With shells and sea-weed mingled, on the There let me sleep, forgotten, in the clay, [wave; When death shall shut these weary, aching Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, [eyes, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.
Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent But vain to them the winds and waters rave: They hear the warring elements no more: While I am doom'd, by life's long storm oppress'd,
To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest.
§ 106.
Written at Penthurst, in Autumn,
1788.
YE tow'rs sublime, deserted now and drear,
Ye woods, deep sighing to the hollow blast,
The musing wanderer loves to linger near,
While history points to all your glories past:
And startling from their haunts the timid deer,
To trace the walks obscured by matted fern,
Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to
hear,
But where now clamors the discordant hern:
The spoiling hand of time may overturn
These lofty battlements, and quite deface
The fading canvass whence we love to learn
Sidney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace:
But fame and beauty still defy decay,
Sav'd by th' historic page, the poet's tender lay!
§ 107. Extract from a Poem on his own ap-
proaching Death, by MICHAEL BRUCE.
Now spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known:
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are
Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meager and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
$108. Sonnet to Twilight.
Miss WILLIAMS.
MEEK Twilight! haste to shroud the solar ray,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When o'er the hill is shed a paler day,
That gives to stillness, and to night, the groves.
Ah! let the gay, the roseate morning hail,
When, in the various blooms of light array'd,
She bids fresh beauty live along the vale,
And rapture tremble in the vocal shade:
Sweet is the lucid morning's op'ning flow'r,
Her choral melodies benignly rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,
At which her blossoms close, her music dies:
For then mild nature, while she droops her
Wakes the soft tear 'tis luxury to shed. [head,
Sonnet to Expression.
EXPRESSION, child of soul! I love to trace
Thy strong enchantments, when the poet's
The painter's pencil, catch the vivid fire, [lyre,
And beauty wakes for thee each touching
grace!
When horror chills thy tear, thy ardent sigh,
But from my frighted gaze thy form avert,
Or guilt lives fearful at thy troubled heart;
When phrensy rolls in thy impassion'd eye,
Nor ever let my shudd'ring fancy hear
The wasting groan, or view the pallid look
Of him the Muses lov'd,* when hope forsook
His spirit, vainly to the Muses dear- [breast
For, charm'd with heavenly song, this bleeding
Mourns it could sharpen ill, and give despair
And count the silent moments as they pass: The winged moments, whose unstaying speed No art can stop, or in their course arrest ; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the § 110. Sonnet to Hope. Miss WILLIAMS. dead, [rest. O, EVER skill'd to wear the form we love! And lay me down in peace with them that To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate; And morning dreams, as poets tell, are truc: Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate, And bid the realms of light and life adieu!
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.
Come, gentle Hope, with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart;
Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;
That fancy's radiance, friendship's precious
tear,
[gloom.
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray
Which once with dear illusions charm'd my
eye!
Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! [mound, O strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way Enough for me the churchyard's lonely The flow'rs I fondly thought too bright to die. Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless That asks not happiness, but longs for rest! § 111. Sonnet to the Moon. MISS WILLIAMS.
There let me wander at the close of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes, THE glittering colors of the day are fled :
Come, melancholy orb! that dwell'st with
The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis
Come! and o'er earth thy wand'ring lustre As health's auspicious pow'rs gay life display, Death, sullen at the sight, stalks slow away.
Thy deepest shadow and thy softest light.
To me congenial is the gloomy grove, [shine;
When with faint rays the sloping uplands
That gloom, those pensive rays, alike, I love,
Whose sadness seems in sympathy with mine!
But most for this, pale orb! thy light is dear,
For this, benignant orb! I hail thee most,
That, while I pour the unavailing tear,
And mourn that hope to me, in youth, is lost!
Thy light can visionary thoughts impart,
And lead the Muse to soothe a suff'ring heart.
$112. On the Recovery of a Lady of Quality
from the Small-Pox. SAVAGE.
113. Ode to Pity. COLLINS.
O THOU, the friend of man assign'd,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic wo;
When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,
His wild, unsated foe!
By Pella's bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite :
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!
LONG a lov'd fair had bless'd her consort's sight|
With amorous pride and undisturb'd delight; But wherefore need I wander wide
Till Death, grown envious, with repugnant To old Ilissus' distant side,
[claim. Deserted stream, and mute?
Frown'd at their joys, and urg'd a tyrant's Wild Arun,* too, has heard thy strains,
He summons each disease!-the noxious crew, And Echo, 'midst my native plains,
Writhing in dire distortions, strike his view!
From various plagues, which various natures
know,
Forth rushes beauty's fear'd and fervent foe.
Fierce to the fair the missile mischief flies,
The sanguine streams in raging ferments rise!
It drives, ignipotent, through every vein,
Hangs on the heart, and burns around the
brain!
Now a chill damp the charmer's lustre dims:
Sad o'er her eyes the livid languor swims!
Her eyes, that, with a glance, could joy inspire,
Like setting stars, scarce shoot a glimmering
[press'd,
Here stands her consort, sore with anguish
Grief in his eye, and terror in his breast.
The Paphian Graces, smit with anxious care,
In silent sorrow weep the waning fair.
Eight suns, successive, roll their fire away,
And eight slow nights see their deep shades
decay.
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head:
To him thy cell was shown:
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes, unspoil'd by art,
The turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come : by fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride design :
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat,
In all who view the shrine.
There Picture's toil shall well relate
How chance or hard involving fate,
O'er mortal bliss prevail : The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand, And, sighing, prompt her tender hand, With each disastrous tale. [appears, There let me oft, retir'd by day, While these revolve, though mute each Muse In dreams of passion melt away, Each speaking eye drops eloquence in tears. Allow'd with thee to dwell: On the ninth noon great Phoebus listening There waste the mournful lamp of night, bends, Till, virgin, thou again delight
On the ninth noon each voice in prayer as-
cends--
Great God of light, of song, and physic's art,
Restore the languid fair, new soul impart !
Her beauty, wit, and virtue, claim thy care,
And thine own bounty's almost rivall'd there.
Each paus'd: the god assents. Would death
advance ?
To hear a British shell!
§ 114. Ode. Written in the year 1746. COLLINS
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Phœbus unseen arrests that threatening lance!
Down from his orb a vivid influence streams,Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
And quickening earth imbibes salubrious
beams;
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
Each balmy plant increase of virtue knows,
And art inspir'd with all her patron glows.
The charmer's opening eye kind hope reveals, To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
Kind hope her consort's breast enlivening feels; And Freedom shall a while repair,
Each grace revives, each Muse resumes the lyre, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Each beauty brightens with relumin'd fire:
§ 115. Ode to Mercy. COLLINS.
O THOU, Who sitt'st a smiling bride
By Valor's arm'd and awful side,
Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd:
Who oft with songs, divine to hear,
Winn'st from his fatal grasp the spear,
And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless
Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy bosom bare art found, [ground:
Pleading for him the youth who sinks to
See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy shrine my country's genius stands,
And decks thy altar still, though pierc'd with
many a wound!
When he, whom e'en our joys provoke,
The fiend of nature, join'd his yoke,
And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;
Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blasted road, [away.
And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage
I see recoil'd his sable steeds,
That bore him swift to savage deeds;
Thy tender, melting eyes they own,
O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tow'r,
To thee we build a roseate bow'r,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound:
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each,-for Madness rul'd the hour,-
Would prove his own expressive pow'r.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd his eyes, on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
"Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail'
Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our Still would her touch the strain prolong,
monarch's throne.
§ 116. Ode to Peace. COLLINS.
O THOU, who bad'st thy turtles bear
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,
And sought'st thy native skies,
When War, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bade his storms arise!
Tir'd of his rude, tyrannic sway,
Our youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn:
But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres,
What sounds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy blest return!
O Peace, thy injur'd robes upbind!
O rise, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train!
The British lion, goddess sweet,
Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet
And own thy holier reign.
Let others court thy transient smile,
But come to grace thy western isle,
By warlike Honor led;
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her sons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!
§ 117. The Passions. An Ode for Music.
COLLINS.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, [golden hair. And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose :
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though sometimes, each dreary pause be-
Dejected Pity at his side [tween,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild, unalter'd mien ;
While each strain'd ball of sight seem❜d burst-
ing from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state! [mix'd;
Of differing themes the veering song was
And now it courted Love, now, raving, call'd
on Hate.
With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,
And from her wild, sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet, [soul:
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive
And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, [lay, Or o'er some haunted stream with fond deRound an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chasteeyed queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he lov'd the
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempé's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay, fantastic [bound; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unAnd he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music, sphere-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid! Why, goddess, why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As, in that lov'd Athenian bow'r, You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd! Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native, simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders in that godlike age Fill thy recording sister's page. "Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age; E'en all at once together found Cecilia's mingled world of sound. O, bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state, Confirm the tales her sons relate!
§ 118. The Pauper's Funeral. CRABBE.
Now once again the gloomy scene explore,
Less gloomy now, the bitter hour is o'er;
The man of many sorrows sighs no more.
Up yonder hill behold how sadly slow
The bier moves winding from the vale below'
There lies the happy dead, from trouble free,
And the glad parish pays the frugal fee.
No more, O death! thy victim starts to hear
Church-wardens stern, or kingly overseer:
No more the farmer claims his humble bow;
Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!
Now to the church behold the mourners
Sedately torpid, and devoutly dumb: [come,
The village children now their games suspend,
To see the bier that bears their ancient friend,
For he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch rul'd their little court;
The pliant bow he form'd; the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all;
Him now they follow to his grave, and stand
Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand;
While, bending low, their eager eyes explore
The mingled relics of the parish poor :
Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound;
The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round;
The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care,
Defers his duty till the day of prayer,
And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd,
To think a poor man's bones should lie un-
bless'd.*
§ 119. The Village Foundling. CRABBE.
To name an infant met our village sires,
Assembled all, as such event requires ;
Frequent and full the rural sages sate,
And speakers many urg'd the long debate.
Some hardened knaves, who rov'd the country
round,
Had left a babe within the parish-bound.
First of the fact they question'd-Was it true
The child was brought ?-What then remain'd
to do?
Was 't dead, or living?-This was fairly prov'd;
"Twas pinched-it roared, and every doubt re-
moved.
[call
Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to Was long a question, and it pass'd them all; For he who lent a name to babe unknown, Censorious men might take it for his own. They look'd about, they ask'd the name of all, And not one Richard answer'd to the call; Next they inquir'd the day when, passing by, Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry. This known, how food and raiment they might give
Was next debated; for the rogue would live.
* Some apology is due for the insertion of a circumstance by no means common: that it has been a subject for complaint in any place is a sufficient reason for its being reckoned among the evils which may happen to the poor, and which must happen to them exclusively nevertheless, it is just to remark, that such neglect is very rare in any part of the kingdom, and in many parts totally unknown.
At last, with all their words and work content, |
Back to their homes the prudent vestry went,
And Richard Monday to the work-house sent.
'There he was pinch'd, and pitied, thump'd, and
fed,
And duly took his beatings and his bread;
Patient in all control, in all abuse,
He found contempt and kicking have their use.
Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow,
A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;
His pliant soul gave way to all things base,
He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace:
It seem'd, so well his passions he suppress'd,
No feeling stirr'd his ever torpid breast:
Him might the meanest pauper bruise and
cheat;
He was a foot-stool for the beggar's feet;
His were the legs that run at all commands;
They used on all occasions Richard's hands:
His very soul was not his own; he stole
As others order'd, and without a dole :
In all disputes, on either part he lied,
And freely pledg'd his oath on either side:
In all rebellions, Richard join'd the rest;
In all detections, Richard first confess'd:
Yet, though disgrac'd, he watch'd his time so
He rose in favor, when in fame he fell: [well,|
Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,
And all despis'd and fed the pliant boy.
At length 'tis time he should abroad be sent,
Was whisper'd near him--and abroad he went
One morn they called him-Richard answered
not;
They doom'd him hanging-and in time forgot;
Yet miss'd him long, as each throughout the
Found he had "better spared a better man."
Now Richard's talents for the world were fit;
He'd no small cunning, and had some small wit;
Had that calm look which seem'd to all assent,
And that complacent speech which nothing|
He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide,
How best for Richard Monday to provide.
Steel through opposing plate the magnet draws,
And steely atoms culls from dust and straws;
And thus our hero, to his int'rest true,
Gold through all bars and from each trifle
drew.
But, still more surely round the world to go,
This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe.
Long lost to us, at last our man we trace,
Sir Richard Monday died at Monday Place;
His lady's worth, his daughter's we peruse,
And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews:
He gave reforming charities a sum, [dumb;
And bought the blessings of the blind and
Bequeath'd to missions money from the stocks,
And Bibles issued from his private box:
But, to his native place severely just,
He left a pittance bound in rigid trust;
Two paltry pounds, on every quarter's day
At church produc'd, for forty loaves should pay;
A stinted gift, that to the parish shows,
He kept in mind their bounty and their blows.
§ 120. The Village Infidel. CRABBE.
His a lone house by dead man's dyke way
stood,
And his a nightly haunt in lonely wood :
Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast,
That he believ'd in neither God nor ghost;
That, when the sod upon the sinner press'd,
He, like the saint, had everlasting rest;
That never priest believ'd his doctrines true,
But would, for profit, own himself a Jew, [do;
Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen
That fools alone on future worlds rely,
And all who die for faith, deserve to die.
These maxims, part, th' attorney's clerk
profess'd;
His own transcendent genius found the rest.
Our pious matrons heard, and, much amaz'd,
Gaz'd on the man, and trembled as they gaz'd;
And now his face explor'd, and now his feet,
Man's dreaded foe in this bad man to meet :
But him our drunkards as their champion
rais'd,
Their bishop call'd, and as their hero prais'd; Though most, when sober, and the rest, when sick,
Had little question whence his bishopric.
But he, triumphant spirit, all things dar'd ; He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snar'd;
'Twas his at cards each novice to trepan,
And call the wants of rogues the rights of man;
Wild as the winds he let his offspring rove,
And deem'd the marriage bond the bane of love.
What age and sickness for a man so bold
Had done, we know not; none beheld him
By night, as business urg'd, he sought the wood, The ditch was deep, the rain had caus'd a flood,
The foot-bridge fail'd, he plung'd beneath the deep,
And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep. § 121. Funeral of an ancient Maiden.
Down by the church-way walk, and where the brook
Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook,
In that small house, with those great pales be-
fore,
Where jasmine trails on either side the door,
Where those dark shrubs, that now grow wild
Were clipp'd in form, and tantaliz'd with skill;
Where cockles blanch'd, and pebbles neatly
spread,
Form'd shining borders for the larkspur bed;
There liv'd a lady, wise, austere, and nice,
Who show'd her virtue by her scorn of vice :
In the dear fashions of her youth she dress'd,
A pea-green joseph was her fav'rite vest,
Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien,
Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall
and lean.
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