« ElőzőTovább »
To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
And Wirtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been:
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt!
LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A WILLAGE.
Once more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;
Northine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the Wale! thy useful streams supply
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet migh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-sill'd pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon :
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!
who died of A Fraenzy few ER 1NDUCED BY CALUMNious Reports.
Edmund ! thy grave with aching eye I scan,
And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast—Man!
'T is tempest all or gloom: in early youth,
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth,
We force to start amid her feign'd caress
Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;
A brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,
And on we go in heaviness and fear!
But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower
Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,
The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground
And mingled forms of Misery rise around:
Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,
That courts the future woe to hide the past;
Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side,
And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied:
Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,
Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain.
Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squatting near
Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear?
'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe: -
Thine all that cheer the moment as it flies,
The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they wither'd! Such chill dew
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that roll'd around in asking gaze,
And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise.
Thy follies such the hard world mark'd them well!
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell?
Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,
And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of Fate!
To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd
Energic Reason and a shaping mind,
The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.
Is this piled earth our being's passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown'd?
Tired sentinell mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod!
TO A YOUNG LADY, with A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening slung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o'er thy tomb.
Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glisten’d in the tear:
No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye,
And suffering Nature wept that one should die! a
Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd; Her banners, like a midnight ineteor, flow'd; Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies! She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes! | Then Exultation waked the patriot fire | And swept with wilder hand the Alcaean lyre : Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance, And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more 1 seek the shade,
where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.
And 0; if eyes whose holy glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
If siniles more winning, and a gentler mien
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,
lf these demand the empassion'd poet's care—
If Mirih and softened Sense and Wit refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to beauty's saintly shrine.
Nor, Sara thou these early slowers refuse—
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues;
No purple bloom the child of nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.
Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
If his weak harp at times, or lonely lyre,
lie struck with desultory band, and drew
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue.
My heart has thanked thee, Rowles' for those soft strains whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring! For hence not callous to the mourner's pains Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went: And when the mightier Throes of mind began, | And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man' Their mild and manliest melancholy lent A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd To slumber, though the big tear it renewed; Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.
As late 1 lay in slumber's shadowy vale,
with wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise :
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale–
. Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
Ere in an evil hour with altered voice
Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.
Yet never, Burke' thou drank'st Corruption's bowl'
The stormy Pity and the cherished lure
Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit purel That error's mist had left thy purged eye : So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy!”
Though roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude
Have driven our Palest o'er the ocean swell;
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly:
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son :
When British Freedom for a happier land
Spread her broad wings, that slutter'd with affright,
Easkine! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight
Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand
(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)
A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,
And at her altar pour the stream divine
Of unmatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast |
with blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine: as sunk, beneath the West,
Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.
Ir was some Spirit, Sheridan' that breathed
O'er thy young mind such wildly various power!
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymmettian slow'rets wreathed:
And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa’s glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn serenade
That wasts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance
Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.
As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell
of triumph, on the chill and midnight gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier,
As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
Had gathered in a mystic urn-each tear
That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek
Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!
As when far off the warbled strains are heard
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among,
Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird
Swells the full chorus with a generous song:
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares,
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight;
His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares!
Thou, Fay Errel who didst wake with startling voice
Life's better sun from that long wintry night,
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might:
For lo! the morning struggles into day,
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!
Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
As falls on closing slowers the lunar beam:
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years:
of joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Ilope—for ever gone!
Could I recall you!—But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-wing'd travellers back again :
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream.
Pale Roamer through the Night! thou poor Forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress:
Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride:
And Vice alone will shelter wretcheduess!
O! I am sad to think, that there should be
Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
And force from Famine the caress of Love;
May he shed healing on the sore disgrace,
He, the great Comforter that rules above!
SONNET. Swert Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest That mocks thy shivering! take my garment—use A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child: And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness. He did not so, the Galilaean mild, Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich man's doors,
And called them Friends, and healed their noisome
Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile,
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale
Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless!—Yet 't was fair
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of Care, w
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!
- SONNET. To The AUthor of the a Rob BFRs. *
Schillen! that hour I would have wish'd to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry—
Lest in some after moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black Ilorror scream'd, and all her goblin rout
Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene!
Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!
LINES CoM posed While clivibi Nc the Left ASCENt of bhockley coovib, somehseismitte, May 1795.
With many a pause and oft-reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my car.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browze:
From the forced fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts Beneath its dark green boughs
Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
Tutor'd by Pain each source of Pain to know!
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise! 'mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest'
Man's breathing Miniature! thou makest me sigh-
A Babe art thou—and such a thing am I'
To anger rapid and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break Friendship's Mirror with a tetchy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow !
O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith' whatever thorns I meet
As on I totter with unpractised feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek Nurse of Souls through their long Infancy!
written at shunton BARs, Near annogewater, september, 1795, IN ANswer to A letter from Bristol.
Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better
Received from absent friend by way of Letter.
For what so sweet can laboured lays impart
As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart?
Noa travels my meandering eye
The starry wilderness on high;
Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with - green radiance” through the grass, An emerald of light.
O ever present to my view'
My wafted spirit is with you,
And soothes your boding fears:
I see you all oppress'd with gloom
Sit lonely in that cheerless room—
Ah me! You are in tears!
Beloved Woman! did you fly
Chill'd Friendship's dark disliking eye,
Or Mirth's untimely din?
With cruel weight these trifles press
A temper sore with tenderness,
When aches the void within.
But why with sable wand unblessed
Should Fancy rouse within my breast
Dim-visaged shapes of Dreadt
Untenanting its beauteous clay
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way,
And hovers round my head!
I felt it prompt the tender Dream, When slowly sunk the day's last gleam;
You roused each gentler sense As, sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom, Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume
With viewless influence.
And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones
In bold ambitious sweep
The onward-surging tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky
With mimic thunders deep.
Dark reddening from the channell'd Isle"
(Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast)
The Watchfire, like a sullen star
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar
Rude cradled on the mast.
Even there—beneath that light-house tower—
In the tumultuous evil hour
Ere Peace with Sara came,
Time was, I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,
And watch the storm-vex'd flame.
And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit,
And listen to the roar:
When Mountain Surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap
Plunged foaming on the shore.
Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night—
To see no Wessel there !
But Fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As sky-larks 'mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast :
The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest
Nods, till returning morn.
O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The open'd Rose! From heaven they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend,
Bless'd visitations from above,
Such are the tender woes of Love
Fostering the heart, they bend!
When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
To me your arms you'll stretch:
Great God! you’ll say—To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch!
The tears that tremble down your cheek, Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek
* The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel.