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@@ -1,38 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Robert Lovell and Robert Southey - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Poems - containing The Restropect, Odes, Elegies, Sonnets, &c. - -Author: Robert Lovell - Robert Southey - -Release Date: April 29, 2013 [EBook #42621] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Judith Wirawan, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42621 *** POEMS @@ -59,8 +25,8 @@ Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net * * * * * - ........... "Minuentur atrae - Carmine curae." HOR. + ........... "Minuentur atræ + Carmine curæ." HOR. * * * * * @@ -2839,12 +2805,12 @@ FOOTNOTES: Let them marshall their thousands in pride; Let the offspring of ANAK arise From Jericho's palm-bower'd throne, - And Ai and Solyma's towers. + And Aï and Solyma's towers. Let them rush from their mountains to war, Let them cover the valley with arms, For JEHOVAH will war for his sons. - Low Ai's walls shall lie; + Low Aï's walls shall lie; Devouring flames shall waste Huge Hazor's strength to dust. Of Jericho's tall towers @@ -3188,364 +3154,4 @@ has been moved to the end of this e-text. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Poems - containing The Restropect, Odes, Elegies, Sonnets, &c. - -Author: Robert Lovell - Robert Southey - -Release Date: April 29, 2013 [EBook #42621] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Judith Wirawan, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - POEMS - - BY - ROBERT LOVELL, - AND - ROBERT SOUTHEY. - - Price 3s. 6d. - - - - - POEMS: - - CONTAINING - THE RETROSPECT, ODES, ELEGIES, SONNETS, &c. - - BY - ROBERT LOVELL, - AND - ROBERT SOUTHEY, - OF BALIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD. - - * * * * * - - ........... "Minuentur atræ - Carmine curæ." HOR. - - * * * * * - - BATH, PRINTED BY R. CRUTTWELL, - - AND SOLD BY C. DILLY, POULTRY, LONDON. - - MDCCXCV. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - Preface - The Retrospect - Romance - To Urban - The Miser's Mansion - Elegy. The Decayed Farm-House - Epitaph - Elegy. The Decayed Monastery - To Hymen - Hospitality - Sonnet 1. To Ariste - Sonnet 2. - Sonnet 3. - Sonnet 4. - Sonnet 5. Dunnington-Castle - Sonnet 6. - Sonnet 7. Written on a Journey - Sonnet 8. To Happiness - Sonnet 9. - Sonnet 10. To Fame - Sonnet 11. To the Fire - Sonnet 12. The Faded Flower - Sonnet 13. To Sensibility - Sonnet 14. To Health - Sonnet 15. To the Nightingale - Sonnet 16. To Reflection - The Wish. To a Friend - To Lycon - To Lycon - Rosamund to Henry; written after she had taken the Veil - The Race of Odin - The Death of Odin - The Death of Moses - The Death of Mattathias - - - * * * * * - - -PREFACE. - - -A quaint Author of the year 1633, in his pithy Proeme to a book, -entituled - - THE PHILOSOPHERS BANQVET, - - Newly Furnished and decked forth with much variety of many severall - dishes, - -aptly sayeth - - "To the Iuditious Reader, - - "_Him that will buy this Booke_; thus in the commendation and use - thereof. - - "Good Reader, many things hath beene written by many men, and the - over-cloying humor of this age hath so overburdened the world with - multiplicity of al kinds, that scarce there is one subject left upon - the head whereof a hundred have not trampled over: amongst which - impartial handling, it may bee possible that some one corner hath - escaped this scrutenous search, and beene raked over with a lighter - hand than other." - -We feel the justice of this remark as applicable to modern poetry. Much -novelty cannot be expected. In submitting the following volume to the -public, we attempt neither to prejudice them in its favour, or -supplicate them in behalf of its faults. - -The signature of _Bion_ distinguishes the pieces of R. SOUTHEY; -_Moschus_, R. LOVELL. - - - * * * * * - - - THE RETROSPECT. - - - ................ "On life's wide plain - Cast friendless, where unheard some sufferer cries - Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, - Twere not a crime, should we awhile delay - Amid the sunny field; and happier they, - Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song - To cheer their path, 'till they forget to weep, - And the tired sense is husht and sinks to sleep." - - BOWLES. - - - As on I journey through the vale of years, - Cheer'd by fond hopes, and chill'd by doubtful fears; - Allow me, Memory, in thy treasur'd store, - To view those days that will return no more: - Oh! let thy vivid pencil call to view - Each distant scene, each long-past hour anew, - Ere yet my bosom knew the touch of grief, - Ere yet my bosom lov'd the lyre's relief. - - Yes, as thou dart'st thine intellectual ray, - The clouds of mental darkness melt away: - So when, at earliest day's awaking dawn, - The hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn, - O'er all the champain spread their influence chill, - Hang o'er the vale, and hide the lofty hill; - Anon, slow rising, beams the orb of day, - Slow melt the shadowy mists, and fade away; - The vapours vanish at the view of morn, - And hang in dew-drops on the glistening thorn; - The prospect opens on the pilgrim's sight, - And hills, and vales, and woods, reflect the beam of light. - - O thou! the mistress of my future days, - Accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays; - To whom the minstrel and the lyre belong, - Accept, ARISTE, Memory's pensive song! - For Memory on thine image loves to hang, - Heave the sad sigh, and point the piercing pang. - Of long-past days I sing, ere yet I knew - Or grief and care, or happiness and you; - Ere yet my infant bosom learnt to prove - The pangs of absence, and the hopes of love. - - So when the pilgrim, on his journey bent, - With upward toil creeps on the steep ascent; - Ere yet his feet the destin'd height attain, - Oft will he pause, and gaze the journey'd plain; - Oft pause again, the valley to survey, - Where food or slumber sooth'd his wand'ring way. - - ALSTON! twelve years, in various business fled, - Have wing'd their restless flight o'er BION's head; - Twelve years have taught his opening mind to know - The smiles of pleasure, and the frowns of woe; - Since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule, - He roam'd an inmate of the village school: - Yet still will memory's busy eye retrace - Each well-known vestige of the oft-trod place; - Each wonted haunt, each scene of youthful joy, - Where merriment has cheer'd the careless boy: - Well pleas'd will memory still the spot survey, - Where once he triumph'd in the infant play, - Without one care where every morn he rose, - Where every evening sunk to calm repose. - - Large was the mansion, fall'n by varying fate - From lordly grandeur and manorial state; - Where once the manor's lord supreme had rule, - Now reign'd the master of the village school: - No more was heard around, at earliest morn, - The echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn; - No more the eager hounds, with deep'ning cry, - Yell'd in the exulting hope of pastime nigh; - The squire no more obey'd the morning call, - Nor favourite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall; - For he, the last descendant of his race, - Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chace. - - Fall'n was the mansion: o'er the village poor - The lordly landlord tyrannized no more; - For now, in petty greatness o'er the school, - The mighty master held despotic rule: - With trembling silence all his deeds we saw, - His look a mandate, and his word a law; - Severe his voice, severely grave his mien, - And wond'rous strict he was, and wond'rous wise, I ween. - - Even now, thro' many a long long year, I trace - The hour when first in awe I view'd his face; - Even now recall my entrance at the dome, - 'Twas the first day I ever left my home! - Years intervening have not worn away - The deep remembrance of that distant day; - Effac'd the vestige of my earliest fears, - A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears; - When close she prest me to her sorrowing heart, - As loath as even I myself to part. - - But time to youthful sorrow yields relief, - Each various object weans the child from grief: - Like April showers the tears of youth descend, - Sudden they fall, and suddenly they end; - Serener pleasure gilds the following hour, - As brighter gleams the sun when past the April shower. - - Methinks ev'n now the interview I see, - Recall the mistress' smile, the master's glee: - Much of my future happiness they said, - Much of the easy life the scholars led; - Of spacious play-ground, and of wholsome air, - The best instruction, and the tenderest care; - And when I follow'd from the garden door - My father, 'till with tears I saw no more, - How civilly they eas'd my parting pain, - And never spake so civilly again! - - Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell, - When memory spreads around her saddening spell; - When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast, - Loaths at the present, and prefers the past? - Why calls reflection to my pensive view - Each trifling act of infancy anew-- - Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er, - Even at the time when trifles please no more! - Day follows day, yet leaves no trace behind, - When one sole thought engrosses all the mind; - When anxious reason claims her painful sway, - And for to-morrow's prospect glooms to-day! - Ill fares the wanderer in this vale of life, - When each new stage affords succeeding strife; - In every stage he feels supremely curst, - Yet still the present evil seems the worst: - On as he goes the vision'd prospect flies, - And, grasping still at bliss, unblest at last he dies. - - Yet is remembrance sweet; though well I know - The days of childhood are but days of woe; - Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours - The tranquil calm of childhood's easy hours; - Some trifling fault committed calls the tear, - Some trifling task neglected prompts to fear: - Yet is it sweet to call to mind the hour, - Ere searching reason gain'd her saddening power; - Ere future prospects could the soul distress, - When even ignorance was happiness. - - Such was my state in those remember'd years, - When one small acre bounded all my fears: - And even now with pleasure I recall - The tapestry'd school, the bright-brown boarded hall; - The murmuring brook, that every morning saw - The due observance of the cleanly law; - The walnuts, where, when favour would allow, - Full oft I wont to search each well-stript bough; - The crab-tree, whence we hid the secret hoard, - With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board. - - These trifling pastimes then my soul possest, - These trifling objects still remain imprest: - So when, with unskill'd hand, the rustic hind - Carves the rude legend on the growing rind, - In after years the peasant lives to see - The expanded legend grow as grows the tree. - Though every winter's desolating sway - Shake the hoarse grove, and sweep the leaves away; - Deep in its trunk the legend still will last, - Defy the storm, and brave the wintry blast. - - Whilst letter'd travellers delight to roam - The time-torn temple and demolish'd dome; - Stray with the Arab o'er the wreck of time, - Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime; - Or mark the lazy Turk's lethargic pride, - And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side: - Oh! be it mine to flee from empire's strife, - And mark the changes of domestic life; - See the fall'n scenes where once I bore my part, - Where every change of fortune strikes the heart; - As when the merry bells' responsive sound - Proclaim the news of victory around; - When eager patriots fly the news to spread - Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead; - All feel the mighty glow of victor joy, - Exult in blood, and triumph to destroy: - But if extended on the gory plain, - And, snatch'd in conquest, some lov'd friend be slain, - Affection's tears will dim the sorrowing eye, - And suffering nature grieve that one should die. - - Oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred spot, - Where heroes, kings, and minstrels, sleep forgot; - Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivy'd wall, - Or ruin'd convent tottering to its fall; - Whilst sad reflection lov'd the solemn gloom, - Paus'd o'er the pile, and ponder'd on the tomb: - Yet never had my bosom felt such pain - As, ALSTON, when I saw thy scenes again! - For every long-lost pleasure rush'd to view, - For every long-past sorrow rose anew; - Where whilome all were friends, I stood alone, - Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown. - - ALSTON! no pilgrim ever crept around - With more emotion Sion's sacred ground, - Than fill'd my heart as slow I saunter'd o'er - Those fields my infant steps had trod of yore; - Where I had loiter'd out the summer hour, - Chas'd the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower; - Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, - Or with mine equals vied amid the chace. - - Cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast - Howl'd o'er the meadow, when I view'd thee last; - My bosom bounded, as I wander'd round - Each well-known field, each long-remember'd ground. - I saw the church where I had slept away - The tedious service of the summer-day; - Or, listening sad to all the preacher told, - In winter wak'd, and shiver'd with the cold; - And, as I pass'd along the well-trod way, - Where whilome two by two we walk'd to pray, - I saw the garden ground as usual rail'd, - A fence, to fetch my ball, I oft had scal'd: - Oh! it recall'd a thousand scenes to view, - A thousand joys to which I long had bid adieu. - - Silent and sad the scene: I heard no more - Mirth's honest cry, and childhood's cheerful roar, - No longer echo'd round the shout of glee-- - It seem'd as tho' the world were chang'd, like me! - There, where my little hands were wont to rear - With pride the earliest sallad of the year; - Where never idle weed to grow was seen, - There the rank nettle rear'd its head obscene. - I too have felt the hand of fate severe-- - In those calm days I never knew to fear; - No future views alarm'd my gloomy breast, - No anxious pangs my sickening soul possest; - No grief consum'd me, for I did not know - Increase of reason was increase of woe. - - Silent and sad awhile I paus'd, to gaze - On the fall'n dwelling of my earlier days; - Long dwelt the eye on each remember'd spot, - Each long-left scene, long left, but not forgot: - Once more my soul delighted to survey - The brook that murmured on its wonted way; - Obedient to the master's dread commands, - Where every morn we wash'd our face and hands; - Where, when the tempest raged along the air, - I wont to rear the dam with eager care; - And eft and aye return'd with joy to find - The neighbouring orchard's fruit shook down by warring wind. - - How art thou chang'd! at first the stately pile, - Where pride, and pomp, and pleasure, wont to smile, - Lord of the manor, where the jovial squire - Call'd all his tenants round the crackling fire; - Where, whilst the glow of fame o'erspread his face, - He told his ancient exploits in the chace; - And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass, - He lit again the pipe, and fill'd again the glass. - - Past is thy day of glory: past the day - When here the man of learning held his sway: - No more, when howl the wintry storms around, - Within thy hall is heard the mirthful sound; - No more disport around the infant crew, - And high in health the mimic game pursue; - No more to strike the well-aim'd ball delight, - Or rear aloft with joy the buoyant kite. - - True, thou art fallen: thy day of glory past, - Long may thy day of honest comfort last! - Long may the farmer from his toil retire - To joys domestic round thy evening fire; - Where boisterous riot once supreme has reign'd, - Where discipline his sway severe maintain'd; - May heaven the industrious farmer's labour bless, - And crown his honest toil with happiness. - - Seat of my earlier, happier years, farewell! - Thy memory still in Bion's breast shall dwell: - Still as he journeys life's rough road along, - Or sojourns sad, this college gloom among, - Will fond remembrance paint those careless days, - When all he wish'd was speedy holydays! - - ALSTON, how many a pang has wrung my heart, - Since from thy scenes in youth I joy'd to part! - How often has my bosom shrunk to know - The sigh of sorrow, and the weight of woe - I knew not even the comfort of a tear - O'er a beloved father's timeless bier; - His clay-cold limbs I saw the grave inclose, - And blest that fate which snatch'd him from his woes. - - Why wilt thou, Memory, still recall to view - Each long-past joy, each long-lost friend anew? - Paint not the scenes that pleas'd my soul of yore, - Those friends are gone, those long-past joys no more; - Cease to torment me, busy torturer, cease, - Let cold oblivion's touch benumb my soul to peace! - - So when the morning smiles serene and mild, - The cheerful pilgrim wanders o'er the wild; - Soft through the bowering wood the breezes blow, - And bubbling fountains sparkle as they flow; - Sweet is to him the woodland's secret glade, - Sweet the deep shelter of the dingle's shade: - And oft he stops, delighted to survey - The high hill's top reflect the lucid ray; - Anon the face of heaven is overcast, - Hoarse groan the woods responsive to the blast; - The wild winds howl, the torrents thunder down, - With darker hues the sullen mountains frown; - All that the pilgrim, late with joy possest, - O'ercast by horror now, englooms his shrinking breast. - - Yet, as the mariner, when tempest tost, - Aghast he stands, and gives up all for lost; - If at that moment, when with faultering breath - He calls to heaven, and waits the rushing death; - If then he sees the twin-born lights descend, - His bosom brightens, and his terrors end. - ARISTE! so when memory's painful sway - Recalls the sorrow of the distant day; - When the soft soother turns at length to thee, - The gloom disperses, and the shadows flee; - Grief's cankering pangs no more my bosom move, - That beating bosom only bounds to Love. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - ROMANCE. - - - What wildly-beauteous form, - High on the summit of yon bicrown'd hill, - Lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand? - Tho' speds the thunder there its deep'ning way, - Tho' round her head the lightnings play, - Undaunted she abides the storm; - She waves her magic wand, - The clouds retire, the storm is still; - Bright beams the sun unwonted light around, - And many a rising flower bedecks the enchanted ground. - - ROMANCE! I know thee now, - I know the terrors of thy brow; - I know thine aweful mien, thy beaming eye; - And lo! whilst mists arise around - Yon car that cleaves the pregnant ground! - Two fiery dragons whirl her through the sky; - Her milder sister loves to rove - Amid Parnassus' laurell'd grove, - On Helicon's harmonious side, - To mark the gurgling streamlet glide; - Meantime, thro' wilder scenes and sterner skies, - From clime to clime the ardent genius flies. - - She speeds to yonder shore,[1] - Where ruthless tempests roar, - Where sturdy winter holds his northern reign, - Nor vernal suns relax the ice-pil'd plain: - Dim shadows circle round her secret seat, - Where wandering, who approach shall hear - The wild wolf rend the air; - Thro' the cloudy-mantled sky - Shall see the imps of darkness fly, - And hear the sad scream from the grim retreat; - Around her throne - Ten thousand dangers lurk, most fearful, most unknown. - - Yet lovelier oft in milder sway, - She wends abroad her magic way; - The holy prelate owns her power; - In soft'ning tale relates - The snowy Ethiop's matchless charms, - The outlaw's den, the clang of arms, - And love's too-varying fates; - The storms of persecution lower, - Austere devotion gives the stern command, - "Commit yon impious legend to the fires;"-- - Calm in his conscious worth, the sage retires, - And saves the invalu'd work, and quits the thankless land; - High tow'rs his name the sacred list above, - And ev'n the priest[2] is prais'd who wrote of blameless love. - - Around the tower, whose wall infolds - Young THORA's blooming charms, - Romance's serpent winds his glittering folds; - The warrior clasps his shaggy arms, - The monster falls, the damsel is the spoil, - Matchless reward of REGNER's[3] matchless toil. - - Around the patriot board, - The knights[4] attend their lord; - The martial sieges hov'ring o'er, - Enrapt the genius views the dauntless band; - Still prompt for innocence to fight, - Or quell the pride of proud oppression's might, - They rush intrepid o'er the land; - She gives them to the minstrel lore, - Hands down her LAUNCELOT's peerless name, - Repays her TRISTRAM's woes with fame; - Borne on the breath of song, - To future times descends the memory of the throng. - - Foremost mid the peers of France,[5] - ORLANDO hurls the death-fraught lance; - Where DURLINDANA aims the blow, - To darkness sinks the faithless foe; - The horn with magic sound - Spreads deep dismay around; - Unborn to bleed, the chieftain goes, - And scatters wide his Paynim foes; - The genius hovers o'er the purple plain - Where OLIVERO tramples on the slain; - BAYARDO speeds his furious course, - High towers ROGERO in his matchless force. - - Romance the heighten'd tale has caught, - Forth from the sad monastic cell, - Where fiction with devotion loves to dwell, - The sacred legend[6] flies with many a wonder fraught; - Deep roll the papal[7] thunders round, - And everlasting wrath to rebel reason sound. - - Hark! Superstition sounds to war's alarms, - War stalks o'er Palestine with scorching breath, - And triumphs in the feast of death; - All Europe flies to arms: - Enthusiast courage spreads her piercing sound, - Devotion caught the cry, and woke the echo around. - Romance[8] before the army flies, - New scenes await her wondering eyes; - Awhile she firms her GODFREY's throne, - And makes Arabia's magic lore her own. - - And hark! resound, in mingled sound, - The clang of arms, the shriek of death; - Each streaming gash bedews the ground, - And deep and hollow groans load the last struggling breath: - Wide thro' the air the arrows fly, - Darts, shields, and swords, commix'd appear; - Deep is the cry, when thousands die, - When COEUR DE LION's arm constrains to fear: - Aloft the battle-axe in air - Whirls around confus'd despair; - Nor Acre's walls can check his course, - Nor Sarzin millions stay his force. - - Indignant, firm the warrior stood, - The hungry lion gapes for food; - His fearless eye beheld him nigh, - Unarm'd, undaunted, saw the beast proceed: - Romance, o'erhovering, saw the monster die, - And scarce herself believ'd the more than wond'rous deed. - - And now, with more terrific mien, - She quits the sad degenerate scene; - With many a talisman of mightiest pow'r, - Borne in a rubied car, sublime she flies, - Fire-breathing griffins waft her thro' the skies; - Around her head the innocuous tempest lowers, - To Gallia's favour'd realm she goes, - And quits her magic state, and plucks her lovely rose.[9] - Imagination waves her wizard wand, - Dark shadows mantle o'er the land; - The lightnings flash, the thunders sound, - Convulsive throbs the labouring ground;[10] - What fiends, what monsters, circling round, arise! - High towers of fire aloft aspire, - Deep yells resound amid the skies, - Yclad in arms, to Fame's alarms - Her magic warrior flies. - - By Fiction's shield secure, for many a year - O'er cooler reason held the genius rule; - But lo! CERVANTES waves his pointed spear, - Nor Fiction's shield can stay the spear of ridicule. - - The blameless warrior comes; he first to wield - His fateful weapon in the martial field; - By him created on the view, - ARCADIA's vallies bloom anew, - And many a flock o'erspreads the plain, - And love, with innocence, assumes his reign: - Protected by a warrior's name, - The kindred warriors live to fame: - Sad is the scene, where oft from Pity's eye - Descends the sorrowing tear, - As high the unheeding chieftain lifts the spear, - And gives the deadly blow, and sees PARTHENIA die! - Where, where such virtues can we see, - Or where such valour, SIDNEY, but in thee? - O, cold of heart, shall pride assail thy shade, - Whom all Romance could fancy nature made? - - Sound, Fame, thy loudest blast, - For SPENSER pours the tender strain, - And [11]shapes to glowing forms the motley train; - The elfin tribes around - Await his potent sound, - And o'er his head Romance her brightest splendors cast. - Deep thro' the air let sorrow's banner wave! - For penury o'er SPENSER's friendless head - Her chilling mantle spread; - For Genius cannot save! - Virtue bedews the blameless poet's dust; - But fame, exulting, clasps her favorite's laurel'd bust. - - Fain would the grateful Muse, to thee, ROUSSEAU, - Pour forth the energic thanks of gratitude; - Fain would the raptur'd lyre ecstatic glow, - To whom Romance and Nature form'd all good: - Guide of my life, too weak these lays, - To pour the unutterable praise; - Thine aid divine for ever lend, - Still as my guardian sprite attend; - Unmov'd by Fashion's flaunting throng, - Let my calm stream of life smooth its meek course along; - Let no weak vanity dispense - Her vapors o'er my better sense; - But let my bosom glow with fire, - Let me strike the soothing lyre, - Altho' by all unheard the melodies expire. - - BION. - -FOOTNOTES: - - [1] Fictions of Romance, popular in Scandinavia at an early period. - - [2] Heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of his see than burn his - Ethiopics. The bishop's name would have slept with his fathers, - the romancer is remembered. - - [3] First exploit of the celebrated Regner Lodbrog. - - [4] Knights of the round table. - - [5] The Paladines of France. - - [6] Instead of forging the life of a saint, Archbishop Turpin was - better employed in falsifying the history of Charlemagne. - - [7] A bull was issued, commanding all good citizens to believe - Ariosto's poem, founded upon Turpin's history. - - [8] Arabian fictions ingrafted on the Gothic romance. - - [9] Romance of the Rose, written soon after the Crusades. - -[10] Early prose Romances, originally Spanish. - -[11] Fictions of Romance, allegorized by Spenser. - - - * * * * * - - - TO URBAN. - - - Lo! where the livid lightning flies - With transient furious force, - A moment's splendour streaks the skies, - Where ruin marks its course: - Then see how mild the font of day - Expands the stream of light; - Whilst living by the genial ray, - All nature smiles delight. - - So boisterous riot, on his course - Uncurb'd by reason, flies; - And lightning, like its fatal force, - Soon lightning-like it dies: - Whilst sober Temperance, still the same, - Shall shun the scene of strife; - And, like the sun's enlivening flame, - Shall beam the lamp of life. - - Let noise and folly seek the reign - Where senseless riot rules; - Let them enjoy the pleasures vain - Enjoy'd alone by fools. - URBAN! those better joys be ours, - Which virtuous science knows, - To pass in milder bliss the hours, - Nor fear the future woes. - - So when stern time their frames shall seize, - When sorrow pays for sin; - When every nerve shall feel disease, - And conscience shrink within; - Shall health's best blessings all be ours, - The soul serene at ease, - Whilst science gilds the passing hours, - And every hour shall please. - - Even now from solitude they fly, - To drown each thought in noise; - Even now they shun Reflection's eye, - Depriv'd of man's best joys. - So, when Time's unrelenting doom - Shall bring the seasons' course, - The busy monitor shall come - With aggravated force. - - Friendship is ours: best friend, who knows - Each varied hour to employ; - To share the lighted load of woes, - And double every joy: - And Science too shall lend her aid, - The friend that never flies, - But shines amid misfortune's shade - As stars in midnight skies. - - Each joy domestic bliss can know - Shall deck the future hour; - Or if we taste the cup of woe, - The cup has lost its power: - Thus, may we live, 'till death's keen spear, - Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come; - Then sink, without one guilty fear, - To slumber in the tomb. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - THE MISER'S MANSION. - - - Thou mouldering mansion, whose embattled side - Shakes as about to fall at every blast; - Once the gay pile of splendor, wealth, and pride, - But now the monument of grandeur past. - - Fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time-trac'd walls, - Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state; - Each object, to the musing mind, recalls - The sad vicissitudes of varying fate. - - Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time, - The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts; - Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime, - Where battening, undisturb'd, the foul toad sports. - - Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, - The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat; - And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl, - Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat. - - 'Twas here AVARO dwelt, who daily told - His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy; - Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold, - And hid those stores he dreaded to employ. - - In vain to him benignant heaven bestow'd - The golden heaps to render thousands blest; - Smooth aged penury's laborious road, - And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast. - - For, like the serpent of romance, he lay - Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight; - With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day, - With causeless fears he agoniz'd by night. - - Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil - Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest; - Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil, - With all his riches, was AVARO blest? - - Rose he, like you, at morn devoid of fear, - His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep? - Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near, - As calmly on his couch of down to sleep? - - Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul, - What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave? - What boots thy wealth above the world's controul, - If riches doom their churlish lord a slave? - - Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, - Nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth; - The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls, - Nor blaz'd with hospitable fires the hearth. - - On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, - Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet; - Nor when the accustom'd guest draws near the door, - Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet. - - Sullen and stern AVARO sat alone - In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall, - Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown, - Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall. - - For desolation o'er the fabric dwells, - And time, on restless pinion, hurried by; - Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells, - And thro' the shatter'd roof descends the sky. - - Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye - Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom, - And mark the daw from yonder turret fly, - And muse how man himself creates his doom. - - For here had Justice reign'd, had Pity known - With genial power to sway AVARO's breast, - These treasur'd heaps which fortune made his own, - By aiding misery might himself have blest. - - And Charity had oped her golden store - To work the gracious will of heaven intent, - Fed from her superflux the craving poor, - And paid adversity what heaven had lent. - - Then had thy turrets stood in all their state, - Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall, - Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate, - And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall. - - Then had the village youth at vernal hour - Hung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate, - And blest in gratitude that sovereign power - That made the man of mercy good as great. - - The traveller then to view thy towers had stood, - Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name, - And call'd on heaven to give thee every good, - And told abroad thy hospitable fame. - - In every joy of life the hours had fled, - Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by, - 'Till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head, - Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die. - - And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around - The ample wealth by lavish fortune given, - Thy parted spirit had that justice found, - And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - ELEGY. - - THE DECAYED FARM-HOUSE. - - - 'Mid mighty ruins mould'ring to decay, - The letter'd traveller delights to roam; - The antique pile or column to survey, - And trace faint legends on the crumbling dome. - - They court proud cities of historic name, - By desolation's giant arm subdu'd, - And meditate the spot once dear to fame, - Where Balbec flourish'd, or Palmyra stood. - - The muse delights to court a lone retreat, - And far from these illustrious scenes to stray; - Uprear'd by folly for ambition's seat, - By vice and folly fall'n, now tottering to decay. - - She loves to meditate the humbler spot, - Where untrick'd nature pours the rude sublime; - Where rural hands have rear'd the rural cot, - Decaying now beneath the touch of time. - - "Yon farm-house totters, by the tempest beat, - The marks of age its antique chimnies bear; - Sure no sad master owns the cheerless seat, - Say, passing shepherd, who has sojourn'd there?" - - 'Forgive the sigh,' the rustic swain reply'd, - 'These desert scenes my happier days recall; - Forgive the tears which down my cheeks yglide, - For when I view this spot, my tears will fall. - - 'Stranger!' said he, 'here late did GRATIO dwell, - Hast thou not heard of good old GRATIO's fame? - Through all our village he was known full well, - And even lisping infants spoke his name. - - 'Twice twenty years I serv'd him as his hind, - Twice twenty years for him I till'd the soil; - I lov'd my master, for I found him kind, - My task was easy, and I blest my toil. - - 'He seem'd not master, but an equal friend; - He join'd our labours in the field by day, - And when the evening bade our labours end, - He mingled freely in our rustic play. - - 'Ah! well I knew him from his mother's arms, - No youth so fair, so innocent, as he; - His spring of life was deck'd with spring's best charms, - His opening mind was like the blossom'd tree. - - 'His riper years with riper fruits were crown'd, - His mellow autumn blest with genial skies; - His age, like winter's frost-ymantled ground, - Where vigour still beneath the hoary surface lies. - - 'For wealth or pow'r he breath'd no prayer to heav'n, - Life's every blessing industry supplied; - To him health, peace, and competence, were giv'n, - And say, can virtue form a wish beside? - - 'This once-lov'd spot recalls full many a joy, - What cheer'd in youth old age will ne'er forget; - But still must doat on memory's fond employ, - And what it lov'd the most, the most regret. - - 'The spreading elm that shadows o'er the yard, - Its parted master to my view can call; - And every object claims a soft regard, - Since GRATIO's memory sanctifies them all. - - 'The shady bower in yonder elmy meads, - The vocal thicket where the throstle sung, - The little gate that through the garden leads, - The fork now useless where the milk-pail hung. - - 'But GRATIO's dead, and desert is the scene, - GRATIO's no more, and every charm's decay'd; - Those joys are fled which gladden'd once the green; - But still fond fancy courts the fleeting shade, - - 'Still dwells tenacious on those happier hours, - When this lov'd spot with social joys was crown'd; - When health, content, and innocence were ours, - And pour'd the song of happiness around. - - 'Then the glad houshold his return would greet, - And winning welcome smil'd with accents bland; - The faithful house-dog gambol'd round his feet, - To court attention from his master's hand. - - 'To clasp his knees the prattling infants ran, - Proud from their sire to catch the earliest kiss; - Oh! I have seen the parent bless the man, - When only tears could speak his secret bliss. - - 'But now he's dead, the thought demands a tear, - I saw the good man yield his latest breath; - He fell full ripen'd as the autumnal ear, - Swept by the sickle of relentless death.' - - "Shepherd," said he, "my day of life is flown;" - 'Methinks ev'n now the faultering sound I hear:' - "Lay my cold corse beneath some humble stone, - And let no useless pomp attend my bier." - - 'We try'd each healing art, but could not save; - We bore his bier, the last sad debt to pay; - No plumy hearse bore GRATIO to the grave, - No pompous pile was rear'd around his clay. - - 'All the sad village followed in the train, - We laid his bones beneath yon yew-tree's shade; - Our village curate grav'd the elegiac strain, - And lo! the stone, the spot in which he's laid.' - - - * * * * * - - - EPITAPH. - - - Here GRATIO mingles with his kindred clay, - Who liv'd contented, and who died resign'd; - He let no slavish rules his actions sway, - But the warm impulse of an honest mind. - - Of heav'n's free blessings he bestow'd a part, - And open'd wide his hospitable gate; - He fed the poor, for gen'rous was his heart; - He sooth'd the sad, for pity was his mate. - - To him the boon of good old age was giv'n, - And now, when parted from this world of woe, - He rests in holy faith of God and heav'n, - To meet that mercy which he gave below. - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - ELEGY. - - THE DECAYED MONASTERY. - - - How loves the mind to muse o'er long-past hours, - While o'er the scene the swift ideas dance; - How sweet absorb'd in memory's pleasing pow'rs, - To wing the soul in retrospective glance! - - But nought avails the retrospective view, - If calm reflection turn it not to good; - In vain shall thought the backward theme pursue, - If mind not profit by the theme pursu'd. - - Thus o'er some antique ruin, time-defac'd, - The sons of science oft delight to stray, - To trace the inscription on the desert waste, - And pierce time's dark veil by its lucid ray. - - But vain the labours of the enquiring sage, - If thence the mind no moral truth sublimes; - Nor learns from heroes of a distant age, - To love their virtues, and to shun their crimes. - - Beneath yon hillock, by the embow'ring grove, - The once-fam'd convent's mouldering walls arise; - Come, pensive muse, that lov'st these scenes to rove, - Now rising vesper rules the evening skies! - - Explore the gloom with silent step, and slow, - While musing melancholy hovers near; - Haply from hence some moral truth may flow, - And frame a song that virtue's self may hear. - - This sacred pile, for solitude design'd, - To pious age might form a still retreat; - But bigot zeal here rankled in the mind, - And superstition fix'd her baneful seat. - - Yon pending column, moss ygrown and rude, - Now torn by time, and faithless to its trust; - Once mark'd the proud spot where a temple stood, - And mystic rites made consecrate its dust. - - 'Twere impious thought these cloister'd shades to roam, - Or wake dull echo with one cheerful sound; - No stranger eye might meditate the dome, - No foot unhallow'd tread the sacred ground. - - But now ev'n here the slimy serpent crawls, - And hence the gloom-born owlet wheels her way; - Loud shrieks the hoarse bat from the hollow walls, - And the gaunt night-wolf meditates his prey. - - As o'er the mind these varied visions steal, - They speak instruction to the musing bard; - From these vain efforts of religious zeal, - How clear the moral, yet how few regard. - - In vain may priests their mystic rites repeat, - The dome still moulders with th' unhallow'd dust; - For virtue only consecrates her seat, - Her sacred temple is the heart that's just. - - How dark the times when wily monks combin'd, - And shrouded truth in superstitious gloom; - Represt the noblest energies of mind, - Prescrib'd man's path, and fix'd his final doom. - - If crimes untold some parting spirit felt, - Persuasive gold to holy friar was giv'n; - Low at the altar brib'd devotion knelt, - And mammon wing'd the venal pray'r to heav'n. - - Succeeding ages saw their wealth increase, - While self-denying poverty they feign'd; - Secure they liv'd in luxury and ease, - Nor kept those vigils which themselves ordain'd. - - Now the eighth Henry rul'd our rising isle, - He saw their treasure, and he burnt t' enjoy; - Destruction rag'd o'er each devoted pile, - And wealth, that rais'd them, serv'd but to destroy. - - Thus burst one link of superstition's chain, - The mind unfetter'd dar'd a nobler flight; - Fair truth and reason reassum'd their reign, - And pour'd a flood of intellectual light. - - How blest were man, had this diffusive beam - Spread o'er the general world its lambent ray; - Illum'd the shores where Volga pours its stream, - And where the classic Tiber rolls its way. - - For there no gleam shot through th' impervious night, - And there their seat the monkish zealots made; - As the dull earth-worm shuns the realms of light, - And courts in gloom obscure its native shade. - - Still in those regions superstition sways, - In cloister'd shades see youth and beauty shrin'd; - There unexcited energy decays, - And genius dies that might have blest mankind. - - But soon ev'n here the illusive shade shall fail, - And truth omnipotent assert its power; - How joys the muse the coming dawn to hail, - Oh! might her line facilitate the hour. - - Say, what is virtue, sages? Is it this? - To quit the public weal, and guard our own: - Is life's sole object individual bliss? - Does man exist to bless himself alone? - - Have we no duties of a social kind? - Is self-regard creation's noblest end? - How then shall age its wonted succour find; - The blind a leader, and the poor a friend? - - Say, ye recluse, who shun life's public road, - Have ye not powers to mitigate distress; - To ease affliction's bosom of its load, - And make the sum of human misery less? - - This duty teaches to the human breast, - And virtue bids us still her fires relume; - Nor waste the flame, unblessing and unblest, - As lamps that glimmer in sepulchral gloom. - - Who hides those talents bounteous heav'n bestow'd - In lone retreat, perverts great nature's plan, - The path of duty is the social road, - The sphere for action is the sphere for man. - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - TO HYMEN. - - - God of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame - Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart; - Of every woe the cure, - Of every joy the source; - - To thee I sing: if haply may the muse - Pour forth the song unblam'd from these dull haunts, - Where never beams thy torch - To cheer the sullen scene; - - From these dull haunts, where monkish science holds, - In sullen gloom her solitary reign; - And spurns the reign of love, - And spurns thy genial sway. - - God of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye, - Whose soft sweet gaze thrills thro' the bounding heart, - With no unholy joy - I pour the lay to thee. - - I pour the lay to thee, though haply doom'd - In solitary woe to waste my years; - Though doom'd perchance to die - Unlov'd and unbewail'd. - - Yet will the lark, in iron cage inthrall'd, - Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun, - As wide his brilliant beam - Illumes the landskip round; - - As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heard - The feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn, - And hails the beam of joy, - Of joy to her denied. - - Friend to each noblest feeling of the soul, - To thee I hymn, for every joy is thine; - And every virtue comes - To join thy generous train. - - Lur'd by the splendor of thy beamy torch, - Beacon of bliss, young love expands his plumes, - And leads his willing slaves - To wear thy flowery bands; - - And then he yields the follies of his reign, - Throws down the torch that scorches up the soul, - And lights the purer flame - That glows serene with thee. - - And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway - Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter beam - The fading flame of love, - The fading flame of life. - - Parent of every bliss! the busy soul - Of Fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues, - How calm, how clear, thy torch - Illumes the wintry hour; - - Will paint the wearied labourer, at that hour - When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil, - Returning blithely home - To each domestic joy; - - Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal - Prepar'd by fond solicitude to please, - The ruddy children round - That climb the father's knee: - - And oft will Fancy rise above the lot - Of honest poverty, oft paint the state - Where happiest man is blest - With mediocrity; - - When toil, no longer irksome and constrain'd - By hard necessity, but comes to please, - To vary the still hour - Of tranquil happiness. - - Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene - Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet! - Soothe sad reality - With visionary bliss? - - Ah! rather gaze where science' hallow'd light - Resplendent shines: ah! rather lead thy son - Through all her mystic paths - To drink the sacred spring. - - Let calm philosophy supply the void, - And fill the vacant heart; lead calmly on - Along the unvaried path, - To age's drear abode; - - And teach how dreadful death to happiness, - What thousand horrors wait the last adieu, - When every tie is broke, - And every charm dissolv'd. - - Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretch - Who wanes in solitary listlessness, - Nor knows the joys of life, - Nor knows the dread of death. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - HOSPITALITY. - - - "Lay low yon impious trappings on the ground, - Bend, superstition, bend thy haughty head, - Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:" - Thus from his firm-establish'd throne, - Replete with vengeful fury, HENRY said. - High Reformation lifts her iron rod, - But lo! with stern and threatful mien, - Fury and rancour desolate the scene, - Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod. - Ah! hold awhile your angry hands; - Ah! here delay your king's commands, - For Hospitality will feel the wound! - In vain the voice of reason cries, - Whilst uncontroul'd the regal mandate flies. - - Thou, AVALON! in whose polluted womb - The patriot monarch found his narrow tomb; - Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head - With niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread, - Stood the memorial of the pious age? - Where wont the hospitable fire - In cheering volumes to aspire, - And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage. - Low lie thy turrets now, - The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth; - The dome which luxury yrear'd, - Though Hospitality was there rever'd, - Now, from its shatter'd brow, - With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth. - - Ye minstrel throng, - In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire, - No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre: - The walls, whose trophied sides along - Once rung the harp's energic sound, - Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground; - No more the bold romantic lore - Shall spread from Thule's distant shore; - No more intrepid Cambria's hills among, - In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song. - - Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child, - Where shall we seek thee now? - Genius! no more thy influence mild - Shall gild Affliction's clouded brow; - No more thy cheering smiles impart - One ray of joy to Sorrow's heart; - No more within the lordly pile - Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile. - - Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays, - Where hangs the row in sullen show - Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days, - The gaudy toil of Turkish loom - Shall decorate the stately room; - Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye, - Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by. - - Not so where o'er the desart waste of sand - Speds the rude Arab wild his wandering way; - Leads on to rapine his intrepid band, - And claims the wealth of India for his prey; - There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest - Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand, - The generous Arab gives the tent of rest, - Guards him as the fond mother guards her child, - Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild. - - Not so amid those climes where rolls along - The Oroonoko deep his mighty flood; - Where rove amid their woods the savage throng, - Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood; - Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snake - That sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake, - Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear; - Patient of hunger, and of pain, - Close in their haunts the chiefs remain, - And lift in secret stand the deadly spear. - Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near, - And proffering forth the friendly hand, - Claim their protection from the warrior band; - The savage Indians bid their anger cease, - Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace. - - Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdraws - To fashion's circle, far from nature's laws, - How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast! - Cold Prudence comes, relentless foe! - Forbids the pitying tear to flow, - And steels the soul of apathy to rest; - Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne, - And deems of other bosoms by her own. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - SONNETS. - - * * * * * - - - SONNET I. - - _TO ARISTE._ - - - ARISTE! soon to sojourn with the crowd, - In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go; - Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show, - Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud. - I go: but still my soul remains with thee, - Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms, - Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see, - And every pulse will vibrate with alarms. - When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale, - When envy at a rival's beauty sighs, - When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail, - And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes, - I turn my wearied soul to her for ease, - Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET II. - - - Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast - The glow of genius never could inspire; - Who never, by the future song possest, - Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre. - Let him invoke the Muses from their grove, - Who never felt the inspiring touch of love. - If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze - Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view, - Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise, - Where only from the minstrel praise is due, - I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays, - My Muse, ARISTE, would be found in you! - And need I court the goddess when I move - The warbling lute to sound the soul of love? - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET III. - - - Let ancient stories sound the painter's art, - Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms, - 'Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart, - And every bosom bounded with alarms. - He cull'd the beauties of his native isle, - From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, - From some the lovely look, the winning smile, - From some the languid lustre of the eyes. - Low to the finish'd form the nations round - In adoration bent the pious knee; - With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd, - Whose skill, ARISTE, only imaged thee. - Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek - The charms that blossom on ARISTE's cheek! - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET IV. - - - I Praise thee not, ARISTE, that thine eye - Knows each emotion of the soul to speak; - That lillies with thy face might fear to vie, - And roses can but emulate thy cheek. - I praise thee not because thine auburn hair - In native tresses wantons on the wind; - Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair, - Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind: - 'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won, - That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest; - Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast, - As the soft radiance of the setting sun, - When varying through the purple hues of light, - The fading orbit smiles serenely bright. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET V. - - _DUNNINGTON-CASTLE._ - - - Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, - Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre - First breath'd the voice of music on our isle; - Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire, - Old CHAUCER slowly sunk at last to night; - Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain, - A firmer, nobler monument remain, - When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site; - And yet the cankering tooth of envious age - Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme; - Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, - And piercing through the shadowy mist of time, - The festive Bard of EDWARD's court recall, - As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET VI. - - - As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell - Tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom, - Alone and pensive, in my silent room, - On man and on mortality I dwell. - And as the harbinger of death I hear - Frequent and full, much do I love to muse - On life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear; - And passion varying her camelion hues, - And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade, - 'Till death dissolves the vision. So the child - In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd, - As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd; - Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play, - Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET VII. - - _WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY._ - - - As o'er the lengthen'd plain the traveller goes, - Weary and sad, his wayward fancy strays - To scenes which late he pass'd, haply to raise - The transient joy which memory bestows; - And oft, while hope dispels the gathering gloom, - He paints the approaching scene in colours gay: - So I, to cheer me in life's rugged way, - Or glance o'er pleasures past, or think of bliss to come. - But ah! reflection vainly we employ - On pleasures past, and fugitive the joy - When the mind rests on hope's delusive power; - Blest only they who present joys can taste, - Nor fear the future, nor regret the past, - But happy, as it flies, enjoy the present hour. - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET VIII. - - _TO HAPPINESS._ - - - Say, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell? - Desir'd of all, and sought through every scene, - In pomp of courts, and in the rural green, - Life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell. - Thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few, - We seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go; - Tir'd of the chace, man ceases to pursue, - And sighing, says, thou dwellest not below. - Does he not after fairy shadows run? - Follows he not some wild illusive dream, - Like children who would catch the radiant sun, - Grasp at its image in the glittering stream? - If right he sought, then man would meet success, - For surely "Virtue leads to happiness." - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET IX. - - - Mark'st thou yon streamlet in its onward course? - Mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats? - Lightly it drifts along, and well denotes - The light impression on the youthful breast, - Which, in life's summer, transiently imprest, - Glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force: - But o'er the fading year, when winter reigns, - Chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd, - And on its bosom, where of late it play'd, - Frolic and light the reed infix'd remains. - Thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar, - Freezes the genial flow of mental power, - The mind, tenacious of its gather'd store, - Detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal hour. - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET X. - - _TO FAME._ - - - On the high summit of yon rocky hill, - Proud Fame! thy temple stands, and see around - What thronging thousands press; and hark! the sound - That fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill. - Amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd, - And oft intwin'd around the wreath they claim; - And many spurn at justice' sacred name, - And "wade to glory through a sea of blood." - Be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd, - And, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloud - Upon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice, - I'll court fair virtue in her humbler sphere, - More pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to hear - The approving whispers of her still small voice. - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET XI. - - _TO THE FIRE._ - - - My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright, - Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame; - Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night, - Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame. - I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth, - I love to pause in meditation's sway; - And whilst each object gives reflection birth, - Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay: - And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene, - Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer; - And wish at last, in life's declining scene, - As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear: - So might my children ponder o'er my shrine, - And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET XII. - - _THE FADED FLOWER._ - - - Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk, - Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way, - Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk, - Then past along, and left thee to decay. - Thou melancholy emblem! had I seen - Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, - I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem, - But left thy blossom still to grace the green; - And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom, - And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my side - Deep-sighing, points the fair frail EMMA's tomb; - "Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride! - O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy - Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy." - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET XIII. - - _TO SENSIBILITY._ - - - I'll court thy lone bow'r, Sensibility! - And mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair, - Thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye, - And all those charms which blend to make thee fair. - Far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to stray - Recluse, and listen at the silent hour, - When wildly warbling from her secret bow'r - The pensive night-bird pours her evening lay. - 'Tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard, - And as her sad song, by the moon's still beam, - Dies softly on mine ear, more sweet I deem - Her mournful note than song of blither bird; - So more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dye - Charms thy soft downcast mein and tear-dew'd eye. - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET XIV. - - _TO HEALTH._ - - - Nymph of the splendent eye and rosy cheek, - Who erst from courts and luxury didst speed, - And with thine elder sister, Temperance, seek - The woodbin'd cottage on the daisied mead; - There will I woo thee, for thou dwellest there - Amid the sons of industry; thy smile - Soothes every sorrow, cheers the hour of toil, - And, blest by thee, sweet is their frugal fare. - When the woods echo with the early horn - Thou trip'st the wild heath, clad in flowing vest, - (While youthful zephyr wantons o'er thy breast) - And, with blithe song, dost greet the blushing morn; - The airy sprite, who o'er thy fair form roves, - Thy beauty tastes, and, as he tastes, improves. - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET XV. - - _TO THE NIGHTINGALE._ - - - Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear - Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear, - As by thy wonted haunts again I rove; - Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay? - For faintly fades the sinking orb of day, - And yet thy music charms no more the grove. - The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower - The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour; - Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along, - The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood - No longer need thy care to cull their food, - And nothing now remains to prompt the song: - But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, - No more responsive to the lay of love. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - SONNET XVI. - - _TO REFLECTION._ - - - Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye - Revert again to many a sorrow past? - Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly, - Those who have never seen the sun o'ercast - By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam, - Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam, - As the last splendour of the summer sky. - Let them look back on pleasure, ere they know - To mourn its absence; let them contemplate - The thorny windings of our mortal state, - Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe; - Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow, - Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom, - In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - THE WISH. - - _TO A FRIEND._ - - - The Muse who struck to moral strains the lyre, - Now turns to court a visionary theme, - To frame the wish which flattering hopes inspire, - When fancy revels in her golden dream. - - I ask no lone retreat, no shady grove, - Nor grove nor bower can boast a charm for me; - I muse on Justice, Liberty, and Love, - And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee? - - I bend, great Justice! at thine awful throne, - Eternal arbiter of good and ill, - The sons of soul shall make thy laws their own, - And form their dictates by thy sov'reign will. - - But oft perverted is thy high behest, - And oft I'm doom'd oppression's rod to see; - I see wealth triumph, and the poor opprest, - And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee? - - How bounds the soul at freedom's sacred call? - How shrinks from slavery's heart-appalling train? - But still her victims avarice will inthral, - Afric's sad sons still wear the accursed chain. - - Still, power despotic, with ambition join'd, - Would crush the soul determin'd to be free; - I see debas'd man's dignity of mind, - And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee? - - Were justice follow'd, then would man be good, - Were freedom guarded, then would man be blest; - No generous impulse of the soul subdu'd, - But love, unfraught with anguish, fill the breast. - - I felt the magic of LUCINDA's eye, - I thought her charms were of no mean degree; - LUCINDA's name inspir'd the secret sigh, - And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee? - - One only wish remain'd! oh! might I find, - Amid this scene of danger and of strife, - Some kindred spirit, some congenial mind, - To cheer my journey through the vale of life. - - Indulgent heav'n vouchsafed the boon to send, - A youth I found, and just and mild was he; - My heart sprang mutual to embrace its friend, - And, need I, ORSON! name that friend to thee? - - MOSCHUS. - - - * * * * * - - - TO LYCON. - - - On yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what form - Beats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair? - Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm? - Why glare her full-fix'd eyes in stern despair? - The deep dull groan I hear, - I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear. - - Ah! fly her dreadful reign, - For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain; - For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower, - For oft the ill-omen'd owl - Yells loud the dreadful howl, - And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour. - - Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know, - I know the horrors of thy barren plain, - I know the dreadful force of woe, - I know the weight of thy soul-binding chain; - But I have fled thy drear domains, - Have broke thy agonizing chains, - Drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl, - Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my soul. - - Fair smiles the morn along the azure sky, - Calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by, - And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain; - As down the dale, with perfumes sweet, - The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet, - His thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain; - And every bird that loves to sing - The choral song to coming spring, - Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove, - Heaven, earth, and nature, all incite to love. - - Ah, pilgrim! stay thy heedless feet, - Distrust each soul-subduing sweet, - Dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl, - For thro' thy frame the venom'd juice will creep, - Lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep, - And stain with sable hue the spotless soul; - For soon the valley's charms decay, - In haggard griefs ill omen'd sway, - And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day: - Then reason strives in vain, - Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye, - And virtue sinks beneath the galling chain, - And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl, - And sullen fix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul. - - Yet on the summit of yon craggy steep - Stands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light; - She bids the wretch no more despondent weep, - Or linger in the loathly realms of night; - And Science comes, celestial maid! - As mild as good she comes to aid, - To smooth the rugged steep with magic power, - And fill with many a wile the longly-lingering hour. - - Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day - Array'd, the wide horizon streams with light; - Anon the dull mists blot the living ray, - And darksome clouds presage the stormy night: - Yet may the sun anew extend his ray, - Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright; - Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain, - And nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain. - - And what, my friend, is life? - What but the many weather'd April day! - Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife, - Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray; - Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form, - For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm. - - If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam - O'er distant hill or plain, - Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home, - Whilst heaven drops down the rain? - Or will thy hope expect the coming day, - When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray? - - Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time, - In sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore, - Or shake off grief, and "build the lofty rhyme," - And live 'till time himself shall be no more? - If thy light bark have met the storm, - If threatening clouds the sky deform, - Let honest truth be vain; look back on me, - Have I been "sailing on a summer's sea?" - Have only zephyrs fill'd my swelling sails, - As smooth the gentle vessel glides along? - LYCON, I met unscar'd the wintry gales, - And sooth'd the dangers with the song: - So shall the vessel sail sublime, - And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - TO LYCON. - - - And does my friend again demand the strain, - Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay? - Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain, - When melancholy loads the lingering day? - Shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye, - No fault behold, but every charm descry; - And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny? - - "No single pleasure shall your pen bestow:" - Ah, LYCON! 'tis that thought affords delight; - 'Tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe, - When memory reigns amid the gloom of night: - For fancy loves the distant scene to see, - Far from the gloom of solitude to flee, - And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me. - - Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade, - What time the pale moon glimmering on the plain - Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade, - Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain: - Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow, - Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow, - Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe. - - Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay, - The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear, - When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day, - And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear; - For staid reflection loves the doubtful light, - When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night, - And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight. - - Fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar, - And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain, - When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore, - The exil'd OVID pour'd his plaintive strain; - He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome, - He mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home, - And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom. - - Oh! could my lays, like SULMO's minstrel, flow, - Eternity might love her BION's name; - The muse might give a dignity to woe, - And grief's steep path should prove the path to fame: - But I have pluck'd no bays from PHOEBUS' bower, - My fading garland, form'd of many a flower, - May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour. - - To please that little hour is all I crave, - Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame; - High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave, - Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name: - There never may the pensive pilgrim go, - Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe, - For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below. - - Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along - O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go, - To hail the hour of pleasure with the song, - Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe; - The song each passing moment shall beguile, - Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile, - Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while. - - Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, - Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away, - And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife, - And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: - Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see - The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee, - And train the future race to live and act like me. - - Then, when the inexorable hour shall come - To tell my death, let no deep requiem toll, - No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb, - Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul; - But let my children, near their little cot, - Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: - So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - _ROSAMUND TO HENRY._ - - WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL. - - - HENRY, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er, - Thy love, thy ROSAMUND, exists no more: - She lives, but lives no longer now for you; - She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu. - - Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye? - Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh? - Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer; - Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: - Ah, no! still, still the lurking sin I see, - My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. - Yes, HENRY! through the vestal's guilty veins, - With burning sway the furious passion reigns; - For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall, - And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall. - - Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes, - Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes. - Ah, HENRY! fled are all those fatal charms - That led their victim to the monarch's arms; - No more responsive to the evening air - In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair; - No more amid the dance my footsteps move, - No more the languid eye dissolves with love; - Fades on the cheek of ROSAMUND the rose, - And penitence awakes from sin's repose. - - Harlot! adultress! HENRY! can I bear - Such aggravated guilt, such full despair! - By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me - The laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee! - Dishonour fix'd on CLIFFORD's ancient name, - A father sinking to the grave with shame; - These are the crimes that harrow up my heart, - These are the crimes that poison memory's dart; - For these each pang of penitence I prove, - Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love. - - Yes, even here amid the sacred pile, - The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle; - Even here, when pausing on the silent air, - The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer; - As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee, - Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee: - All day the penitent but wakes to weep, - 'Till nature and the woman sink in sleep; - Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair, - And morning wakes to sorrow and despair! - Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease, - Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace; - Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath, - And sink to slumber in the arms of death. - - To slumber! oh, that I might slumber there! - Oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair! - That death's chill dews might quench this vital flame, - And life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame! - Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow, - Then rush to mingle with the dead below. - Oh, agonizing hour! when round my head - Dark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread; - When conscience from herself shall seek to fly, - And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die! - Already vengeance lifts his iron rod, - Already conscience sees an angry God! - No virtue now to shield my soul I boast, - No hope protects, for innocence is lost! - - Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay - Trills through the ether, and awakes the day! - Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light - Shot through the fading curtain of the night; - Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye - That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why. - At evening hour I struck the melting lyre, - Whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire, - 'Till he would press me to his aged breast, - And cry, "My child, in thee my age is blest! - Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of life - To see my lovely ROSAMUND a wife; - To view her children climb their grandsire's knee, - To see her husband love, and love like me! - Then, gracious heaven, decree old CLIFFORD's end, - Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend." - - The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view, - The buds of hope are blasted all by you; - Thy child, O CLIFFORD! bears a mother's name, - A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame; - Even when her darling children climb her knee - Feels the full force of guilt and infamy! - Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know, - Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe; - Curst be this form, accurst these fatal charms - That buried virtue in seduction's arms; - Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour, - When HENRY first beheld and felt their power; - When my too-partial brother's doating tongue - On each perfection of a sister hung; - Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek, - The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak, - The golden locks, that shadowing half the face - Display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace: - 'Twas at that hour when night's englooming sway - Steals on the fiercer glories of the day; - Sad all around, as silence stills the whole, - And pensive fancy melts the softening soul; - These hands upon the pictur'd arras wove - The mournful tale of EDWY's hapless love; - When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride, - From the young monarch tore his blushing bride: - Loud rung the horn, I heard the coursers' feet, - My brothers came, o'erjoy'd I ran to meet; - But when my sovereign met my wandering eye, - I blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why; - O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran, - Nor knew the monarch, 'till I lov'd the man: - Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I saw - Each look obey'd, and every word a law; - Too soon I felt the secret flame advance, - Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance; - And still I ply'd my pleasing task, nor knew - In shadowing EDWY I had pourtray'd you. - - Thine, HENRY, is the crime! 'tis thine to bear - The aggravated weight of full despair; - To wear the day in woe, the night in tears, - And pass in penitence the joyless years: - Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes - Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise; - Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came - To blast his faithful subject's spotless name; - To pay each service of old CLIFFORD's race - With all the keenest anguish of disgrace! - Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye - Nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly; - Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art - Told not his rank 'till victor o'er my heart: - Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove, - Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love. - - How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh? - How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye? - When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue - Talk'd of its truth, and CLIFFORD was undone. - Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway, - Guilt which a life of tears must wash away! - Gay as the morning lark no more I rose, - No more each evening sunk to calm repose; - No more in fearless innocence mine eye, - Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why; - No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre, - No more I ran with joy to meet my sire; - But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein, - But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign; - Still vainly seeking from myself to fly, - In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye; - A thousand torments still my steps pursue, - And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you. - Harlot, adultress, each detested name, - Stamps everlasting blots on CLIFFORD's fame! - How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven? - How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven? - - And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art, - Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart; - Paints thee most wretched in domestick strife, - Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife; - And vainly whispers comfort to my breast-- - "I curst myself that HENRY might be blest." - Too fond deluder! impotent thy power - To whisper comfort in the mournful hour; - Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breath - To soothe Reflection on the bed of death; - To calm stern Conscience' self-afflicting care, - Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair. - - Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face? - Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace? - Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move? - Why form the melting soul too apt for love? - Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast, - Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest; - Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains, - Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains! - - Oh! had fate plac'd amidst Earl CLIFFORD's hall - Of menial vassals, me most mean of all; - Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face, - Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place; - How happy, ROSAMUND, had been thy lot, - In peace to live unknown, and die forgot! - Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting, - Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; - Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame, - Nor infamy debas'd a CLIFFORD's name. - - Oh, CLIFFORD! oh, my sire! thy honours now - Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow; - Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name, - And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame! - Still busy fancy bids the scene arise, - Still paints the father to these wretched eyes; - Methinks I see him now, with folded arms, - Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms; - Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days, - With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise: - Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low - In all the silent energy of woe; - Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild, - He prays forgiveness for his sinful child. - And yet I live! if this be life, to know - The agonizing weight of hopeless woe: - Thus far, remote from every friendly eye, - To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh; - Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove, - To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love: - Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome, - A living victim in the cloyster'd tomb, - To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive, - Scorn'd by myself--if this be life--I live! - - Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour, - Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower: - Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view, - And give the soul again to guilt and you. - Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around, - And heard the forest echo ROSAMUND; - Have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye, - Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh; - Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan, - I live--but live to penitence alone; - Depriv'd of every joy which life can give, - Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live. - - Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known, - Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own! - Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life, - The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife; - One who, with every virtue, only knew - The fault, if fault it be, of loving you; - One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share - Thine every joy, and solace every care; - For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know - The aggravated weight of guilt and woe. - - Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee, - Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me! - Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know, - Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe: - HENRY! by all the love my life has shown, - By all the sinful raptures we have known, - By all the parting pangs that rend my breast, - Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; - And, when the last tremendous hour shall come, - When all my woes are buried in the tomb, - Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave-- - Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave; - Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe, - And think who lies so cold and pale below! - Think from the grave she speaks the last decree, - "What I am now--soon, HENRY, thou must be!" - Then be this voice of wonted power possest, - To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast: - So should my prayers with just success be crown'd, - Should HENRY learn remorse from ROSAMUND; - Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove, - That even death was weak to end our love. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - _THE RACE OF ODIN._ - - - Loud was the hostile clang of arms, - And hoarse the hollow sound, - When POMPEY scatter'd wild alarms - The ravag'd East around, - The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground: - An iron forest of destructive spears - Rear'd their stern stems, where late - The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: - Rome, through the swarming gate, - Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth: - Such was the will of fate! - From the cold regions of the North, - At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, - And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome. - - "_Roman_! ('twas thus the chief of ASGARD cry'd) - Ambitious _Roman_! triumph for a while; - Trample on freedom in thy victor pride; - Yet, though now thy fortune smile, - Though MITHRIDATES fly forlorn, - Once thy dread, but now thy scorn, - ODIN will never live a shameful slave; - Some region will he yet explore, - Beyond the reach of Rome; - Where, upon some colder shore, - Freedom yet thy force shall brave, - Freedom yet shall find a home: - There, where the eagle dares not soar, - Soon shall the raven find a safe retreat. - ASGARD, farewell! farewell my native seat! - Farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll - Her warm tide thro' thine injur'd chieftain's breast, - Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear: - Never more shall ODIN rest, - Never quaff the sportive bowl, - Or soothe in peace his slothful soul, - Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here. - Triumph in thy victor might, - Mock the chief of ASGARD's flight; - But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown, - And ODIN's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne." - - Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil, - Strong grew the vigorous plant; - Danger could ne'er the nation daunt, - For war, to other realms a toil, - Was but the pastime here; - Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear, - To wield the falchion, to direct the dart, - Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart. - - Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race, - And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire; - Nor vice, nor luxury, debase - The free-born offspring of the free-born sire; - There genuine poesy, in freedom bright, - Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light. - - From Helicon's meandering rills - The inspiring goddess fled; - Amid the Scandinavian hills - In clouds she hid her head; - There the bold, the daring muse, - Every daring warrior wooes; - The sacred lust of deathless fame - Burnt in every warrior's soul: - "Whilst future ages hymn my name, - (The son of ODIN cries) - I shall quaff the foaming bowl - With my forefathers in yon azure skies; - Methinks I see my foeman's skull - With the mantling beverage full; - I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound - To martial music's echoing sound; - I see the virgins, valour's meed,-- - Death is bliss--I rush to bleed." - - See where the murderer EGILL stands, - He grasps the harp with skilful hands, - And pours the soul-emoving tide of song; - Mute admiration holds the listening throng: - The royal sire forgets his murder'd son; - ERIC forgives; a thousand years - Their swift revolving course have run, - Since thus the bard could check the father's tears, - Could soothe his soul to peace, - And never shall the fame of EGILL cease. - - Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground, - Beneath the reach of cheering day, - Where REGNER dying lay; - Poisonous adders all around - On the expiring warrior hung, - Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue: - "We fought with swords," the warrior cry'd, - "We fought with swords," he said--he dy'd. - - Jomsburg lifts her lofty walls, - Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore; - Undismay'd each hero falls, - And scorns his death in terror to deplore. - "Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow, - Jomsburg's sons shall not complain, - Never shall the brave appear - Bound in slavery's shameful chain, - Freedom ev'n in death is dear. - Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow, - We joy to quit this world of woe; - We rush to seize the seats above, - And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love." - - The destin'd hour at length is come, - And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom; - No longer heaven withholds the avenging blow - From those proud domes whence BRUTUS fled; - Where just CHEREA bow'd his head, - And proud oppression laid the GRACCHI low: - In vain the timid slaves oppose, - For freedom led their sinewy foes, - For valour fled with liberty: - Rome bows her lofty walls, - The imperial city falls, - "She falls--and lo, the world again is free!" - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - _THE DEATH OF ODIN._ - - - Soul of my much-lov'd FREYA! yes, I come! - No pale disease's slow-consuming power - Has hasten'd on thy husband's hour; - Nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand - Has ODIN's life bedew'd the land: - I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom. - No more my clattering iron car - Shall rush amid the throng of war; - No more, obedient to my heavenly cause, - Shall crimson conquest stamp his ODIN's laws. - I go--I go; - Yet shall the nations own my sway - Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray: - Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe - That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall, - For ODIN shall avenge his ASGARD's fall. - - Thus burst from ODIN's lips the fated sound, - As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade; - His faithful friends around - In silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd: - He, unappall'd, towards the skies - Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes; - "Ope wide VALHALLA's shield-roof'd hall, - Virgins of bliss! obey your master's call; - From these injurious realms below - The sire of nations hastes to go." - - Say, faulters now your chieftain's breath? - Or chills pale terror now his death-like face? - Then weep not, THOR, thy friend's approaching death, - Let no unmanly tears disgrace - The first of mortal's valiant race: - Dauntless HEIMDAL, mourn not now, - BALDER! clear thy cloudy brow; - I go to happier realms above, - To realms of friendship and of love. - - This unmanly grief dispelling, - List to glory's rapturous call; - So with ODIN ever dwelling, - Meet him in the shield-roof'd hall: - Still shall ODIN's fateful lance - Before his daring friends advance; - When the bloody fight beginning, - Helms and shields, and hauberks ringing, - Streaming life each fatal wound - Pours its current on the ground; - Still in clouds portentous riding - O'er his comrade host presiding. - ODIN, from the stormy air, - O'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair. - - 'Mid the mighty din of battle, - Whilst conflicting chariots rattle, - Floods of purple slaughter streaming, - Fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming; - When MISTA marks her destin'd prey, - When dread and death deform the day; - Happy he amid the strife, - Who pours the current of his life; - Every toil and trouble ending, - ODIN from his hall descending, - Shall bear him to his blest retreat, - Shall place him in the warrior's seat. - - Not such the destin'd joys that wait - The wretched dastard's future fate: - Wild shrieks shall yell in every breath,-- - The agonizing shrieks of death. - Adown his wan and livid face - Big drops their painful way shall trace; - Each limb in that tremendous hour - Shall quiver in disease's power. - Grim HELA o'er his couch shall hang, - Scoff at his groans, and point each pang; - No Virgin Goddess him shall call - To join you in the shield-roof'd hall; - No Valkery for him prepare - The smiling mead with lovely care: - Sad and scorn'd the wretch shall lie, - Despairing shriek--despairing die! - No Scald in never-dying lays - Shall rear the temple of his praise; - No Virgin in her vernal bloom - Bedew with tears his high-rear'd tomb; - No Soldier sound his honor'd name; - No song shall hand him down to fame; - But rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave - Shall to the blast their high heads wave; - And swept by time's strong stream away, - He soon shall sink--oblivion's prey; - And deep in Niflehim--dreary cell, - Aye shall his sprite tormented dwell, - Where grim Remorse for ever wakes, - Where Anguish feeds her torturing snakes, - Where Disappointment and Delay - For ever guard the doleful way; - Amid the joyless land of woe - Keen and bleak the chill blasts blow; - Drives the tempest, pours the rain, - Showers the hail with force amain; - Yell the night-birds as they fly - Flitting in the misty sky; - Glows the adder, swells the toad, - For sad is HELA's cold abode. - - Spread then the Gothic banners to the sky, - Lift your sable banners high; - Yoke your coursers to the car, - Strike the sounding shield of war; - Go, my lov'd companions, go - Trample on the opposing foe; - Be like the raging torrent's force, - That, rushing from the hills, speds on its foaming course. - - Haste, my sons, to war's alarms, - Triumph in the clang of arms; - Joy amid the warlike toil, - Feed the raven with your spoil; - Go, prepare the eagle's food, - Go, and drench the wolf with blood, - 'Till ye shall hear dark HELA's call, - And virgins waft ye to my hall; - There, wrapt in clouds, the shadowy throng - To airy combat glide along; - 'Till wearied with the friendly fight, - SERIMNER's flesh recruits their might; - There, whilst I grasp the Roman skull, - With hydromel sweet-smiling full, - The festive song shall echo round, - The Scald repeat the deathless sound: - Then, THOR, when thou from fight shall cease, - When death shall lay that arm in peace, - Still shall the nations fear thy nod, - The first of warriors now, and then their god; - But be each heart with rage possest, - Let vengeance glow in every breast; - Let conquest fell the Roman wall, - Revenge on Rome my ASGARD's fall. - - The Druid throng shall fall away, - And sink beneath your victor sway; - No more shall nations bow the knee, - Vanquish'd TARANIS, to thee; - No more upon the sacred stone, - TENTATES, shall thy victims groan; - The vanquish'd ODIN, Rome, shall cause thy fall, - And his destruction shake thy proud imperial wall. - - Yet, my faithful friends, beware - Luxury's enerving snare; - 'Twas this that shook our ASGARD's dome, - That drove us from our native home; - 'Twas this that smooth'd the way for victor Rome: - Gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway, - Conquest points the destin'd way; - Conquest shall attend your call, - And your success shall gild still more VALHALLA's hall. - - So spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast, - Then rush'd to seize the seat of endless rest. - - BION. - - - * * * * * - - - _THE DEATH OF MOSES._ - - - Israel, my hour is come! - Borne on the wings of time - Death marks his destin'd prey. - Now in the fullness of my age, - Ere faint my shrunken limbs wax weak, - Ere dim my rayless eye, - Of years and honours full, I seek the tomb. - - Offspring of ABRAM, MOSES' guardian voice - No more shall breathe the will - Of your protecting God. - For not to me is given - On Canaan's promis'd land - At last to rest in peace: - For not to me is given - O'er Jordan's barrier flood - To reach the abundant clime: - On Moab's pathless plains - Must MOSES rest in peace. - - When wandering o'er the desert wilds of Zin - Faint grew your parched frames, - Then Israel sinn'd against the GOD of Hosts. - Have ye forgot the hour - When murmuring Anger buzz'd - Along the busy tents? - Have ye forgot the hour - When, bold in secrecy, - Sedition's impious feet - Stole on from tent to tent? - Then Israel sinn'd against the GOD of Hosts: - On me his vengeance fell. - Twas there where MIRIAM died, - Where o'er a sister's corse - I rear'd in grief the monumental stone. - - 'Twas then, the prophet's ardour lost, - I felt the brother's grief: - For Memory's painful gratitude recall'd - The succour MIRIAM gave, - The succour MIRIAM gave - When haven'd on the sedgy banks of Nile - Repos'd my infant ark. - I call'd to mind her care; - I call'd to mind her love; - How sweetly soft she touch'd the lute, - How graceful moved amid the dance. - Sedition's impious feet - Stole on from tent to tent, - Till, boldened by success, - Aloud the Fury lifts her daring voice. - - "Why, MOSES, did thy treach'rous art - Lead us from Egypt's fertile clime, - Amid these pathless wilds - To sink, wan Famine's prey? - Amid these pathless wilds, - Where even nature dies! - For here no seeds enrich the earth, - No fig-tree spreads its grateful shade, - No vine depends its cluster'd boughs, - Nor frigid fountain winds - Its murmuring course along. - Our parch'd frames sink-- - We die for thirst." - - 'Twas thus, blaspheming Heaven, ye spake:-- - Heaven burst in twain by me the rock; - The spring rush'd forth. - "But never, MOSES, shall thy feet - Possess the promis'd land:" - For Israel sinn'd against the GOD of Hosts: - On me his vengeance fell. - From Nebo's mountain top - I view'd the promis'd land; - O'er Palestine's luxuriant soil - I cast the eagle ken. - Far as the distant ocean's shore, - O'er Gilead's fertile soil I gaz'd: - The southward plains I saw, - And Jericho's rich plain, - Where, bower'd in palm trees, rise her lofty towers. - - Blest are ABRAM's favour'd race, - Blest above the sons of men; - For their's are Canaan's fertile lands, - For their's the aid of Heav'n. - From stern Oppression's tyrant sway, - From ignominy, bonds, and death, - Heaven led the people forth. - Thro' pathless deserts wild and waste, - Thro' the wide wilderness of dearth, - Where desolation blasted all around, - Heaven led the people forth. - E'en as the eagle's parent care - Hangs o'er the lofty nest; - And flutters fondly o'er her young, - And spreads her guardian wings, - And leads them from the eyry forth, - And bids them face the sun. - - Offspring of Israel! have your thankless hearts - Forgot the bounteous gifts of Heaven? - When frighted ocean stopt his waves, - And rushing seas stood still? - Have ye forgot the fires - That led your nightly march? - Forgot the heavenly food - That fell like evening dew, - For Israel's chosen race? - Oh! write his mercies on your hearts, - Treasure his bounties in your soul; - Obey the will of Heaven. - - Sons of my care! to you, from highest heaven, - JESHURUN's GOD has spoke. - By me JEHOVAH gave the words of life: - Observe his sacred laws, - And fly the snares which superstition spreads. - Fly MOLOCH's horrid rites, - ASTARTE's orgies lewd, - And THAMMUZ' annual dirge, - And CHEMOS' wanton wiles. - - Is SITTIM's field forgot? - Forgot the fatal hour when thousands fell; - And Heaven's avenging arm - Hurl'd down the shafts of death? - - For then in CHEMOS' wanton rites - The sons of Israel join'd; - And caught the harlot's melting eye, - And gave the soul to love. - Then, subdued by syren pleasure, - Captive reason bow'd to beauty; - Forgot the laws of God! - Forgot avenging Heaven:-- - For woman's mildly-melting eye - Thrill'd through the soften'd soul. - - Then ZIMRI died: - Then COZBI's voice, - That stole resistless o'er the Hebrew's heart, - In vain for pity pray'd. - The zealous priest arose; - E'en thro' her lover's breast - He pierc'd the lovely fair idolater. - - Blest, PHINEAS, be thy name; - Blest be thy heart of adamantine faith, - That spurn'd the woman's prayer. - - Israel, be thine to shun - Alluring beauty's wiles, - To fly the melting glance - The loosely-languid look. - 'Tis thine to wreak the wrath of Heaven; - 'Tis thine to lift aloft the sword, - Lay low the despot chiefs, - Lay low the lofty tow'r's. - - Let the despots assemble their hosts, - Let them marshall their thousands in pride; - Let the offspring of ANAK arise - From Jericho's palm-bower'd throne, - And Aï and Solyma's towers. - Let them rush from their mountains to war, - Let them cover the valley with arms, - For JEHOVAH will war for his sons. - - Low Aï's walls shall lie; - Devouring flames shall waste - Huge Hazor's strength to dust. - Of Jericho's tall towers - No relics shall remain. - There shall the pilgrim, tempest-torn, - When on the light'ning flash Destruction rides, - In vain for shelter seek. - O'er ruin'd palaces the fox shall roam; - Amid the desert halls, - Where once was spread the feast, - Where once was heard the song, - Now shall the wild wolf's howl resound; - Now build the bird obscene her secret nest. - - Yet, from the storm of war reserv'd, - With added strength Jerusalem shall rise, - The city of your God! - To guard her favour'd tow'rs - Shall Heaven protecting spread th' immortal shield: - Her trees with honey ooze, - Her rivers flow with milk. - There, Israel, shall the fig-tree bend - To you its laden boughs; - There shall the cluster'd vine expand - Its wildly-wanton arms. - - O'er MOSES' clayey corse - Drop ye the grateful tear, - And hide his relics in the narrow house. - O'er Jordan then rush for the prize; - Spread terror o'er Canaan afar, - And triumphantly fight for the LORD. - - - * * * * * - - - _THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS._ - - - Sons of my age, attend; - Come round the bed of death, - Ere yet his cold damp dews - Extinguish life's weak flame. - - For MATTATHIAS' arm no more - Shall scatter terror o'er the host - Of Israel's foes. - Now triumphant Pride disdainful - Lifts elate his royal head; - Lawless Might and ruffian Rapine - Stalk o'er Israel uncontroul'd. - JEHOVAH hides his face, - And stern Destruction shakes the spear; - Wide-wasting Vengeance pours the show'r of death-- - JEHOVAH hides his face. - - Now, then, my sons be firm; - Be like the mighty rock, - Against whose foot the waves - For ever dash in vain. - Now, then, in your God confiding, - Lift the sword, and break the shield: - Look upon your great forefathers, - Call each long-past deed to view; - Let remembrance fire your souls-- - Lift the sword, and break the shield. - - On Moriah mount is laid - The father's only child! - Down ABRAHAM's aged cheek - Roll'd the paternal tear; - The big sob spoke his grief, - And nature rived his heart, but rived in vain-- - For faith prevail'd. - He rear'd the pile, - He bound the silent child; - The child whose silence spoke - Most moving eloquence. - Nor did not ABRAHAM feel - The father's mighty grief, - Nor paint the wretched mother's woe-fraught cries; - Nor did he not perceive - The deadly blow more deep would rive his heart: - Yet faith prevail'd-- - He lifts the knife of sacrifice! - JEHOVAH saw and saved. - - O'er JOSEPH's robe, bedied with guileful blood, - The aged patriarch wept: - He rear'd the fancied tomb, - And tore his hoary locks, - Yet bow'd resign'd to Heaven's high will. - Meantime, in foreign land, - JOSEPH forgot not God. - Vice, her tinsel charms displaying, - Vainly sought to melt his mind; - Vainly plann'd the wile deceitful, - Seeking soft to sooth the soul, - To sooth the soul to sin. - He saw the languid eye, - The breast that heav'd with love; - White as the new-fall'n snow, - Unchill'd by modesty. - Her hot grasp seiz'd his arms: - He fled-- - And when seducing pleasure to his lips - Held forth the honey'd draught, - He dash'd the poison down. - Nor Heaven, all-just, withheld relief: - He mark'd the father's woe, - He lov'd the virtuous child; - And JOSEPH clos'd in peace the patriarch's eyes. - - Hark! the hurtling din of battle! - Clanging shields and biting falchions - Rend the air with fearful terror. - JOSHUA leads the war: - His voice controuls the orbs of heaven! - The sun stood still, - The moon obedient held her chariot back; - Then fell the royal power. - To Makkedah's dark cave the monarchs fled; - Upon the fatal tree - They wave with every wind. - Round Jericho was borne the mystick ark, - Was blown the blairing blast; - Proud on the blairing blast - Triumphant ruin rode. - From their foundations hurl'd, - The mighty bulwarks load the ground. - - By prodigies announc'd, ere yet - Rank'd in existence roll, - MANOAH's offspring tow'rs in giant strength: - His crisp locks wave amid the wind, - His crisped hair of strength. - On rushes Philistia's host, - They environ the warrior unarm'd; - He grasps the jaw-bone in his hand, - He levels their thousands in death. - Fatigued with deeds of death, - The victor's limbs relax, - His parch'd mouth gapes with thirst; - Heaven saw and sent relief, - And from the wondrous weapon flow'd the spring. - - By Cherith's hidden stream recluse, - The faithful prophet lay; - He drank the running brook, - The ravens brought the due supply. - Firm in the path of faith - Through life ELIJAH trod. - Nor through the narrow portals of the grave - He past to realms of bliss; - For ravish'd in the car of flames, - He fled the gate of death; - Thus mortal rapt to immortality. - - High from his lofty throne - The impious tyrant cries, - "Fall down, ye men of earth, - Revere the image of your King and God." - Faith stood firm. - "Heap the fierce furnace high," - (The angry despot cries) - "Fan the red flames till the hot furnace pales, - Sick'ning itself with heat." - The fire flames fierce! - Amid the pallid flames - The faithful friends are hurl'd! - But blasted fall the slaves, - The slaves of tyranny: - GOD stretch'd the robe of preservation forth, - And mantled o'er his sons. - - Amid the lions hurl'd, - In conscious faith serene the prophet lay. - Nor DANIEL knew to fear, - Nor did his pale limbs quiver with affright; - He dar'd for GOD to die, - And Heaven, for ever good, preserv'd the seer: - The gaunt beasts, famine-fall'n, - Creep at his feet, and suppliant lick his hand. - - Sons of my age, look back; - Call up the shadowy scenes - Of ages now no more: - For never, since yon font of light - First shed the new-born stream, - For never, since the breath of life - Breath'd through the realms of space, - Has Virtue trusted in her god in vain. - Amid the storm serene she goes, - Nor heeds black Malice' sharpest shafts, - Nor Envy's venom'd tooth; - The warring winds roar round her head, - Nor knows the constant maid to fear, - But lifts her looks to GOD. - Not 'till the sun, for ever quench'd, - In darkness cease to shine; - 'Till nature feel no more the breath - Of life pervade her frame; - 'Till Time himself expir'd - Sink in eternity, - Shall Faith be firm in vain. - - Now then, indeed, be men, - Grasp firm the shield of Faith, - Lift high the sword of Hope, - Nor fear yon haughty tyrant's impious vaunts; - To-day elate he stalks, - Lifts his tiared brows, - Self-deem'd a more than man: - To-morrow, fall'n in dust, - Food for the worm corrupt, - Sunk to primeval nothing, low he lies. - - And, sometimes, when your lips repeat the deeds - Your forefathers achiev'd, - Of me the meanest think, not wholly mean: - Let MATTATHIAS' name - Full-fill your souls with fire, - Recal that hour to view - When this indignant hand - Drench'd deep my dagger in apostate blood. - Even at the altar's foot - The tyrant chief I stabb'd, - I hurl'd the altar down. - - Nor then, in sacred sloth subdued, - Upon the sabbath fell we unreveng'd. - We serv'd our God in fight, - We sacrific'd his foes, - We pray'd amid the war. - Then through these limbs burnt high - Indignant valour's flame; - Then glow'd the lamp of life, - Now pale and wavering as the dews of death, - Slow quench its fading light. - - GOD of my fathers, thou hast seen my life - Worn in defence of thee; - Thou hast beheld me firm in danger's face, - Maintain thy holy cause, - Amid embattled hosts - Defend thy mystic rites. - Now to the unknown world, - Unchill'd by fear, I sink; - And whilst my chilly limbs grow faint, - Whilst Death's dull mists bedim my eye, - Hope lifts my soul to thee. - - - * * * * * - - FINIS. - - * * * * * - - -_Proposals for publishing by Subscription,_ - - JOAN of ARC, - AN EPIC POEM, - - By ROBERT SOUTHEY, - _Of Balliol College, Oxford_. - -To be handsomely printed in One Volume Quarto, price _One Guinea_, -to be paid on delivery. Subscriptions will be received by Mr. _C. -Dilly_, Poultry, London; by the Booksellers of Oxford, Cambridge, -and Bath. - - - * * * * * - - -REPRINT INFORMATION: - - - Robert Lovell - Robert Southey - - Poems - - 1795 - - - Woodstock Books - _Otley. Washington D.C._ - 2000 - - - This edition first published 2000 by - Woodstock Books - Otley, West Yorkshire - England LS21 3JP - and - Books International - PO Box 605, Herndon - VA 20172, U.S.A. - - ISBN 1 85477 239 2 - Introduction copyright (c) 2000 Jonathan Wordsworth - - British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data - A catalogue record for this book is - available from the British Library - - Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data - applied for - - - Printed and bound in England by - Smith Settle - Otley LS21 3JP - - - * * * * * - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: - - -Effort has been made to retain the poetry indentation and stanza -breaks present in the original text, but it is not always possible -to be entirely sure, particularly in some of the more free-form poems. - -The original used 'continuation quotes' on every new line of text. -These have been updated to our modern quotation style. - -Words surrounded by _ are italicized. - -Reprint information which was originally in the beginning of the book -has been moved to the end of this e-text. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Poems, by Robert Lovell and Robert Southey - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 42621-8.txt or 42621-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/6/2/42621/ - -Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Judith Wirawan, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Poems - containing The Restropect, Odes, Elegies, Sonnets, &c. - -Author: Robert Lovell - Robert Southey - -Release Date: April 29, 2013 [EBook #42621] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Judith Wirawan, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42621 ***</div> <p class="center"><b><big>POEMS</big><br /> <br /> @@ -198,8 +160,8 @@ THE RETROSPECT,<br /> <hr /> -<p class="center">.......... "Minuentur atræ<br /> -Carmine curæ."<span style= "margin-left: 3em;">HOR.</span></p> +<p class="center">.......... "Minuentur atræ<br /> +Carmine curæ."<span style= "margin-left: 3em;">HOR.</span></p> <hr /> @@ -3326,12 +3288,12 @@ WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL.</h2> <span class="i2">Let them marshall their thousands in pride;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Let the offspring of <span class="smcap">Anak</span> arise<br /></span> <span class="i2">From Jericho's palm-bower'd throne,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Aï and Solyma's towers.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Aï and Solyma's towers.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Let them rush from their mountains to war,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Let them cover the valley with arms,<br /></span> <span class="i2">For JEHOVAH will war for his sons.<br /></span> </div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Low Aï's walls shall lie;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Low Aï's walls shall lie;<br /></span> <span class="i4">Devouring flames shall waste<br /></span> <span class="i4">Huge Hazor's strength to dust.<br /></span> <span class="i4">Of Jericho's tall towers<br /></span> @@ -3677,386 +3639,6 @@ These have been updated to our modern quotation style.</p> has been moved to the end of this e-text.</p> </div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Poems, by Robert Lovell and Robert Southey - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 42621-h.htm or 42621-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/6/2/42621/ - -Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Judith Wirawan, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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