARE ! let me view,
Thine! at whose name my bosom glows;
Proud that my earliest breath I drew
In that blest isle where SHAKESPEARE rose!
Where shall my dazzled glances roll?
Shall I pursue gay Ariel's flight?
Or wander where those hags of night
With deeds unnam'd shall freeze my trembling soul?
Plunge me, foul sisters! in the gloom
Ye wrap around yon blasted heath:
To hear the harrowing rite I come,
That calls the angry shades from death!
Away--my frighted bosom spare!
Let true Cordelia pour her filial sigh,
Let Desdemona lift her pleading eye,
And poor Ophelia sing in wild despair!
When the bright noon of summer streams
In one wide flash of lavish day,
As soon shall mortal count the beams,
As tell the powers of SHAKESPEARE'S lay!
O, Nature's Poet! the untaught,
The simple mind thy tale pursues,
And wonders by what art it views
The perfect image of each native thought.
In those still moments, when the breast,
Expanded, leaves its cares behind,
Glows by some higher thought possest,
And feels the energies of mind;
Then, awful MILTON , raise the veil
That hides from human eye the heav'nly throng!
Immortal sons of light! I hear your song,
I hear your high-tun'd harps creation hail!
Well might creation claim your care,
And well the string of rapture move,
When all was perfect, good, and fair,
When all was music, joy, and love!
Ere Evil's inauspicious birth
Chang'd Nature's harmony to strife;
And wild Remorse, abhorring life,
And deep Affliction, spread their shade on earth.
Blest Poesy! O, sent to calm
The human pains which all must feel,
Still shed on life thy precious balm,
And every wound of nature heal!
Is there a heart of human frame
Along the burning track of torrid light,
Or 'mid the fearful waste of polar night,
That never glow'd at thy inspiring name?
Ye Southern Isles,* emerg'd so late
Where the Pacific billow rolls,
Witness, though rude your simple state,
How heav'n-taught verse can melt your souls!
Say, when you hear the wand'ring bard,
How thrill'd ye listen to his lay,
By what kind arts ye court his stay,--
All savage life affords his sure reward.
So, when great HOMER 'S chiefs prepare,
Awhile from War's rude toils releas'd,
The pious hecatomb, and share
The flowing bowl, and genial feast:
Some heav'nly minstrel sweeps the lyre,
While all applaud the poet's native art;
For him they heap the viand's choicest part,
And copious goblets crown the Muse's fire.
Ev'n here , in scenes of pride and gain,
Where faint each genuine feeling glows;
Here , Nature asks, in want and pain,
The dear illusions verse bestows;
The poor, from hunger, and from cold,
Spare one small coin, the ballad's price,
Admire their poet's quaint device,
And marvel much at all his rhymes unfold.
Ye children, lost in forests drear,
Still o'er your wrongs each bosom grieves,
And long the red-breast shall be dear,
Who strew'd each little corpse with leaves;
For you my earliest tears were shed,
For you the gaudy doll I pleas'd forsook,
And heard, with hands uprais'd, and eager look,
The cruel tale, and wish'd ye were not dead!
And still on Scotia's northern shore,
"At times, between the rushing blast,"
Recording mem'ry loves to pour
The mournful song of ages past;
Come, lonely Bard "of other years!"
While dim the half-seen moon of varying skies,
While sad the wind along the grey moss sighs,
And give my pensive heart "the joy of tears!"
The various tropes that splendour dart
Around the modern poet's line,
Where, borrow'd from the sphere of art,
Unnumber'd gay allusions shine,
Have not a charm my breast to please
Like the blue mist, the meteor's beam,
The dark-brow'd rock, the mountain stream,
And the light thistle waving in the breeze.
Wild Poesy, in haunts sublime,
Delights her lofty note to pour;
She loves the hanging rock to climb,
And hear the sweeping torrent roar!
The little scene of cultur'd grace
But faintly her expanded bosom warms;
She seeks the daring stroke, the awful charms,
Which Nature's pencil throws on Nature's face.
O, Nature! thou whose works divine
Such rapture in this breast inspire,
As makes me dream one spark is mine
Of Poesy's celestial fire;
When doom'd, "in cities pent," to leave
The kindling morn's unfolding view,
Which ever wears some aspect new,
And all the shadowy forms of soothing eve;
Then, THOMSON , then be ever near,
And paint whatever season reigns;
Still let me see the varying year,
And worship Nature in thy strains;
Now, when the wint'ry tempests roll,
Unfold their dark and desolating form,
Rush in the savage madness of the storm,
And spread those horrors that exalt my soul!
And, POPE the music of thy verse
Shall winter's dreary gloom dispel,
And fond remembrance oft rehearse
The moral song she knows so well;
The sportive sylphs shall flutter here,--
There Eloise, in anguish pale,
"Kiss with cold lips the sacred veil,
"And drop with every bead too soft a tear!"
When disappointment's sick'ning pain
With chilling sadness numbs my breast,
That feels its dearest hope was vain,
And bids its fruitless struggles rest;
When those for whom I wish to live,
With cold suspicion wrong my aching heart;
Or, doom'd from those for ever lov'd to part,
And feel a sharper pang than death can give;
Then with the mournful Bard I go,
Whom "melancholy mark'd her own,"
While tolls the curfew, solemn, slow,
And wander amid graves unknown;
With yon pale orb, lov'd poet, come!
While from those elms long shadows spread,
And where the lines of light are shed,
Read the fond record of the rustic tomb!
Or let me o'er old Conway's flood
Hang on the frowning rock, and trace
The characters that, wove in blood,
Stamp'd the dire fate of EDWARD'S race;
Proud tyrant! tear thy laurell'd plume;
How poor thy vain pretence to deathless fame!
The injur'd Muse records thy lasting shame,
And she has power to "ratify thy doom."
Nature, when first she smiling came,
To wake within the human breast
The sacred Muse's hallow'd flame,
And earth, with heav'n's rich spirit blest!
Nature in that auspicious hour,
With awful mandate, bade the Bard
The register of glory guard,
And gave him o'er all mortal honours power.
Can Fame on Painting's aid rely?
Or lean on Sculpture's trophy'd bust?--
The faithless colours bloom to die,
The crumbling pillar mocks its trust;
But thou, O Muse, immortal maid!
Canst paint the godlike deeds that praise inspire,
Or worth, that lives but in the mind's desire,
In tints that only shall with Nature fade!
O tell me, partial nymph! what rite,
What incense sweet, what homage true,
Draws from thy fount of purest light
The flame it lends a chosen few?
Alas! these lips can never frame
The mystic vow that moves thy breast;
Yet by thy joys my life is blest,
And my fond soul shall consecrate thy name.
An Ode On The Piece
As wand'ring late on Albion's shore
That chains the rude tempestuous deep,
I heard the hollow surges roar
And vainly beat her guardian steep;
I heard the rising sounds of woe
Loud on the storm's wild pinion flow;
And still they vibrate on the mournful lyre,
That tunes to grief its sympathetic wire.
From shores the wide Atlantic laves,
The spirit of the ocean bears
In moans, along his western waves,
Afflicted nature's hopeless cares:
Enchanting scenes of young delight,
How chang'd since first ye rose to sight;
Since first ye rose in infant glories drest
Fresh from the wave, and rear'd your ample breast.
Her crested serpents, discord throws
O'er scenes which love with roses grac'd;
The flow'ry chain his hands compose,
She wildly scatters o'er the waste:
Her glance his playful smile deforms,
Her frantic voice awakes the storms,
From land to land, her torches spread their fires,
While love's pure flame in streams of blood expires.
Now burns the savage soul of war,
While terror flashes from his eyes,
Lo! waving o'er his fiery car
Aloft his bloody banner flies:
The battle wakes—with awful sound
He thunders o'er the echoing ground,
He grasps his reeking blade, while streams of blood
Tinge the vast plain, and swell the purple flood.
But softer sounds of sorrow flow;
On drooping wing the murm'ring gales
Have borne the deep complaints of woe
That rose along the lonely vales—
Those breezes waft the orphan's cries,
They tremble to parental sighs,
And drink a tear for keener anguish shed,
The tear of faithful love when hope is fled.
The object of her anxious fear
Lies pale on earth, expiring, cold,
Ere, wing'd by happy love, one year
Too rapid in its course, has roll'd;
In vain the dying hand she grasps,
Hangs on the quiv'ring lip, and clasps
The fainting form, that slowly sinks in death,
To catch the parting glance, the fleeting breath.
Pale as the livid corse her cheek,
Her tresses torn, her glances wild,—
How fearful was her frantic shriek!
She wept—and then in horrors smil'd:
She gazes now with wild affright,
Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight—
Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls,
Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.
And see! o'er gentle Andre's tomb,
The victim of his own despair,
Who fell in life's exulting bloom,
Nor deem'd that life deserv'd a care;
O'er the cold earth his relicks prest,
Lo! Britain's drooping legions rest;
For him the swords they sternly grasp, appear
Dim with a sigh, and sullied with a tear.
While Seward sweeps her plaintive strings,
While pensive round his sable shrine,
A radiant zone she graceful flings,
Where full emblaz'd his virtues shine;
The mournful loves that tremble nigh
Shall catch her warm melodious sigh;
The mournful loves shall drink the tears that flow
From Pity's hov'ring soul, dissolv'd in woe.
And hark, in Albion's flow'ry vale
A parent's deep complaint I hear!
A sister calls the western gale
To waft her soul-expressive tear;
'Tis Asgill claims that piercing sigh,
That dropp which dims the beauteous eye,
While on the rack of Doubt Affection proves
How strong the force which binds the ties she loves.
How oft in every dawning grace
That blossom'd in his early hours,
Her soul some comfort lov'd to trace,
And deck'd futurity in flowers!
But lo! in Fancy's troubled sight
The dear illusions sink in night;
She views the murder'd form—the quiv'ring breath,
The rising virtues chill'd in shades of death.
Cease, cease ye throbs of hopeless woe;
He lives the future hours to bless,
He lives, the purest joy to know,
Parental transports fond excess;
His sight a father's eye shall chear,
A sister's drooping charms endear:—
The private pang was Albion's gen'rous care,
For him she breath'd a warm accepted prayer.
And lo! a radiant stream of light
Defending, gilds the murky cloud,
Where Desolation's gloomy night
Retiring, folds her sable shroud;
It flashes o'er the bright'ning deep,
It softens Britain's frowning steep—
'Tis mild benignant Peace, enchanting form!
That gilds the black abyss, that lulls the storm.
So thro' the dark, impending sky,
Where clouds, and fallen vapours roll'd,
Their curling wreaths dissolving fly
As the faint hues of light unfold—
The air with spreading azure streams,
The sun now darts his orient beams—
And now the mountains glow—the woods are bright—
While nature hails the season of delight.
Mild Peace! from Albion's fairest bowers
Pure spirit! cull with snowy hands,
The buds that drink the morning showers,
And bind the realms in flow'ry bands:
Thy smiles the angry passions chase,
Thy glance is pleasure's native grace;
Around thy form th' exulting virtues move,
And thy soft call awakes the strain of love.
Bless, all ye powers! the patriot name
That courts fair Peace, thy gentle stay;
Ah! gild with glory's light, his fame,
And glad his life with pleasure's ray!
While, like th' affrighted dove, thy form
Still shrinks, and fears some latent storm,
His cares shall sooth thy panting soul to rest,
And spread thy vernal couch on Albion's breast.
Ye, who have mourn'd the parting hour,
Which love in darker horrors drew,
Ye, who have vainly tried to pour
With falt'ring voice the last adieu!
When the pale cheek, the bursting sigh,
The soul that hov'ring in the eye,
Express'd the pains it felt, the pains it fear'd—
Ah! paint the youth's return, by grief endear'd.
Yon hoary form, with aspect mild,
Deserted kneels by anguish prest,
And seeks from Heav'n his long-lost child,
To smooth the path that leads to rest!—
He comes!—to close the sinking eye,
To catch the faint, expiring sigh;
A moment's transport stays the fleeting breath,
And sooths the soul on the pale verge of death.
No more the sanguine wreath shall twine
On the lost hero's early tomb,
But hung around thy simple shrine
Fair Peace! shall milder glories bloom.
Lo! commerce lifts her drooping head
Triumphal, Thames! from thy deep bed;
And bears to Albion, on her sail sublime,
The riches Nature gives each happier clime.
She fearless prints the polar snows,
Mid' horrors that reject the day;
Along the burning line she glows,
Nor shrinks beneath the torrid ray:
She opens India's glitt'ring mine,
Where streams of light reflected shine;
Wafts the bright gems to Britain's temp'rate vale,
And breathes her odours on the northern gale.
While from the far-divided shore
Where liberty unconquer'd roves,
Her ardent glance shall oft' explore
The parent isle her spirit loves;
Shall spread upon the western main
—Harmonious concord's golden chain,
While stern on Gallia's ever hostile strand
From Albion's cliff she pours her daring band.
Yet hide the sabre's hideous glare
Whose edge is bath'd in streams of blood,
The lance that quivers high in air,
And falling drinks a purple flood;
For Britain! fear shall seize thy foes,
While freedom in thy senate glows,
While peace shall smile upon thy cultur'd plain,
With grace and beauty her attendant train.
Enchanting visions sooth my sight—
The finer arts no more oppress'd,
Benignant source of pure delight!
On her soft bosom love to rest.
While each discordant sound expires,
Strike harmony! strike all thy wires;
The fine vibrations of the spirit move
And touch the springs of rapture and of love.
Bright painting's living forms shall rise;
And wrapt in Ugolino's woe,
Shall Reynolds wake unbidden sighs;
And Romney's graceful pencil flow,
That Nature's look benign pourtrays,
When to her infant Shakspeare's gaze
The partial nymph 'unveil'd her awful face,'
And bade his 'colours clear' her features trace.
And poesy! thy deep-ton'd shell
The heart shall sooth, the spirit fire,
And all the passion sink, or swell,
In true accordance to the lyre.
Oh! ever wake its heav'nly sound,
Oh! call thy lovely visions round;
Strew the soft path of peace with fancy's flowers,
With raptures bless the soul that feels thy powers.
While Hayley wakes thy magic string,
His shades shall no rude sound profane,
But stillness on her folded wing,
Enamour'd catch his soothing strain:
Tho' genius breathe its purest flame
—Around his lyre's enchanting frame;
Tho' music there in every period roll,
More warm his friendship, and more pure his soul.
While taste refines a polish'd age,
While her own Hurd shall bid us trace
The lustre of the finish'd page
Where symmetry sheds perfect grace;
With sober and collected ray
To fancy, judgment shall display
The faultless model, where accomplish'd art
From nature draws a charm that leads the heart.
Th' historic Muse illumes the maze
For ages veil'd in gloomy night,
Where empire with meridian blaze
Once trod ambition's giddy height:
Tho' headlong from the dang'rous steep
Its pageants roll'd with wasteful sweep,
Her tablet still records the deeds of fame
And wakes the patriot's, and the hero's flame.
While meek philosophy explores
Creation's vast stupendous round;
Sublime her piercing vision soars,
And bursts the system's distant bound.
Lo! mid' the dark deep void of space
A rushing world her eye can trace!—
It moves majestic in its ample sphere,
Sheds its long light, and rolls its ling'ring year.
Ah! still diffuse thy genial ray,
Fair Science, on my Albion's plain!
And still thy grateful homage pay
Where Montagu has rear'd her fane;
Where eloquence and wit entwine
Their attic wreath around her shrine;
And still, while Learning shall unfold her store,
With their bright signet stamp the classic ore.
Enlight'ning Peace! for thine the hours
That wisdom decks in moral grace,
And thine invention's fairy powers,
The charm improv'd of nature's face;
Propitious come! in silence laid
Beneath thy olive's grateful shade,
Pour the mild bliss that sooths the tuneful mind,
And in thy zone the hostile spirit bind.
While Albion on her parent deep
Shall rest, may glory light her shore,
May honour there his vigils keep
Till time shall wing its course no more;
Till angels wrap the spheres in fire,
Till earth and yon fair orbs expire,
While chaos mounted on the wasting flame,
Shall spread eternal shade o'er nature's frame.
Edwin And Eltrada, A Legendary Tale
Where the pure Derwent's waters glide
Along their mossy bed,
Close by the river's verdant side,
A castle rear'd its head.
The antient pile by time is raz'd,
Where gothic trophies frown'd,
Where once the gilded armour blaz'd,
And banners wav'd around.
There liv'd a chief well known to fame,
A bold adven'trous knight,
Renown'd for victory, his name
In glory's annals bright.
Yet milder virtues he possest,
And gentler passions felt,
For in his calm and yielding breast
The soft affections dwelt.
No rugged toils the heart could steel,
By nature form'd to prove
Whate'er the tender mind can feel
In friendship or in love.
He lost the partner of his breast,
Who sooth'd each rising care,
And ever charm'd the pains to rest
She ever lov'd to share.
From solitude he hop'd relief
And this lone mansion sought,
To cherish there his faithful grief,
To nurse the tender thought.
There, to his bosom fondly dear,
A blooming daughter smil'd,
And oft' the mourner's falling tear
Bedew'd his EMMA'S child.
As drest in charms the lonely flower
Smiles in the distant vale,
With beauty gilds the morning hour,
And scents the evening gale;
So liv'd in solitude, unseen,
This lovely, peerless maid;
So grac'd the wild sequester'd scene,
And blossom'd in the shade.
Yet love could pierce the lone recess,
For there he likes to dwell,
To leave the noisy crowd, and bless
With happiness the cell.
To wing his sure resistless dart
Where all its power is known,
And rule the undivided heart
Despotic and alone.
Young EDWIN charm'd her gentle breast,
Though scanty all his store,
No hoarded treasure he possest,
Yet he could boast of more:
For he could boast the lib'ral heart,
And honour, sense, and truth,
Unwarp'd by vanity or art,
Adorn'd the gen'rous youth.
The maxims of a servile age,
The mean, the selfish care,
The sordid views that now engage
The mercenary fair,
Whom riches can unite or part,
To them were all unknown,
For then each sympathetic breast
Was join'd by love alone.
They little knew that wealth had power
To make the constant rove;
They little knew the weighty dower
Could add one bliss to love.
ELTRADA o'er the distant mead
Would haste at closing day,
And to the bleating mother lead
The lamb that chanc'd to stray.
For the bruis'd insect on the waste
A sigh would heave her breast;
And oft her careful hand replac'd
The linnet's fallen nest.
To her sensations calm as these
Could sweet delight impart,
Those simple pleasures most can please
The uncorrupted heart.
And oft with eager step she flies
To cheer the roofless cot,
Where the lone widow breathes her sighs,
And wails her desp'rate lot.
Their weeping mother's trembling knees
Her lisping infants clasp,
Their meek imploring look she sees,
She feels their tender grasp.
On her pale cheek, where hung the tear
Of agonizing woe,
ELTRADA bids a smile appear,
A tear of rapture flow.
Thus on soft wing the moments flew,
(Tho' love would court their stay,)
While some new virtue rose to view,
And mark'd each fleeting day.
The youthful poet's soothing dream
Of golden ages past,
The muse's fond ideal theme
Seem'd realiz'd at last.
But here, how weak to hope that bliss
Unchanging will endure;
Ah, in a world so vain as this,
What heart can rest secure!
For now arose the fatal day
For civil discord fam'd,
When YORK from LANCASTER'S proud sway
The regal sceptre claim'd.
Each moment now the horrors brought
Of desolating rage,
The fam'd achievements now were wrought
That swell th' historic page.
The good old ALBERT pants again
To dare the hostile field,
The cause of HENRY to maintain,
For him the lance to wield.
But O, a thousand gen'rous ties
That bind the hero's soul,
A thousand sacred claims arise,
And EDWIN'S breast controul.
Though passion pleads in HENRY'S cause,
And EDWIN'S heart would sway,
Yet honour's stern, imperious laws,
The brave will still obey.
Oppress'd with many an anxious care,
Full oft ELTRADA sigh'd,
Complaining that relentless war
Should those she lov'd divide.
At length the parting morn arose,
For her in sadness drest,
While boding thoughts of future woes
With terror heav'd her breast.
A thousand pangs her father feels,
A thousand tender fears,
While clinging at his feet she kneels,
And bathes them with her tears.
One pitying tear bedew'd his cheek--
From his lov'd child he flew,
O'erwhelmed, the father could not speak,
He could not say--"adieu!"--
Arm'd for the field her lover came,
He saw her pallid look,
And trembling seize her drooping frame,
While, falt'ring, thus he spoke:
"This cruel tenderness but wounds
The heart it means to bless,
Those falling tears, those mournful sounds
Increase the vain distress!"--
"If fate," she answer'd, "has decreed
That on the hostile plain
My EDWIN'S faithful heart must bleed,
And swell the heep of slain:
"Trust me, I never will complain,
I'll shed no fruitless tear,
Not one weak drop my cheek shall stain,
Or tell what passes here!
"O, let thy fate of others claim
A tear, a mournful sigh;
I'll only murmur thy dear name,
I'll call on thee--and die!"--
But ah, how vain for words to tell
The pang their bosoms prov'd,
They only will conceive it well,
They only, who have lov'd.
The timid muse forbears to say
What laurels EDWIN gain'd;
How ALBERT , long renown'd, that day
His ancient fame maintain'd.
The bard, who feels congenial fire,
May sing of martial strife,
And with heroic sounds inspire
The gen'rous scorn of life.
But ill the theme would suit her reed,
Who, wand'ring through the grove,
Forgets the conqu'ring hero's meed,
And gives a tear to love!
Though long the closing day was fled,
The fight they still maintain,
While night a deeper horror shed
Along the darken'd plain.
To ALBERT'S breast an arrow flew,
He felt a mortal wound--
The drops that warm'd his heart bedew
The cold and flinty ground.
The foe who aim'd the fatal dart
Now heard his dying sighs;
Compassion touch'd his yielding heart,
To ALBERT'S aid he flies.
While round the chief his arms he cast,
While oft he deeply sigh'd,
And seem'd as if he mourn'd the past,
Old ALBERT faintly cried:
"Though nature heaves these parting groans,
Without complaint I die;
Yet one dear care my heart still owns,
Still feels one tender tie.
"For YORK , a warrior known to fame,
Uplifts the hostile spear,
EDWIN the blooming hero's name,
To ALBERT'S bosom dear.
"O tell him my expiring sigh,
Say my last words implor'd
To my despairing child to fly,
To her he once ador'd!"
He spoke! but O, what mournful strain,
Whose force the soul can melt,
What moving numbers shall explain
The pang that EDWIN felt?
The pang that EDWIN now reveal'd--
For he the warrior prest
(Whom the dark shades of night conceal'd)
Close to his throbbing breast.
"Fly, fly," he cried, "my touch profane--
O, how the rest impart!
Rever'd old man! could EDWIN stain
With ALBERT'S blood the dart?"
His languid eyes lie weakly rais'd,
Which seem'd for ever clos'd,
On the pale youth with pity gaz'd,
And then in death repos'd.
"I'll go," the hapless EDWIN said,
"And breathe a last adieu!
And with the drops despair will shed,
My mournful love bedew.
"I'll go to her for ever dear,
To catch her trembling sigh,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,
And at her feet to die!"
And as to her for ever dear
The frantic mourner flew,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,
And breathe a last adieu;
Appall'd his troubled fancy sees
That tear of anguish flow,
And hears in every passing breeze
The plaintive sound of woe.
Meanwhile the anxious maid, whose tears
In vain would heav'n implore,
Of ALBERT'S fate despairing hears,
But yet had heard no more.
"What woes," she cried, "this breast must prove,
Its dearest ties are broke;--
O, say what ruthless arm, my love,
Could aim the fatal stroke?
"Could not thy hand, my EDWIN , thine
Have warded off the blow?
For O, he was not only mine,
He was thy father too!--
"Why does thy bosom throb with pain?--
O speak, my EDWIN , speak!
Or sure, unable to sustain
This grief, my heart will break."
"Yes, it will break,"--he falt'ring cried,
"For we will life resign--
Then trembling know, thy father died--
And know, the guilt was mine!
"It is enough!" with short quick breath,
Exclaim'd the fainting maid;
She spoke no more, but seem'd from death
To look for instant aid.
In plaintive accents EDWIN cries,
"And have I murder'd thee?
To other worlds thy spirit flies,
And mine this stroke shall free!"--
His hand the lifted weapon grasp'd,
The steel he firmly prest,
When wildly she arose, and clasp'd
Her lover to her breast.
"Methought," she cried, with panting breath,
"My EDWIN talk'd of peace;
I knew 'twas only found in death,
And fear'd that sad release.
"I clasp him still! 'twas but a dream--
Help yon wide wound to close,
From which a father's spirits stream,
A father's life-blood flows.
"But see!--from thee he shrinks, nor would
Be blasted by thy touch!--
Ah, though my EDWIN spilt thy blood,
Yet once he lov'd thee much.
"My father, yet in pity stay!--
I see his white beard wave--
A spirit beckons him away,
And points to yonder grave.
"Alas, my love, I trembling hear
A father's last adieu;
I see, I see the falling tear
His wrinkled cheek bedew.
"He's gone, and here his ashes sleep--
I do not heave a sigh,
His child a father does not weep--
For ah, my brain is dry!
"But come, together let us rove,
At the pale hour of night,
When the moon wand'ring through the grove,
Shall pour her faintest light.
"We'll gather from the rosy bower
The fairest wreaths that bloom,
We'll cull, my love, each op'ning flower
To deck his hallow'd tomb;
"We'll thither from the distant dale
A weeping willow bear;
And plant a lily of the vale,
A drooping lily, there.
"We'll shun the face of glaring day,
Eternal silence keep;
Through the dark wood together stray,
And only live to weep.
"But hark, 'tis come--the fatal time,
When, EDWIN , we must part:
Some angel tells me 'tis a crime
To hold thee to my heart.
"Yet, EDWIN , if th' offence be thine,
Too soon I can forgive;
But O, the guilt would all be mine,
Could I endure to live.
"Farewell, my love, for O, I faint,
Of pale despair I die;
And see! that hoary, murder'd saint
Descends from yon blue sky.
"Poor weak old man! he comes, my love,
To lead to heav'n the way;
He knows not heav'n will joyless prove,
If EDWIN here must stay!"
"O, who can bear this pang?" he cried,
Then to his bosom prest
The dying maid, who piteous sigh'd,
And sunk to endless rest.
He saw her eyes for ever close,
He heard her latest sigh,
And yet no tear of anguish flows
From his distracted eye.
He feels within his shiv'ring veins
A mortal chillness rise!
Her pallid corse he feebly strains,
And on her bosom dies.
No longer may their hapless lot
The mournful muse engage,
She wipes away the tears that blot
The melancholy page.
For heav'n in love dissolves the ties
That chain the spirit here,
And distant, and for ever flies
The blessing held most dear;
To bid the suff'ring soul aspire
A higher bliss to prove,
To wake the pure, refin'd desire,
The hope that rests above!