[Page]
ELEGY, Written on the PLAIN OF FONTENOY.
CHILL blows the blast, and Twilight's dewy hand
Draws in the West her dusky veil away;
A deeper shadow steals along the land,
And NATURE muses at the DEATH OF DAY!
Near this bleak Waste no friendly mansion rears
Its walls, where Mirth, and social joys resound,
But each dim object melts the soul to tears,
While Horror treads the scatter'd bones around.
As thus, alone and comfortless I roam,
Wet with the driz'ling show'r; I sigh sincere,
I cast a fond look tow'rds my native home,
And think what valiant BRITONS perish'd here.
Yes, the time was, nor very far the date,
When carnage here her crimson toil began;
When Nations' Standards wav'd in threat'ning state,
And Man the murd'rer, met the murd'rer Man.
[Page 14]
For WAR is MURDER, tho' the voice of Kings
Has styl'd it Justice, styl'd it Glory too!
Yet from worst motives, fierce Ambition springs,
And there, fix'd prejudice is all we view.
But sure, 'tis Heaven's immutable decree,
For thousands ev'ry age in fight to fall;
Some NAT'RAL CAUSE prevails, we cannot see,
And that is FATE, which we
Ambition call.
O let th' aspiring warrior think with grief,
That as produc'd by CHYMIC art refin'd;
So glitt'ring CONQUEST, from the
laurel-leaf
Extracts a GEN'RAL POISON for Mankind.
Here let him wander at the midnight hour,
These morbid rains, these gelid gales to meet;
And mourn like me, the ravages of Pow'r!
And feel like me, that vict'ry is defeat!
Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to swell
My feeble verse with many a sounding Name;
Of such, the mercenary Bard may tell,
And call such dreary desolation, Fame.
The genuine Muse removes the thin disguise,
That cheats the World, whene'er she deigns to sing;
And full as meritorious to her eyes
Seems the Poor Soldier, as the Mighty king!
[Page 15]
A like I shun in labour'd strain to show,
How BRITAIN more than triumph'd, tho' she fled,
Where
LOUIS stood, where stalk'd the column slow;
I turn from these, and DWELL UPON THE DEAD.
Yet much my beating breast respects the brave;
Too well I love them, not to mourn their fate,
Why should they seek for greatness in the Grave?
Their hearts are noble—and in life they're great.
Nor think 'tis but in war the Brave excel,—
TO VALOUR EV'RY VIRTUE IS ALLIED!
Here faithful Friendship 'mid the Battle fell,
And Love, true Love, in bitter anguish died.
Alas! the solemn slaughter I retrace,
That checks life's current circling thro' my veins;
Bath'd in moist sorrow, many a beauteous face;
And gave a grief, perhaps that still remains.
I can no more—an agony too keen
Absorbs my senses, and my mind subdues;
Hard were that heart which here could beat serene,
Or the just tribute of a pang refuse.
But lo! thro' yonder op'ning clouds afar
Shoots the bright planet's sanguinary ray
That bears thy name, FICTITIOUS LORD OF WAR!
And with red lustre guides my lonely way.
[Page 16]
Then FONTENOY, farewel! Yet much I fear,
(Wherever chance my course compels) to find
Discord and blood—the thrilling sounds I hear,
"The noise of battle hurtles in the wind."
From barb'rous
Turkey to
Britannia's shore,
Opposing int'rests into rage increase:
Destruction rears her sceptre, tumults roar,
Ah! where shall hapless man repose in peace!
DELLA CRUSCA.
Oct. 15, 1787.
[Page]
HUSH'D, be each ruder note!—Soft silence spread,
With ermine hand, thy cobweb robe around;
Attention! pillow my reclining head,
Whilst eagerly I catch the golden sound.
Ha! What a tone was that, which floating near,
Seem'd Harmony's full soul—
whose is the lyre?
Which seizing thus on my enraptur'd ear,
Chills with its force, yet melts me with its fire.
Ah, dull of heart! thy Minstrel's touch not know,
What Bard but DELLA CRUSCA boasts such skill?
From him alone, those melting notes can flow—
He, only knows adroitly thus to trill.
[Page 18]
Well have I left the Groves, which sighing wave
Amidst November's blasts their naked arms,
Whilst their red leaves fall flutt'ring to their grave,
And give again to dust May's vernal charms.
Well have I left the air-embosom'd hills,
Where sprightly Health in verdant buskin plays;
Forsaken fallow meads, and circling mills,
And thy me-dress'd heaths, where the soft stock yet strays.
Obscuring smoke, and air impure I greet,
With the coarse din that Tread and Folly form,
For here the Muse's Son again I meet—
I catch
his notes amidst the vulgar storm.
His notes now bear me, pensive, to the Plain,
Cloth'd by a verdure drawn from Britain's heart;
Whose heroes bled superior to their pain,
Sunk, crown'd with glory, and contemn'd the smart.
Soft, as he leads me round th' ensanguin'd fields,
The laurel'd shades forsake their grassy tomb,
The bursting sod its palid inmate yields,
And o'er th' immortal waste their spirits roam.
Obedient to the Muse the acts revive
Which Time long past had veil'd from mortal ken
Embattled squandrons rush, as when alive,
And shadowy fulchions gleam o'er shadowy men.
[Page 19]
Ah, who art thou, who thus with frantic air
Fly'st fearless to support that bleeding youth:
Bind'st his deep gashes with thy glowing hair,
And diest beside him, to attest thy truth?
"His Sister I: an orphan'd pair, we griev'd,
For Parents long at rest within the grave,
By a false Guardian of our wealth bereav'd—
The little ALL parental care could save.
Chill look'd the world, and chilly grew our hearts,
Oh! where shall Poverty expect a smile?
Gross lawless Love assum'd its ready arts,
And all beset was I, with fraud and Guile.
My Henry sought the war, and drop'd the tears
Of love fraternal as he bade farewel;
But fear, soon made me rise
above my fears,
I follow'd—and Fate tolls our mutual knell,"
Chaste Maiden rest; and brighter spring the green,
That decorates the turf thy bloom will feed!
And oh, in softest mercy 'twas I ween,
To worth like thine, a Brother's grave's decreed.
The dreadful shriek of Death now darts around,
The hollow winds repeat each tortur'd sigh,
Deep bitter groans, still deeper groans resound,
Whilst Fathers, Brothers, Lovers, Husbands die.
[Page 20]
Turn from this spot, blest Bard! thy mental eye;
To hamlets, cities, empires bend its beam!
'Twill there such multiplying deaths descry,
That all before thee'll but an abstract seem.
Why waste thy tears o'er this contracted Plain?
The sky which canopies the sons of breath,
Sees the whole Earth one scene of mortal pain,
The vast, the universal BED OF DEATH!
Where, do not Husbands, Fathers, dying moan?
Where, do not Mothers, Sisters, Orphans weep?
Where, is not heard the last expiring groan,
Or the deep throttle of the deathful Sleep!
If as Philosophy doth often muse,
A state of war, is natural state to man,
BATTLE's the sickness bravery would choose—
Noblest DISEASE in Nature's various plan!
Let vulgar souls stoop to the fever's rage,
Or slow, beneath pale atrophy depart,
With Gout and Scroupula
weak variance wage,
Or sink, with sorrow cank'ring at the heart;
[Page 21]
These, be to common Minds, th' unwish'd decree!
The FIRM select an illness more sublime;
By languid pains, scorn their high souls to free,
But seek the Sword's swift edge, and spurn at Time.
ANNA MATILDA.
Sat. Nov. 17th, 1787.
[Page]
ON the sea-shore with folded arms I stood,
The Sun just sinking shot a level ray,
Luxuriant crimson glow'd upon the flood,
And the curl'd turf was ting'd with golden spray.
Far off I faintly track'd the feath'ry sail;
When thy sweet numbers caught my yielded ear,
Borne on the bosom of the flutt'ring gale,
They struck my heart—and rous'd me to a tear.
Yet flow'd no bitter anguish from mine eye,
A while remembrance left my wayward state;
And the soft cadence of thy warbled sigh,
Pour'd healing balm into the wounds of Fate.
What tho' grim Winter's desolating frown,
The wild waves uproar when rough
Eurus blows,
The tangled forest, and the desert down,
Be all the solace DELLA CRUSCA knows:
[Page 23]
Yet from MATILDA'S pure celestial fire,
One ruby spark shall to his gloom be given,
Lur'd by its light, his fancy may aspire,
And catch a ray of bliss—a glimpse of Heaven.
Vain in the morn of life, and thoughtless too.
He rush'd impetuous, as strong passion drove,
But soon each flatt'ring prospect fled his view,
Deceiv'd by Friendship much, but more by Love.
Yes, he has lov'd to Transport's dire excess,
Has felt the potent eye inflict the wound;
Has felt the female voice each pulse oppress,
And grown a breathless statue at the sound.
But why recal the moments that are fled?
For ever fled, like yonder sweeping blast;
With Love, each active principle is dead,
And all, except its sad regret, is past.
Ah! had he met thee in his happier hour,
Ere yet he languish'd in the gripe of Care,
Thy Minstrel then had fondly own'd thy pow'r,
Thy Minstrel then might have escap'd Despair.
O diff'rent lot! for he who daily grieves,
Then with thy beauty blest, and gen'rous mind,
Had not, like sallow Autumn's falling leaves,
Been shrunk, alas! and scatter'd in the wind.
[Page 24]
Haply, he had not roam'd for ling'ring years
On many a rugged Alp, and foreign shore;
He ne'er had known the cause of all his tears,
The cherish'd cause, that bids him—hope no more.
He would have led thee with attentive gaze,
Where the brown Hamlet's neighb'ring shades retire,
Have hung entranc'd upon thy living lays,
And swept with
feebler hand a
kindred lyre.
While the
dear Song stress had melodious stole
O'er ev'ry sense, and charm'd each nerve to rest,
Thy Bard, in silent ecstasy of soul.
Had strain'd the
dearer Woman to his breast.
Or had she said, that
War's the worthiest grave,
He would have felt his proud heart burn the while
Have dar'd, perhaps, to rush among the brave,
Have gain'd, perhaps, the glory—of a smile.
And 'tis most true, while Time's relentless hand,
With sickly grasp drags
others to the tomb,
The Soldier scorns to wait the dull command,
But springs impatient to a nobler doom.
Tho' on the plain
he lies, outstretch'd and pale,
Without one friend his stedfast eyes to close
Yet on his honour'd corse shall many a gale,
Waft the moist fragrance of the weeping rose.
[Page 25]
O'er that dread spot, the melancholy Moon
Shall pause a-while, a sadder beam to shed,
And starry Night, amidst her awful noon,
Sprinkle light dews upon his hallow'd head.
There too the solitary Bird shall swell
With long-drawn melody her plaintive throat,
While distant echo from responsive cell,
Shall oft with fading force return the note.
Such recompense be Valour's due alone!
To me, no proffer'd meed must e'er belong,
To me, who trod the vale of life unknown,
Whose proudest boast was but an idle song.
DELLA CRUSCA.
Dec. 5. 1787.
[Page]
FAR be remov'd each painted scene!
What is to
me the sapphire sky?
What is to
me the earth's soft dye?
Or fragrant vales which sink between
Those velvet hills? yes, there I see—
(Why do those beauties burst on me?)
Pearl-dropping groves bow to the sun;
Seizing his beams, bright rivers run
That dart redoubled day:
Hope ye vain scenes, to catch the mind
To torpid sorrow all resign'd,
Or bid my heart be gay?
False are those hopes!—I turn—I fly,
Where no enchantment meets the eye,
Or soft ideas stray.
HORROR! I call thee from the
mould'ring tower,
The
murky church-yard, and
for saken bower,
[Page 40] Where 'midst unwholesome damps
The vap'ry gleamy lamps
Of
ignes fatui, shew the thick-wove night,
Where morbid MELANCHOLY sits,
And weeps, and sings, and raves by fits,
And to her bosom strains, the fancied sprite.
Or, if amidst the arctic gloom
Thou toilest at thy sable loom,
Forming the hideous phantoms of Despair—
Instant thy grisly labours leave,
With raven wing the concave cleave,
Where floats, self borne, the dense noctural air.
Oh! bear me to th' impending cliff,
Under whose brow the dashing skiff
Beholds
Thee seated on thy rocky throne;
There, 'midst the shrieking wild wind's roar,
Thy influence, HORROR, I'll adore,
And at thy magic touch congeal to stone.
Oh! hide the Moon's obtrusive orb,
The gleams of ev'ry star absorb,
And let CREATION be a moment thine!
Bid billows dash; let whirlwinds roar,
And the stern, rocky-pointed shore,
The stranded bark, back to the waves resign!
[Page 41]
Then, whilst from yonder turbid cloud,
Thou roll'st thy thunders long, and loud,
And light'nings flash upon the deep below,
Let the
expiring Seaman's cry,
The
Pilot's agonizing sign
Mingle, and in the dreadful chorus flow!
HORROR! far back thou dat'd thy reign;
Ere KINGS th'
historic page could stain
With records black, or deeds of lawless power:
Ere empires
Alexanders curst,
Or Faction, madd'ning
Caesars nurst,
The frighted World receiv'd thy awful dower!
Whose pen JEHOVAH'S self inspired;
He, who in eloquence attir'd,
Led
Israel's squadrons o'er the earth,
Grandly terrific paints thy birth.
Th' ALMIGHTY 'midst his fulgent seat on high,
Where glowing
Seraphs round his footstool fly,
Beheld the wanton cities of the plain,
With acts of deadly name his laws disdain;
He gave the irrevocable sign,
Which mark'd to man the hate divine;
And sudden from the starting sky,
The Angels of his wrath did fly!
[Page 42]
Then HORROR! thou presided'st o'er the whole,
And fill'd, and rapt, each self-accusing soul!
Thou didst ascend to guide the burning shower;
On THEE th' Omnipotent bestow'd the hour!
'Twas thine to scourge the sinful land,
'Twas thine to toss the fiery brand;
Beneath thy glance the temples fell
And mountains crumbled at thy yell.
ONCE MORE thou'lt triumph in a fiery storm
ONCE MORE the Earth behold thy direful form;
Then shalt thou seek, as holy prophets tell,
Thy
native throne, amidst th'
eternal shades of HELL!
[Page]
'MIDST the proud servor of the day,
Whilst the sun darts a torrid ray,
The humble daisy sinks her head
And faints upon her lowly bed;
But when moist eve hath quench'd his fire,
And treads the fields in cool attire,
The daisy spreads again her bloom,
And offers up her mild persume.
Thus your recuscitating praise,
Breathed life upon my dying lays.
REYNOLDS ADMIRES! flatt'ry so sweet,
With blushing vanity I meet;
But, Bard polite! how hard the task,
Which with such elegance you ask.
When DIDO bade ENEAS tell
The woes he knew to paint so well—
Did he not tell the Queen, she tore
His closing wounds, and drew fresh gore
From stabs that time had almost heal'd?—
Such, REUBEN, such, the thorn conceal'd.
[Page 45] Within your verses' flow'ry spell,
Which, barb'rous! dares my pen compel.
Yet how
describe the various god,
T' whom PROTEUS' self's a heavy clod?
Diff'ring in ev'ry diff'ring heart,
Scorning to play a constant part.
A tyger!—tyrant!—such is he,
Whom painted with
bandeau you see,
With downy wings, and childish face,
As tho' of the blest Cherub's race—
But oh! a serpent in disguise,
And as the lynx, his piercing eyes!
A raging fire, a deadly pain,
That gentlest heart-strings most will strain;
A fever, tempest, madness he—
Of all life's ills—A DREAD EPITOME!
Ha! dost thou fear, and wilt thou run?
The little monster try to shun?
And wilt thou REUBEN, too succeed—
And shall thy bosom never bleed,
Never his poison'd ranckling dart
Quiver within thy burning heart?
Oh, hapless man!—oh, wretched fate!
Fly to love's altar ere too late,
And deprecate the doom accurst,
Or bid that heart with sorrow burst.
[Page 46] Welcome the deadly fiery pain,
That gentlest heart-strings most will strain—
MADNESS IS HIS—but 'tis replete
With all that makes life's blessings sweet;—
A TYRANT he, but oh! his chains
Are richer than an empire's gains!
Sweet the delirium which by love is spread,
Whate'er the paths his raptur'd vot'ries tread!
He paints the mist which hangs upon the eve,
With colours clearer than the sun can give;
'Tis he who lends the nightingale its trills,
When her rich pipe the Empyrean fills;
Oh! 'tis the softness in his heart
Which makes the lover in her song take part,
And faint upon each touching pause,
And lengthen out each added clause,
Till rapt attention, strain'd too high,
Rolls down its gushing tear, and breathes its gentle sigh,
Charming to LOVE is MORNING'S hour,
When, from her chrystal roseate tow'r,
She sees the Goddess HEALTH pursue
The skimming breeze thro' fields of dew;
Charming, the flaming hour of noon,
When the sunk Linnet's fading tune
Allures him to the beechy grove;
Or when some cragg'd grotesque alcove
[Page 47] Sounds in his ear its tinkling rill,
And tempts him to its moss-grown sill;
Most charm'd when on his tranced mind
Is whisper'd in the passing wind
The name of her, whose name is bliss;
Or when he all unseen can kiss
The fringed bank where late she lay,
Hidden from th' imperious day.
Oh, ye rapt glades, which glitt'ring LUNA decks,
Whose stretching shadows her resulgence checks!
Oh, ye soft floods, that hang upon the peak
Of lofty rocks, and bound in wanton freak,
Where thirsty meads your rushing stream lets crave
And crowd their flow'rs around to drink your wave—
What are ye all, should love withhold the dart?
Which wakes nice feelings in the torpid heart?
Where is the heart, that would such feelings fly,
Or fear th' enchanting MADD'NING CUP to try?
Must I speak
more of love! the boundless theme
Might run beyond the edge of life's short dream:
His spells are blessings—witch'ries so sublime,
They triumph o'er distress, and fate, and time.
Would'st ask the
joys of love? Oh! change the pray'r,
Thou little know'st his pow'r, to fasten there!
[Page 48] Let the mean bosom crave its
love's return,
Thine shall with more distinguish'd ardors burn:
To
know the passion—yes, be that thy strain,
Invoke the god of the mysterious pain?
Whate'er thy nature—gentle—fiery—rough—
TO LOVE—learn but TO LOVE—and thou hast bliss enough!
[Page]
IF late I paus'd upon the Twilight plain
Of FONTENOY, to weep the FREE-BORN BRAVE;
Sure Fancy now may cross the Western Main,
And melt in sadder pity for the SLAVE.
Lo! where to yon PLANTATION drooping goes,
The SABLE HERD of Human Kind, while near
Stalks a
pale DESPOT, and around him throws
The scourge that wakes—that punishes the Tear.
O'er the far Beach the mournful murmur strays,
And joins the rude yell of the tumbling tide,
As faint they labour in the solar blaze,
To feed the luxury of BRITISH PRIDE!
[Page 59]
E'en at this moment, on the burning gale
Floats the weak wailing of the female tongue;
And can that Sex's softness nought avail—
Must naked WOMAN shriek amid the throng?
Are drops of blood the HORRIBLE MANURE
That fills with luscious juice, the TEEMING CANE?
And must our fellow creatures thus endure,
For traffic vile, th' indignity of pain?
Yes, their keen sorrows are the sweets we blend
With the green bev'rage of our morning meal,
The while to love
meek Mercy WE pretend,
Or for
fictitious ills affect to feel.
Yes, tis their anguish mantles in the bowl,
Their sighs excite the Briton's drunken joy;
Those ign'rant suff'rers know not of a SOUL,
That we
enlighten'd may its hopes destroy.
And there are MEN, who leaning on the LAWS,
What they have purchas'd, claim a right to hold—
Curs'd be the tenure, curs'd its cruel cause—
FREEDOM'S a dearer property than
gold!
[Page 60]
And there are
Men, with shameless front have said,
That Nature form'd the NEGROES
for Disgrace;
That on their limbs subjection is display'd—
The doom of slav'ry stampt upon their face.
Send your stern gaze from Lapland to the Line,
And ev'ry Region's natives faily scan,
Their forms, their force, their faculties combine,
And own the VAST variety OF MAN!
Then why suppose
Yourselves the chosen few,
To deal Oppression's poison'd arrows round,
To gall with iron bonds the weaker crew,
Enforce the labour, and inflict the wound.
'Tis SORDID INT'REST guides you; bent on gain,
In profit only can ye reason find;
And pleasure too:—but urge no more in vain,
The selfish subject, to the social mind.
Ah! how can
He whose daily lot is grief,
Whose mind is vilify'd beneath the Rod,
Suppose his MAKER has for him relief,
Can he believe the tongue that speaks of GOD?
[Page 61]
For when he sees the Female of his Heart,
And his lov'd daughters torn by Lust away,
His sons, the poor inheritors of smart—
—HAD HE RELIGION, THINK YE HE COULD PRAY?
Alas! He steals him from the loathsome shed,
What time moist Midnight blows her venom'd breath,
And Musing, how he long has toil'd and bled,
DRINKS THE DIRE BALSAM OF CONSOLING DEATH!
Haste, haste, ye Winds, on swiftest pinions fly,
Ere from this World of Misery he go,
Tell him his wrongs bedew a NATION'S EYE,
Tell him, BRITANNIA
blushes for his Woe!
Say that in future, NEGROES SHALL BE BLEST,
Rank'd e'en as Men, and Men's just rights enjoy;
No more be either Purchas'd, or Oppress'd—
No griefs shall wither, and no stripes destroy!
Say, that fair Freedom bends her Holy Flight
To cheer the Infant, and console the Sire;
So shall
He, wond'ring, prove at last, delight,
And in a throb of ecstacy expire.
[Page 62]
Then shall proud ALBION'S CROWN, where Laurels twine,
Torn from the bosom of the raging sea,
Boast 'midst the glorious leaves, a Gem divine,
The radient Gem of PURE HUMANITY!
[Page]
MONODY. Addressed to MR. T—
IF ever for fictitious grief
My soul a transient sorrow knew;
If sometimes I have heav'd a sigh,
But to behold the virgin leaf
Of the lost LILY with'ring die!
Sure tend'rest sympathy is due
To THEE, from whom each cherish'd bliss is fled,
Who mourn'st by day and night, thy
own MARIA
dead;
O T—! in the murm'ring gale,
Oft have I found thy plaintive voice prevail;
When the wet fingers of the morn,
Shook the cold pearl-drops from the bending thorn;
Or, when, at close of day,
To the lone vale I took my way,
[Page 64] The
sad vibration of
faint ECHO'S
breath,
Brought to my heart the dirge of Death.
Then all dejected, have I paus'd to hear,
And felt a kindred pang sincere;
Sincere as erst
thy Father's PARENT prov'd,
When for the
*
Friend he lov'd,
He wove a cypress wreath, and pour'd the verse,
That sooth'd the Poet's shade, and hung upon his hearse.
Ah! let me take
my simple reed,
And seek the moonlight mead;
Or where 'mongst rocks,
the headlong stream,
Flashes the lucid beam:
Woo calm REFLECTION in her sober bow'r,
As pond'ring at the midnight hour,
She flings her solace on each passing wind,
That wafts the heavenly balm to heal the wounded mind.
So may her mighty spell,
Thy desolating anguish quell,
So may'st thou quit at length the Forest's gloom;
Nor thus for ever dwell upon the Sainted Tomb,
O think, when wand'ring on the shore,
Thou mark'st with musing eye,
O'er the rude cliffs the tempest fly,
And rouse to sudden rage the howling main,
Think, SHE
thou lov'st, has left a World,
Where jarring elements are hurl'd,
[Page 65] And where contending atoms roar,
To join, 'midst endless joy, th' adoring Seraph's strain!
Yes,
she was mild and lovely as the star
That in the Western hemisphere afar,
Lifts its pure lamp above the mountain's head,
To light
meek Evening to her dewy bed.
And as the waning Moon displays,
With mirror clear, Morn's rising rays,
She, in decay, show'd VIRTUE'S ORB refin'd,
Reflected
fairer from her angel mind;
Till at the last, too fierce a blaze was given,
And then she shrunk from sight, and FADED
into HEAVEN.
Yet do not mourn, be grief away,
For see how swift the dark clouds go;
Soon silence drinks the Linnet's lay,
And yonder sapphire waves shall cease to flow,
Scared by the hissing brand,
Of thirsty Summer's sultry hand.
From the lorn wood the leaves descend,
And
all of Nature, as
of Art, must end,
Sad Consolation, true! yet why,
If soon must close the languid eye,
Since a short moment but remains,
For all our fears, and all our pains,
Why should we fondly brood on care,
Ah! why devote us to despair!
[Page 66] But time assiduous loves to urge
Our footsteps to his utmost verge,
Because that there a rapt'rous scene appears,
Where ANGUISH
never throbs, nor SORROW
sinks in tears.
Meanwhile, forbear not to disclose,
The Scions of that beauteous Stem;
And tho' the PARENT ROSE,
Was prematurely lost,
By a remorseless frost;
O view the op'ning Buds, and smile at least for them!
[Page]
OH Nymph, long sought of placid mien,
With careless steps, and brow serene!
I woo thee from the tufted bowers,
Where listless pass thy easy hours—
Or, if a
Naiade of the silver wave
Thou rather lov'st thy pearly limbs to lave
In some clear lake, whose fascinating face
Lures the soft willow to its pure embrace;
Or, if beneath the gelid rock
Thy smiles all human sorrows mock,
Where'er thou art, in earth or air,
Oh! come, and chase the
fiend DESPAIR!
Have I not mark'd thee on the green
Roving, by vulgar eyes unseen?
Have I not watch'd thy lightsome dance
When Evening's soften'd glows advance?
[Page 68] Dear Goddess yes! and whilst the Rustic's mirth
Proclaims the hour which gives wild gambols birth,
Supine, I've found thee in the elm row's shade,
Lull'd by the hum returning bees have made,
Who, chary of their golden spoils,
Finish their fragrant, rosy toils,
With rest-inviting slumb'rous song,
As to their waxen couch they throng.
Chaste Nymph! the Temple let me seek
Where thou resid'st in lustre meek;
My future life to thee I give—
Irradiate ev'ry hour I live!
'Tis true no
glowing bliss thy vot'ries know,
From thee no poignant ecstacy can flow,
But oh! thou shield'st the heart from rankling pain,
And Misery
strikes, when blest with thee, in vain;
Wan
Jealousy's empoisoning tooth,
And
Love, which feeds upon our youth,
And holy
Friendship's broken tie,
Ne'er dim the lustre of thy eye.
For thee it is all nature blooms,
For thee, the spring new charms assumes,
Nor
vainly flings her blossoms round,
Nor
vainly bids her groves resound;
Her music, colours, odours, all are thine,
To thee her months their richest gifts consign;
[Page 69] To thee the morn is bright, and sweet the ray
That marks the progress of the sinking day;
Each change is grateful to thy soul,
For its
fine taste no woes controul,
The powers of Nature, and of Art,
Alike entrance the easy heart.
And oh! beneath thy gentle dome
Which the
calm comforts make their home,
That cruel imp is never found
Whose same such idle songs resound—
Dread SENSIBILITY!—Oh! let me fly
Where Greenland darkness drinks the beamy sky,
Or where the Sun, with downward torrid ray
Kills, with the barb'rous glories of the day!
I'd dare th' excess of ev'ry clime,
Grasp ev'ry evil known by Time,
Ere live beneath that Witch's spells
With whom no
lasting pleasure dwells.
Her lovely form deceives the heart,
The tear, for ever prompt to start,
The tender look, the ready sigh,
And soft emotion always nigh;
And yet
Content th' insiduous fiend forbids—
Oh! she has torn the slumbers from my lids:
Oft rous'd my torpid sense to living woe,
And bid chill anguish to my bosom grow.
[Page 70] She seals her prey!—in vain the Spring
Wakes Rapture, thro' her groves to sing;
The roseate Morn's hygean bloom,
Fades down,
unmark'd, to Evening's gloom.
Oh SENSIBILITY! thy sceptre sad
Ponits, where the
frantic glance proclaims THEE MAD!
Strain'd to excess, Reason is chain'd thy slave,
Or the poor victim shuns thee in the grave;
To thee each crime, each evil owes its birth,
That in gigantic horror treads the earth!
SAVAGE UNTAM'D! she smiles to drink our tears,
And where's no
solid ill, she wounds with
fears;
Riots in sighs, is sooth'd when most we smart—
Now, while she guides my pen, her FANG'S within my heart.
ANNA MATILDA.
Jan. 16, 1788.
[Page]
O CEASE MATILDA! Cease the strain
That wooes INDIFFERENCE to thy arms;
For what are all her boasted charms?
But only to be free from pain!
And would'st thou then her torpid ease,
Her listless apathy to know,
Renounce the magic POW'R to PLEASE;
And lose the LUXURY of WOE?
Why does thy stream of sweetest song,
In many a wild maze wind along;
Foam on the Mountain's murm'ring side;
Or through the vocal covert glide;
Or among fairy meadows steal?—
It is because thy HEART can FEEL!
Alas! if peace must be unknown,
Till ev'ry nerve is turn'd to stone,
Till not a tear-drop wets the eye;
Nor throbs the breast for Sorrow's sigh.
[Page 72] O may I never find relief,
But PERISH, in the PANG of GRIEF!
Think not I reason thus, my Fair!
A stranger to corroding Care!
Ah! if
Thou, seldom find'st repose,
"
I, rest not on a bed of rose."
DESPAIR, cold Serpent, loves to twine
About this helpless heart of mine!
Yet, tho' neglected and forlorn,
I scarce can check the smile of Scorn,
When those the VULGAR call the GREAT,
Bend the important brow of state;
And strive a consequence to find
By seeming more than human kind.
Well, let them strut their hour away,
Till grinning death demand his prey!
Meanwhile, my ANNA! let us love
The scented vale, the bending grove,
Mix our hot tears with evening dews
And live for FRIENDSHIP and the MUSE!
Yes, let us hasten hand in hand,
Where the blue billows lave the land,
And as they quick recoiling fly,
Send on the surf a lengthen'd sigh,
That strikes the soul, with truth sublime
As 'twere the whisp'ring TONGUE of TIME;
[Page 73] For thus our short Life's ebbing day
Murmurs awhile, and hastes away!
Or let us seek the mould'ring wall
Of some lone Abbey's Gothic Hall;
Recline upon the knee-worn stone,
And catch the North Wind's dismal moan,
That 'midst his sorrows, seems to boast
Of many a gallant vessel lost!
Friends and Lovers sunk in death—
By the fury of his breath!
What tho' at the
imagin'd Tale,
Thy alter'd cheek be sadly pale;
Ne'er can such SYMPATHY annoy;
For 'tis the price of dearest JOY!
When far off the Night Storm flies,
Let us ponder on the SKIES!
Where countless stars are ever roll'd,
Which yet our weak eyes dare behold;
Adore the SELF-EXISTING CAUSE
That gives to each its sep'rate laws;
That, when the impetuous comet runs
Athwart a wilderness of Suns;
Tells it what mandate to obey,
Nor ever wander from its way;
Till back it hastens whence 'twas brought,
Beyond the boundaries of thought!
[Page 74] Let not the studious Seer reply,
"Attraction regulates the Sky,
And lends each orb the secret force,
That urges on, or checks its course."
Or with his Orrery expound
Creation's vainly fancied round.
Ah! quit thy toil, presumptuous Sage!
Destroy thy calculating page;
No more on Second Causes plod;
'Tis not ATTRACTION, but 'tis GOD!
And what the UNIVERSE we call,
Is but a POINT, compar'd to ALL.
SUCH BLISS the sensate bosom knows,
Such bliss Indiff'rence ne'er bestows;
Tho' small the circle we can trace,
In the abyss of time and space;
Tho' learning has its limits got,
The feelings of the soul have not.
Their vast excursions find no end;
And RAPTURE needs not comprehend!
'Tis true, we're ign'rant how the Earth
Wakes the first principles of birth,
With vegetative moisture feeds
To diff'rent purpose, diff'rent seeds;
Gives to the Rose, such balmy sweet,
Or fills the golden ear of Wheat,
[Page 75] Paints the ripe Peach with velvet bloom,
Or weaves the thick Wood's mingling gloom—
YET we can wander in the bow'r;
Can taste the fragrance of the flow'r;
Drink the rich fruit's nectareous juice,
And bend the harvest to our use.—
Then give thy pure perceptions scope,
And sooth thy heaving heart with hope.
HOPE shall instruct my sorr'wing Friend;
The soul's fine fervour ne'er can end;
But when her limbs by Death are laid
Beneath some yew-tree's hallow'd shade,
Then shall her soaring spirit know
The Seraphim's ecstatic glow.
Then shall th' ESSENTIAL MIND confess,
That ANGUISH has the pow'r to BLESS,
That FEELING was in BOUNTY given,
And own THE SACRED TRUTH—IN HEAVEN.
DELLA CRUSCA.
Jan. 30, 1788.
[Page]
"—Does calm Indifference dwell,
On the low mead, or mountain swell?
O tell me where,
For thou shalt find me there."
YES, on the mountain's haughty swell,
And in the prostrate dell,
And where the Dryades fling their shades—
There may'st thou meet the Maid serene,
Or trace her on the zephyr'd green,
Whilst Day's carnation gently fades.
Doth Nature make the prospect
vast,
With rocks o'erhang, and rivers cast,
Tumbling headlong to their base?
Do seas stretch out their foamy plains,
Compelling with their chrystal chains
Wide Continents t' embrace?
All these attract the smooth brow'd fair;
Or where can Art evince her powers,
Where Science strew immortal flowers,
And gay Indifference—haste not there?
Whilst PASSION narrows up the heart,
TASTE can no ray of bliss impart,
[Page 83] One strong idea grasps the mind,
Extends itself thro' all the soul,
Thro' ev'ry vein its furies roll,
And tears with fangs unkind.
When NEWTON trod the starry roads,
And view'd the dwellings of the Gods,
And measur'd every Orb—
Did
silly Love his steps attend,
His mighty purposes suspend,
Or his grand mind absorb?
When intellectual LOCKE explor'd
The Soul's sad vacuum, where no hoard
Of budding young ideas lay—
Oh tell, thus rob'd in Wisdom's stole,
Did Love's coarse torch his view control,
Or light him in the darksome way?
Ha! DELLA CRUSCA, cease to feign,
Thy cheek with red repentance stain,
For having feign'd so long;
Quick seize thy Lyre, sweep each bold string,
O'er every chord thy music fling—
To calm INDIFFERENCE raise the Song!
Propitiate first, then with her haste
O'er the Globe's peopled, motley waste;
Watch CHARACTER where e'er it runs;
Drink newer air, see fiercer suns:
[Page 84] Seek the bland realms where first the Morn
Pours dawn-light from her beamy horn;
Pours scent and colours o'er the vale,
And wakes its song, and wakes its tale.
Mark how CONFUCIUS' feeble race,
(Whose records
vast fail not to trace)
To Imitation still confine
Their powers, nor deviate from its line.
Their fourteen thousand glowing springs
Passing thro' their yearly rings,
Not one Suggestion left behind,
No Art, nor Virtue more refin'd;
Philosophy no inroads made,
But mute, within its awful shade,
Its thoughts occult arrang'd—
Whilst Learning, blindfold in its pen,
This costly precept gave to men—
"BE WISE,
but be unchang'd."
Haste!—leave th' insipid herd—away!
Where EGYPT's
sons imbrown the day,
For there primeval Wisdom form 'dher wreath,
And Science first was taught to breathe.
O linger here! the Classic clime
Demands, and will reward thy time.
Here shalt thou seek th' immortal Dome
Where
Pleasure triumph'd over ROME;
[Page 85] And tread where CLEOPATRA trod,
And moisten with thy tear the sod
Where Taste and Love their banners wav'd,
Snatching from the grave Old Time—
Whose life fast-fading, Rapture sav'd,
And Phoenix-like renew'd its prime.
Then find the myrtled tomb,
The now unenvied Lover's home;
But, lest thy pensive steps should stray,
To guide thee in the unknown way,
The Moon her bright locks quick unshrouds.
Her veil of gossamour, thin clouds,
Dissolves to air, and her soft eye
Thro' the Palm Grove's haughty shade,
And the lofty Aloed glade
Shall guide thee where thy long-ow'd sigh
Breath'd o'er the mingling Lover's dust,
Shall gratify their hov'ring souls
Beyond
an EMPIRE'S
votive Bust.
Is a soft willow bending near,
Whose drooping leaves speak grief sincere?
Its drooping leaves, ah! instant seize,
The happy violence will please—
Bend its tender flaccid boughs
(Murm'ring soft my sterious vows)
Into garlands—leave them there
OFFERINGS to the love-lost pair!
[Page 86]
These duties paid, with ling'ring look,
With heart by silent Sorrow shook,
The marbled desert next explore
Where Beauty's glance, and Learning's lore,
Ages long past the soul beguil'd—
Oh think! in that unletter'd wild
LONGINUS wrote, ZENOBIA smil'd!
Where now a humbled column lies,
Stream'd radiance from impassion'd eyes;
The roof where odious Night Birds rest,
Once shelter'd Wit, once echo'd Jest;
Where Peasants' cumbrous oxenstall,
THERPSICHORE swam through the ball;
Serpents convolve, where Music trill'd,
And lost
Palmyra's fate's fulfill'd.
Doth splendid scenes thy light heart prize?
Fly to Italia's downy skies!
Where Fancy's richest strokes abound,
Where Nature's happiest points are found;
The pleasures here—a rosy band!
Link'd to her car with flow'ry chains,
Bear their rapt Goddess o'er the plains
And strew their glories o'er her land.
The dulcet groves, burst with rich notes,
Caught by a thousand trembling throats,
[Page 87] The wavey rivers as they fly—
Their soft embroder'd bounds between,
Whose glowing tints be-gem the green,
Bear on their curls th' extatic sigh;—
The breeze detain'd rests its pure wing,
To hear blest Love its triumphs sing.
And ah! be Italy ne'er nam'd
Without a pause to those so fam'd—
The glorious MEDICIS!
Oh SCULPTURE! lift thy pillar high,
And grave the name amidst the sky!
Its base, let marble sorrows tend,
And chisel'd woes in high relief,
Look their unutterable grief,
And mute Despair its tresses rend!
Blest POETRY! compel thy lyre
To sound the loud immortal praise
Of those who cherish'd thy proud bays,
And sed thy near extinguish'd fire!
Thy pencil, PAINTING! dip in shades
To last till Europe's Glory fades—
Thy trophy'd canvas shall be Fame
To those who nurs'd thy infant Art.
And bear to mightier shores the Name!
[Page 88]
Swiftly, my DELLA CRUSCA, turn,
To where the Medicean Urn,
The once proud City hallows still,
There thy fine taste may drink its fill.
To FLORENCE fly—
O, no! for ever shun her tempting skies,
For there, if right I ween, the Maid INDIFFERENCE dies!
ANNA MATILDA.
April 2, 1788.
[Page]
Age, jam meorum,
Finis amorum.
AND have I strove in vain to move
Thy Heart,
fair Phantom of my Love?
And cou'dst thou think 'twas my design,
Calmly to list thy Notes Divine,
That I responsive Lays might send,
To gain a cold
Platonic Friend?
Far other hopes thy Verse inspir'd,
And all my breast with passion fir'd.
For Fancy to my mind had given
Thy form, as of the forms of Heaven—
Had bath'd thy lips with vermil dew;
Had touch'd thy cheek with morning's hue!
And down thy neck had sweetly roll'd
Luxuriant locks of mazy gold.
[Page 90] Yes I had hopes, at last to press,
And lure thee to the chaste caress:
Catch from thy breath the quiv'ring sigh,
And meet the
murder of thine eye.
Ah! when I deem'd such joys at hand,
Remorseless comes the stern command,
Nor calls my wand'ring footsteps home;
But far, and farther bids me roam;
And then thy vestal notes dispense
The meed of COLD INDIFFERENCE!
Curs'd Power! that to myself unknown,
Still turns the heart I love, to stone!
Dwells with the Fair, whom most I prize,
And scorns my tears, and mocks my sighs.
Yes ANNA! I will hasten forth
To the bleak regions of the North,
Where
Erickson, immortal Lord!
Pour'd on the Dane his vengeful sword;
Or where wide o'er the barb'rous plain,
Fierce Rurick held his ancient reign.
Then once more will I trace the Rhine,
And mark the Rhone's swift billows shine;
Once more on VIRGIL'S tomb I'll muse,
And
Laura's, gemm'd with evening dews?
Once more ROME'S
Via Sacra tread,
And ponder on the mighty dead.
[Page 91] More Eastward then direct my way,
To thirsty
Egypt's deserts stray,
Fix in wonder, to behold
The Pyramids renown'd of old;
Fallen near one of which, I ween,
The
Hieroglyphic Sphinx is seen!
The
* Lion Virgin Sphinx, that shows
What time the rich Nile overflows,
Then will I sail th' Egean tide,
Or seek
Scamander's tuneful side;
Wander the sacred groves among,
Where HOMER wak'd th' immortal song:
Traverse the Nemaean wood,
Mark the spot where
Sparta stood;
Or at humbled
Athens see
Its still remaining Majesty!—
Yet to
Indiff'rence e'er a foe,
May Beauty other joys bestow;
Her rapt'rous Science I'll pursue,
The Science NEWTON
never knew.
Now blows the wind with melancholy force,
And o'er the
Baltic points my weary course;
Loud shout the Mariners, the white sails swell—
ANNA MATILDA! fare thee, fare thee well!
[Page 92] Farewel whoe'er thou art, and mayst thou find
Health and repose, and lasting peace of mind;
Still pour the various Verse with fancy clear,
To thrill the pulse, and charm th' attentive ear;
Nor may relentless Care thy days destroy,
But ev'ry hope be ripen'd into joy!
And O! farewel to distant Britain's shore,
Which I perhaps are doom'd to see no more;
Where Valour, Wisdom, Taste, and Virtue dwell,
Dear Land of Liberty, alas! farewel!—
Yet oft,
e'en there, by wild Ambition tost,
The Souls best season settles in a frost.
Yet even
there, desponding, late I knew,
That Friendship
foreign form'd, is rarely true.
For they, whom most I lov'd, whose kindness sav'd
My shatter'd Bark when erst the tempest rav'd:
At Home, e'en with the common herd could fly,
Gaze on the wounded Deer, and
pass him by!
Nor yet can Pride subdue my pangs severe,
But Scorn itself evap'rates in a Tear.
Thou too, delusive Maid! whose winning charms
Seduc'd me first from slow Wealth's beck'ning arms;
Sweet POETRY! my earliest, falsest Friend,
Here shall my frantic adoration end,
[Page 93] Take back the simple flute thy treach'ry gave,
Take back, and plunge it in Oblivion's wave,
So shall its sad notes hence no malice raise—
The Bard unknown—forgotten be the Lays.
But should with ANNA'S Verse, his hapless Rhime,
In future meet th' impartial eye of Time,
Say, that thy wretched victim long endur'd
Pains, which are seldom felt, and never cur'd!
Say 'midst the lassitude of hopes o'erthrown,
MATILDA'S
strain could comfort him alone.
Yet was the veil mysterious ne'er remov'd,
From
him th' admiring, and from
her the lov'd.
And no kind intercourse the song repaid,
But each to each remain'd—
a Shadow and a Shade.
DELLA CRUSCA.
May 15, 1788.
[Page]
OH stay, oh stay! thy rash speed check,
Not
yet ascend the flying deck;
Nor Europe's Hemisphere forsake,
Nor from THY NATION'S pleasures take
A bliss so exquisite and chaste—
A feast so dear, to polish'd taste,
As
that thy Lyre correctly flings,
As that they feel when DELLA CRUSCA sings,
Alas! thou'rt gone, and to my straining eye
Thy Bark seems buoyant on the distant sky;—
See! in the clouds its mast it proudly laves,
Scorning the aid of Ocean's humble waves:
Well may it soar and bear aloft the prize
Whose verse immortal links him to the skies;
Well may it scorn rough
Neptune's rocky way,
Which bears the Genius of the GOD OF DAY!
[Page 95]
And now, MATILDA, bind thy lyre
With cypress wreathes! the lambent fire
Thou kindlest at his fervid rays
Can gleam no more; thy future
days
Lost to the Muses and to Taste,
Each torpid hour will joyless waste.
In vain each morning now will glow—
In vain, soft MAIA'S music flow,
And to my pillow force its way,
And on my wak'ning senses play.
Her notes my
wak'ning senses fill,
And
conscious slumbers own the trill;
But when at length Remembrance bids
The filmy slumber quit my lids,
Saying "THE WORLD its wit hath brought,
Its various point, its well turn'd thought,
But DELLA CRUSCA lends no ray"—
Oh
what is Morning—
what is May?
Yet hold! some solace yet remains,
And pensive joys await my pains
I too must leave this laurel'd coast
Which all, that ROME adorn'd, can boast;
But not like thee, for GRECIAN shores;—
Ah no! my humbler prow explores
The sea
unsung, which lies between
Dover's proud cliffs, and France serene.
Thou'st skim th' Egean's brilliant tide,
I, o'er the British channel glide,
[Page 96]
Thou, all enthusiast! fondly trace
The Isle where PHAON'S beauteous face
Gave birth to SAPPHO'S glorious art—
Illum'd her name, but tore her heart:
Thy SAPPHO seek the shores vicine,
Where
England's lovely great-soul'd QUEEN
Sublimely knelt, and snatch'd from blushing Fate
The Godlike victims of her
Edward's hate.
Thou, at AONIA'S sacred feet
Wilt duly pour libations meet;
I roam o'er GALLIA'S sportive plains,
Where thoughtless Pleasure ever reigns.
But
[...] sportive GALLIA'S plains,
Tho' Pleasure there for ever reigns,
Which promises the boasted bliss—
No, BARD BELOV'D! the hope is this,
That there thy footsteps I may tread,
Press the same turf where sunk thy head;
Sip the quick stream thy thirst hath slaked,
And greet the Dawn where thou hast waked,
Fancy'ng her waves of mazy gold
Ne'er with such rich refulgence roll'd;
And when her tints of various dye
Burst from the pallid sickly sky,
There rush in violet, there in green,
Here in soft red imbue the scene;
[Page 97] Then lose themselves by growing bright,
Till swallow'd up in one vast flood of light—
Thus shall I say, HE saw her rays,
Thus was he rous'd t' adore and praise!
Oh, SYMPATHY,
of birth divine,
Descend, and round my heart-strings twine!
Touch the fine nerve whene'er I breathe
Where DELLA CRUSCA dropt his wreath!
Lead me the
sacred way of ROME,
Lead me to kneel at
Virgil's tomb,
Where he th' enduring marble round
With fresh wove laurels, graceful bound.
Then guide where still with sweeter note
Than flow'd from
Petrach's tuneful throat,
On
Laura's grave he pour'd the lay
Amidst the sighs of sinking day:
Then point where on the sod his tear
Fell from its chrystal source so clear,
That there my mingling tear may sink,
And the same dust its moisture drink.
Thus dying Swans are said to sing,
And their last breath in numbers fling
O'er the dear liquid shining plains,
Which nurs'd their joys, and sooth'd their pains.
Like them my Muse pines fast away,
And this her last, her closing day.
[Page 98] When one blest word her lips hath seal'd,
In lasting silence she'll be veil'd.
Expiring, still her note's the same,
She murmurs DELLA CRUSCA'S
name!—
The SACRED WORLD! ye heard it spoke;—
Her Book is clos'd—her Lyre is broke!
ANNA MATILDA.
May 17th, 1788.
[Page]
A TALE FOR JEALOUSY.
A Recent Event in CATALONIA.
LOUD shriek'd the wind; hoarse struck the hour,
When from his couch,
Alphonso rose;
Bedeck'd with gold his splendid bower—
Gold, had his couch, but not
repose!
The Night sat brooding on the hill:
Beneath, the sable rivers roll'd,
Not
glist'ring, now, the tinkling rill;
Its stream opaque, its spirit cold.
His chamber long, with restless feet,
The Lord
Alphonso travers'd o'er;
Here once he tasted slumbers sweet,
But slumber sweet he knows no more!
[Page 100]
His rous'd domestics strait obey
The signal of their Lord, unlov'd;
Their torches flash a second day,
As thro' the costly rooms they mov'd.
His favourite, from th' obsequious train
Was to his in most closet led;
There heard confess'd the am'rous pain
Which tore him from his midnight bed.
Oh, thou wert near,
Alphonso cries,
When in the progress late we made,
Gonsalve's daughter in our eyes
Bade every other virgin fade.
Her noble mien, her blushes mild,
The burnish of her traces bright;
Her age—but just no longer Child,
Her rosy mouth, her graceful height;
All these have in my time-worn heart,
Lighted a youthful, am'rous fire—
I sink beneath the poignant smart,
I faint with eager, strong desire.
[Page 101]
Oft did I try her soul to melt,
But ign'rant she of Cupid's pow'r—
His ecstacies she never felt—
But now is come her fated hour.
With flames illicit I essay'd
To touch her iced, unwaken'd heart;
Let Hymen sooth the bashful maid,
She'll
waken'd, play a softer part.
Strait to her father's, speed thy way,
The fleetest mules with haste prepare;
And ere to-morrow scans his day,
Thou'lt reach the village of my fair.
These pearls, these di'monds speak my truth,
Woo her with
treasures to my arms;
When love no longer boasts of youth,
Riches may plead their meaner charms.
Oh how unlike the rapturous hour,
When love is bought by love alone;
When a soft look, a touch, a flower,
Is prized beyond IND'S brightest stone.
[Page 102]
But go, and to her parents bear
Thy Lord's designs—his hopes unfold;
Plead with due force his meaning fair,
And in thy promises be bold.
Much more the Lord
Alphonso spoke;
His servant's mind the whole retains,
Whose lashes soon the mules provoke;
The mules skim o'er the distant plains.
Th' awaken'd night with streaks of gold
Her jetty robes begun to lace;
Her drowsy car far off she roll'd—
The blithe Sun urging to the race;
And ere his wheels had run behind
The Western mountain's giddy slope;
Julia, with meekness all resign'd,
Had listen'd to
Alphonso's hope.
Not so resign'd but that her thought
Recoil'd at such unequal love,
Till by parental wisdom taught,
She learn'd to bear, and then approve.
[Page 103]
The Sire attends his darling child,
For so
Alphonso's pride allows;
And with the transport almost wild,
Saw her receive a Grandee's vows.
He saw that form where speaking grace
Gave soul to beauty most refin'd,
The robe of dignity embrace,
By taste magnificent design'd.
Her hair, which floated o'er her dress,
A dress, which to be
seen demands
Its rich luxuriance to repress,
They tie in folds with diamond bands.
But the soft curls which hap'ly fell
Upon her bosom's heaving snow,
Were suffer'd there, unbound, to dwell,
And spread their wavy golden glow.
Thus the fond parent saw her rove,
Thro' gaudy halls and rooms of state;
Whilst humble trains at distance move,
And from her nod receive their fate.
[Page 104]
Succinct the time in which such joy
Around his aged heart might play;
Bitter, oh! bitter the alloy!
And set full soon his Pleasure's day:
For Lord
Alphonso names the hour,
When he the sumptuous dome must quit,
And seek again the humble bower—
For birth like his a mansion fit:
Tells him to take a last farewel,
Of her more dear than sense or light;
Bids him ne'er hope again to dwell
Where filial
Julia bless'd his sight.
His daughter, overwhelm'd with woe,
The haughty cruel order hears;
She sees her mournful parent go,
And bathes his last steps with her tears.
Now slow and sadden'd rolls the time
Which late flew rapid with delight;
Heedless is she of Morning's prime,
Nor hails the soft approach of Night.
[Page 105]
Her only solace was to roam
'Midst the deep wood's embosom'd calm,
Where distant from her gaudy home
Meek solitude bestow'd its balm.
There, on a river's fringy side,
Which snatch'd her breath as stealing by,
She'd watch its curl'd, unequal glide.
And swell with her's the zephyr's sigh:
Mark with what truth it objects drew,
When
ruffling zephyr ceas'd to breathe,
Its surface polish'd to the view—
A
phantom forest underneath.
Two drooping willows there display'd
Their foliage to the painting wave;
Which in their pensive green array'd
Would still their jutting bare roots lave.
These, by her hands, in garlands dress'd,
She'd sometimes chide the low-bent branch,
Which would its blooming fragrant vest
Upon th' escaping river launch.
[Page 106]
Thus was she one bright eve employ'd,
Whilst carols sad her sweet voice sung;
Evening's own bird her note enjoy'd—
When from its shades a soldier sprung.
His form, like that
Apollo wears,
When from his bow the swift dart sings;
Or when the discus thro' the air
With equal force and grace he flings.
Martial his step; his beamy eye
Bright as fair
Julia's own appears;
Strait to each other's arms they fly—
They mingle joy—they mingle tears.
'Twas
Julia's brother whom she saw,
'Twas
Julia whom her brother press'd;
Both dear by Nature's dearest law,
For twins they were, who thus caress'd.
From
Calpe's glorious rock he came—
Immortal monument decreed
Of English ELIOTT'S laurel'd name;
Where English heroes oft shall bleed.
[Page 107]
And there his blood did
Gusman shed
Amongst the boldest ever found,
By sacred thirst of honour led—
Nor shunn'd the deaths that flew around.
But when bright Peace her silver flute
Had sounded thro' wide Europe's skies,
And when the voice of war was mute,
Sped by fond duty, home he flies.
There he first learn'd his sister's fate,
How elevated—and how curst!
Heard, that amidst her brilliant state
Her heart consuming sorrow nurst.
Her husband's tyrant law reveal'd,
No dear relation to behold;
Oblig'd him thus in shades conceal'd,
His sister to his heart to fold.
And oft he mourn'd her cruel lot,
And oft he dried her tears away,
When from the interesting spot
They each were warn'd by closing day.
[Page 108]
Adieu, my
Gusman, Julia cries!
Yet let me see thee once again;
To-morrow bless thy sister's eyes,
Then seek our dear paternal plain:
From forth my little treasur'd hoard,
Fond tokens to my mother bear;
No miser is my cruel Lord,
And gifts, like these, I well can spare.
Gusman, with pure, fraternal love,
Kiss'd either beauteous,
fading cheek,
Vowing, when Morn shou'd light the grove
In its mild haunts her steps held seek.
Now Evening hung its silv'ry dews,
On every shrub that deck'd the glades;
And fainter scents the flowers effuse—
As loth to greet with sweets, her shades.
Oft had fair
Julia linger'd there
In hours like these—and traced the beam,
Which sent from Luna's brilliant sphere.
Shot thro' the wood a
shiver'd gleam.
[Page 109]
Mark'd how each sound stole soft away,
As gliding off to shores more bright;
Bribed by the gaudy tumid day,
To fly the dove-ey'd, tender night.
By
Julia these are all forgot,
For pleasure hath her soul suffused;
Blind to the beauties of the spot,
She deigns not now to be
amused.
Braced with young joy, the sportive fawn
Pursues her dam, with motion fleet,
Regardless of the sprinkled lawn
That weaves its flowers around her feet.
So speeds the fair one to her home,
Whose towers return the moon's broad glare;
Whilst to point out the distant dome,
They flash their gold vanes thro' the air.
On her soft pillow soon reclin'd,
Round her, the slumbers spun their veil;
And o'er her placid gentle mind,
The softest dreams their phantoms steal.
[Page 110]
At morning's dawn, her Lord commands,
Her placid slumbers must be broke;
He grasp'd in his her trembling hands,
He led her forth, but never spoke.
And oh! these horrid sounds, she cried—
Those piteous shrieks, which tear the ear!
With terror struck, she faintly sigh'd,
And sunk, at length, o'er power'd with fear.
He dragg'd her on; the screams of pain,
More piercing as they nearer grow
Left her scarce power to sustain
Her crimson life's unequal flow.
There, wretch, behold!
Alphonso cried,
As wide he threw the grating gate:
There feast thy loose adulterous eyes,
See there, thy paramour's just fate!
There, stretch'd upon the racking wheel,
She saw her brother's tortur'd form;
From his torn flesh the jagged steel,
Bade rush the blood, with life yet warm.
[Page 111]
She
saw—but oh! she spoke no more!
The agony too fierce to bear;
Groaning, she sunk upon the floor,
And breath'd her spirit on the air.
Sister! the writhing
Gusman said—
Oh, Sister! plead—then swoon'd with pain!
On his gash'd bosom sunk his head,
His limbs convuls'd, the cords still strain.
Alphonso, when he heard the sound,
Leapt sudden to the deathful wheel;
With eager haste the youth's unbound,
And stern
Alphonso learns to feel.
He raves, he sinks, he strikes his breast,
But oh! the guilty deed is past,
The victims pure are now at rest—
Thy tortures shall for ever last!
Vain is all art, for life no more
Can lift their pulse, their cheeks can paint;
Thou'st freed their souls, they quit the shore—
Each seeks its God—a murder'd Saint!
[Page 112]
There, tyrant, lie! and let the fangs
Of deep remorse thy bosom tear!
Each wak'ning morn awake new pangs—
Teach thee to pity, and despair!
[Page]
AMID the scenes of noise and strife,
That sadly sorrow human life
And cause continual woes;
What soft sensation sooths my breast,
Bids every jarring passion rest,
And transient bliss bestows.
'Tis faithful Memory's friendly hand,
That waves her all-enlivening wand,
And brings to fancy's view;
What time when wing'd with gay delight,
Each thoughtless day and easy night,
On pleasure's pinions flew.
Wafts me to S—'s fertile plains,
Where, first I sung my infant strains,
A rude, unpolish'd boy;
Where, fraught with innocence and Truth,
The lively sports of early youth,
Produc'd a guiltless joy.
[Page 180]
There, pleas'd I trace the flow'ry mead,
And round the well-known elm-trees tread,
Where oft I've careless play'd;
And sure my choicest days were spent,
Cheer'd with the smiles of glad Content,
Beneath their peaceful shade.
The distant view of N—'s hills,
My breast with exultation fills,
Long time the bounded walk;
There oft I've shar'd the sweet regale,
Partook th' allotted cakes and ale,
And held the sprightly talk.
The church, the yard, the neighb'ring yew,
All join to warm my heart a-new,
And pastimes past recall;
'Twas here I lash'd the murm'ring top,
Here drove the tile with eager hop,
There struck the bounding ball.
Nor shall fair Learning's sacred spot,
Be by the grateful Muse forgot,
Or heedless left unsung;
Where dawning Reason first began
The deeds of ancient dead to scan,
And urge th'enquiring tongue.
[Page 181]
Where, studious still maturing age,
Explor'd the long instructive page,
And emulous of fame,
Consuming oft th' evening oil,
Enjoy'd a pleasing-painful toil
To raise a future name.
Hail, happy state of infant years!
There lovely Peace her temple rears,
And smiling stands confest:
There Virtue holds her cheerful court,
And youthful, gay desires resort
To charm the tranquil breast.
No lawless passions Wound the mind,
There pleasures leave no sting behind,
Sad source of other's care;
Nor fell Remorse, nor envious ire,
Nor black Revenge, with purpose dire,
Occasion dark despair.
Their's is the rosy bloom of health,
The boundless transport snatch'd by stealth,
The heart devoid of guile;
What riper manhood seldom knows,
The peaceful undisturb'd repose,
And undissembled smile.
[Page 182]
Regardless of to-morrow's doom,
They feel no dread of ills to come,
Nor Pleasure's feast forego;
The playful day their great relief,
The task unlearn'd their only grief.
The rod their only foe.
Ah, ever to be envied hours!
When no sad thought of future sours—
No distant fears annoy;
No past reflections intervene
To pain the bosom's calm serene,
Or damp the present joy.
Affliction's load they seldom bear,
'Tis theirs to shed the short-liv'd tear
For sorrows soon forgot;
The sweets that from Contentment flow,
That health and peace of mind bestow,
Complete their happy lot.
[Page]
THE INVITATION. TO DELIA.
THY youthful charms, bright Maid, inspire,
And grace my fav'rite theme,
Whose person kindless soft desire;
Whose mind secures esteem.
O! hear me then, my flame avow,
And fill my breast with joy,
A flame, which taught by time to grow,
No time can e'er destroy:
My tender suit with smiles approve,
And share the sweets of mutual love.
No false delusive arts I use,
As do the courtly throng,
'Tis Nature kindly aids my muse,
And dictates to my song;
[Page 192] Would'st thou, she cries, true bliss ensure,
Make haste the town to leave,
Where Pleasure's gilded baits allure,
And charm but to deceive:
With me, thro' flow'ry medows rove,
And share the sweets of mutual love.
Forsake, where all upright appear,
Yet most perfidious prove,
Where knaves the mask of friendship wear,
Or feign the voice of love.
So shall thy inexperienc'd years,
No source of sorrow know;
Nor shed Affliction's homefelt tears,
Nor weep for others woe:
Haste then, from faithless crowds remove,
And share the sweets of mutual love.
Ah! would my Fair this plan pursue,
How happy should I be,
Since all that brings content to you,
Is ecstacy to me.
Yet e'er the public scenes you quit,
Increase my fond delight,
And deign your humble swain t' admit
The partner of your flight;
And while the varying seasons move,
To share the sweets of mutual love.
[Page 193]
When Autumn yields her ripen'd corn,
Or Winter dark'ning low'rs,
With tend'rest care, I'll sooth thy morn,
And cheer thy ev'ning hours:
Again, when smiling Spring returns,
We'll breath the vernal air,
And still, when Summer sultry burns,
To woodland walks repair:
There seek Retirement's shelter'd grove,
And share the sweets of mutual love.
What tho' no costly arts display,
The splendour of a court,
Yet rich in Nature's neat array,
We'll join the rural sport;
Where, seated on the verdant grass,
From daily labour freed,
Each shepherd wooes his favourite lass,
And tunes his oaten reed,
Remarks the tender turtle dove,
And sings the sweets of mutual love.
No revels there the night consume,
Which oft the Fair undo,
Make beauty lose its lovely bloom,
And often virtue too;
[Page 194] There, free from discontent and strife,
Each undesigning youth
Strives to relieve the cares of life,
With constancy and truth;
Haste then, the fleeting hours improve,
And share the sweets of mutual love.
For can that destiny be just,
That innocence and health
Be yielded up a prey to lust,
Or sacrifice to wealth?
Or shall the mind, where honour dwelt,
Deplore that honour gone,
Which still for others pitying felt,
Itself unpitied mourn?
Forbid it, all ye pow'rs above,
And grant her ever mutual love!
[Page]
ELIZA was beyond compare,
The pride of all the plain,
Fair, yet belov'd by every fair,
Ador'd by every swain.
Tho' Nature had each charm combin'd
The beauteous Maid to grace;
And bade the sweetness of her mind
Stand pictur'd in her face;
Yet Fortune, from her earliest years,
A fate disastrous wove;
And doom'd her to an age of tears,
For one short hour of love.
In childhood's helpless state, bereft
Of parents' watchful care;
Her inexperienc'd youth was left
A prey to every snare.
[Page 202]
One only fault the Maid prossess'd—
—If that a fault we deem—
A tender, unsuspecting breast,
Too lavish of esteem.
Unvers'd in woes that others find,
In wiles that others fear;
Artless herself, she thought mankind
Were, like herself, sincere.
But ah! ere yet the luckless Maid
Had fifteen summers run,
Her faith and honour were betray'd—
Her virtue was undone.
Young HENRY, with successful art,
To win her favour strove;
Long practis'd on her youthful heart,
And early gain'd her love.
Fraught with each soft resistless charm,
With each persuasive pow'r,
He still'd Discretion's kind alarm,
And cropp'd the virgin flow'r.
[Page 203]
Her orphan state, her tender years,
Her pure, unspotted fame,
Serv'd but to hush his guilty fears,
And fan his lawless flame.
By Honour's dictates unrestrain'd,
By Faith, nor Justice sway'd;
That confidence his vows obtain'd
His perfidy betray'd.—
So poor ELIZA'S hapless fate
Fill'd HENRY'S breast with care;
Nor could the vain parade of state
Protect him from despair.
He saw the beauties once he priz'd
All wither in their bloom,
By lawless passion sacrific'd
Untimely to the tomb.
For how could injur'd honour look
Its Author in the face?
Or how could suff'ring virtue brook
Invective and disgrace?
[Page 204]
No sorrows could afford relief,
No penitence a one;
The sigh she gave to others' grief,
She wanted for her own.
The partners of her youthful years,
Unpitying her distress,
Nor kindly help'd to dry her tears,
Nor strove to make them less.
Her lov'd companions turn'd away
To former friendship cold;
And left her in Affliction's day,
Uncherish'd, unconsol'd.
So ever thro' the World we find
Each breast at woe recoils,
And all the favours of mankind
But last while fortune smiles.
Too just, life's guilty joys t' endure,
Too weak its thorns to brave;
No friend but Death she could procure,
No comfort but the Grave.
[Page 205]
Awhile she Heaven's forgiveness pray'd,
For errors long confest;
Then sought the solitary shade,
And silent sunk to rest.
Hard-fortun'd sex! in every state,
From custom's rigid pow'r,
Years of remorse can't expiate
One inadvertent hour.
Unskill'd in Life's precarious way,
Should Love their bosoms burn,
And yielding Nature chance to stray,
They never can return.
In vain they with repentant sighs,
Their sad experience mourn;
E'en those, who ought to sympathize,
Abandon them with scorn.
Say why, ye Virgins, who bestow
On most, Compassion's tear;
The pangs alone yourselves may know,
You thus refuse to cheer?
[Page 206]
O rather kindly condescend
To aid the drooping fair;
Your mercy with your justice blend,
And snatch them from despair.
ELIZA'S death, when HENRY heard,
He gave a piteous groan;
The censure of the World he fear'd,
But more he fear'd his own.
In vain he flew to crowds and courts,
Guilt every bliss destroys;
Intruded on his morning sports,
And damp'd his evening joys.
At length, with constant grief o'ercome,
With anguish, and dismay;
He hied him to the lonely tomb
Which held ELIZA'S clay:
There weeping o'er the turf-clad ground,
Of all existence tir'd:
He cast his streaming eyes around,
And mournfully expir'd.
[Page 207]
Thus warn'd, ye Fair, with caution arm
'Gainst Man's perfidious arts:
Since Youth and Beauty vainly charm
When Honour once departs.
Let Hymen's sacred bands unite,
Where Passion is declar'd;
Give sanction to approv'd delight,
And authorize regard.
So shall no rankling cares annoy,
No tears unceasing flow;
So shall you feel a Mother's joy,
Without a Mother's woe.
[Page]
ELEGY. To the LADY who will best remember it.
WHEN strong Affliction deeply wounds the breast,
When Sorrow sits within the moisten'd eye;
When the heart sinks, with pond'rous grief opprest,
And the sad bosom heaves with many a sigh;
Lost to all life, averse from ev'ry joy,
Disdaining comfort, scorning all repose,
The pensive Soul can brook but one employ—
Brooding in gloomy Silence o'er its woes.
Come then, thou Partner of my cheerless hour,
Come, faithful Muse, and seek the lonely grove,
Retire with me to yon sequester'd bow'r,
And mark the story of my luckless love.
For thou, the truest, tenderest, best of friends,
The fond companion of my earliest youth,
Wilt share each anguish that my bosom rends,
Untir'd wilt listen, and unseen wilt sooth.
[Page 212]
Oft hast thou tried, and oft with kind success,
To smooth the sorrows of my aching brow;
But ah! I never felt severe distress,
Or prov'd th' extreme of misery till now.
Full well thou know'st in life's unripen'd morn,
With thoughtless ease I pass'd the frolick day;
Pluckt every rose, and where I found a thorn,
Threw, careless threw, th' unheeded flow'r away.
Resolv'd the roving restless mind to cure,
And guide the future different from the past,
I sought for sweets that might thro' life endure,
And fondly fancied they were found at last.
I saw the lovliest Rose, that grac'd the land,
With blooming fragrance gladd'ning all around,
Too bold, perhaps, I thrust the forward hand,
Miss'd the fair flow'r, and only felt the wound.
Felt! did I say! deep rankling in my heart
No time can mitigate my suffering there;
Hope lends no friendly balsam for the smart,
And all my black'ning prospects frown despair,
And yet lov'd Maid, if partial to my Muse,
Her artless numbers thou wilt deign to hear;
If, softly-sighing, thou wilt not refuse,
To shed with her one sympathizing tear;
[Page 213]
That single tear that dews ELIZA'S cheek,
Shall for a moment wash my griefs away;
That sigh, tho' half supprest, shall more than speak,
And gild the evening of each mournful day.
Then shall I think 'twas not ELIZA'S heart,
'Twas not her gentle breast refus'd to glow;
'Twas not ELIZA'S self who made us part,
The World, th' unfeeling World pronounc'd it so.
The unfeeling World that thinks where riches roll,
Where titles blazon, joys can never cease;
That waves each soft emotion of the soul,
And builds on public clamour private peace.
And yet, ELIZA, thou may'st live to prove,
And thy fond heart may own it with a sigh,
That the endearing sweets of mutual Love,
No Wealth, no State, no Splendour can supply.
Form'd as thou art, with every outward grace,
With ev'ry inward virtue richly fraught,
Think, if thy tenderness thou should'st misplace,
Pride, Pomp, and Grandeur may be dearly bought.
Though Honour's nobles circle thou'lt adorn,
And dignify in every sphere the Wife,
ELIZA, or I much mistake, was born
To shine amidst the soften'd joys of life.
[Page 214]
For me, whom poignant woes must still depress,
Each future hour to sorrow I resign;
Death only can alleviate my distress,
And the last parting moment shall be Thine!
[Page]
The following POEM, in a distant part of the World, had Fact for its Foundation. The Lovers thus described, parted, with the emotions the Story gives them. The Dialogue only is fanciful. It is the form which the Author adopted, as the best Method of conveying to the Public.
THE REPENTANCE OF PASSION.
HE.
AND does my
Harriet still adhere,
To wear Affliction's garb alone;
Still does she hold her Spoiler dear,
And prize his peace who broke her own?
Still will she strive his pangs to heal,
Who all her youthful honours tore,
And near his pillow constant kneel,
When every power to please is o'er?
SHE.
And does my Love, unkind, suppose
I e'er would leave his lonely bed;
Forsake the Youth my heart has chose,
And fly, because his health has fled?
[Page 220] And will he, sunk in sad despair,
Believe his
Harriet loves no more;
Or think, while she can sooth one care,
That every power to please is o'er.
HE.
Ah! cease to sooth my woe-worn head!
Shun the sad wretch thou canst not save;
Nor hover round that guilty bed
Where martyr'd Virtue found its grave:
Here sunk the glories of thy youth,
Each blooming honour doom'd to fall,
Here, Treachery triumph'd over Truth,
And here, stern Death, shall expiate all.
SHE.
Ah! cease to wound my heart anew!
Still if thou bend'st at Sorrow's shrine,
Again thy
Harriet thou'lt undo,
For
Harriet's life is wrapt in thine;—
Had I ten thousand wrongs endur'd,
And that lov'd cheek one tear let fall,
That single tear cach pang had cur'd;
—One tender sigh would expiate all.
HE.
[Page 221]
O spurn me!—Case thy heart in steel—
Give just resentment all its force;
Nor by such kindness, make me feel
The torture of severe remorse.
Why, in life's early happy day,
When health and joy gave means to bless;
Why did I heedless turn away,
From her who lov'd to such excess?
SHE.
Lament no more, my bosom's friend;—
Thy errors past, thy cares should cease;
Corroding thought awhile suspend,
And nurtur'd Hope shall teem with peace;
Thy kind, thy gentle
Harriet sues,
Clings round thy arm with fond caress;
Nature will every fault excuse,
And sweetly pardon Love's excess.
HE.
Too tender, too relenting Fair!
My fault can never be forgot;
Unpitying Love would scorn my pray'r,
And injur'd Nature owns me not;
[Page 222] When, in the fond ingenuous hour,
Thy native tenderness was shewn,
How did I meanly sport with pow'r,
Betray thy love, and shame my own.
SHE.
Hear me, thou persevering man!
Hear, what thy
Harriet firmly swears—
If courted death must be thy plan,
Remember, 'twill but prelude hers:
Here will she wait thy final doom—
Then drench'd in tears, and desp'rate grown,
Stretch'd o'er thy corse, in life's first bloom,
Forget thy love, and end her own.
HE.
Lend me thy aid, to combat Fate;
For thy dear sake I'll strive to live;
Draw near me,—help, oh! 'tis too late—
Take the last kiss I now can give:
Wan is that cheek you oft have prest,
And dim those eyes you lov'd so well;
And the hard pang that rends my breast,
My falt'ring tongue can scarcely tell.
SHE.
[Page 223]
Here—on this bosom, rest thy head—
Speak—look upon me—breathe once more—
His pulse is still—oh God! he's dead—
Fate, do thy worst,—the conflict's o'er:
Weep for their woes ye tender few—
You'll pity what you feel so well!
My humble pen but paints for you;
How just the trickling tear shall tell.
[Page]
'T WAS on a mountain's airy spire,
With eye that flash'd celestial fire,
That quench'd the dawn's expanding ray,
And pre-assumed the day,
Immortal GENIUS stood.
Anon, his saphire wings unfold
With ample spread, and starr'd with beamy gold;
His loose hair hover'd o'er the prostrate flood,
And on each bounding billow threw
A quiv'ring shade of deeper blue.
Sudden he darts a light'ning smile,
And "blest (he cries) be BRITAIN'S isle,
Dear proud Asylum of my favour'd race!
Where Contemplation joys to trace
The classic feature, and the form of sense,
And hail the MUSE SUBLIME, and PATRIOT ELOQUENCE.
[Page 225] These are the plains that FANCY loves,
O'er these white cliffs she wanders free,
And scatters in the floating gale,
Her long array of fairy pageantry.
While MELODY, in some far vale,
Weaves on the air a length'ning line
Of cadence soft, and swell divine;
What time the maniac RAPTURE roves,
His jet locks dripping with the vap'ry show'r,
That EVENING weeps upon each folded flow'r,
As down the shad'wy hills her less'ning car
Tracks the slow progress of her idol star.
Then here, in sweet delirium will I stay,
And meet on every blast a variegated lay."
LUR'D by the voice, from solemn glade
The vivifying Maid,
Extatic POETRY, was seen
To pace the upland green—
With many a curl luxuriant flowing,
Cheeks with light purpureal glowing,
While her long-unsettled gaze
That VARYING PASSION'S force displays,
Fix'd on him she most ador'd,
HER SACRED SOUL'S ETERNAL LORD.
Ha! as she swept with wild'ring hand
Her charmed harp, o'er sea and land
[Page 226] Fleet ZEPHYR bore each melting tone,
That MELANCHOLY thought her own,
That frolic PLEASURE smil'd to hear,
And MADNESS welcom'd with a tear:
While VALOUR, rushing at the sound,
Dash'd his burning eye-balls round,
And as far off his shield he hurl'd
WITH NAKED BREAST DEFIED THE WORLD!
Scarce was the mystic strain begun,
When from his eastern tent the SUN
Leapt forth in arms,
And rear'd his crest sublime,
THE PROTOTYPE OF TIME!
How lovely then were NATURE'S CHARM
Glitt'ring OCEAN never ending,
Ruby ROCKS, and FORESTS bending,
Bending to the lawns below,
Where countless flow'rets countless tints bestow;
Wide LAKES their lucid mirrors spread,
Upon whose banks the white flocks fed,
And seem'd their silv'ry fleeces to adorn
With the last lustre of the moon of morn.
Art, alike transported straying,
Was her rival pow'r displaying;
O'er the sleek wave she bade a NUM'ROUS SAIL
Stretch'd the fair canvas to the wasting gale;—
[Page 227] From shelving hills triumphant CITIES rise,
And tow'rs and column'd domes usurp the skies;—
Bade meadows smile with many a cultur'd bow'r,
And bursting fountains toss the spangled show'r;
Such was the scene when the rapt maiden sung,
Ah, who shall tell the music of her tongue!
The undulation of the stream
Low murm'ring on the pebbly shores,
The warble of her fav'rite theme,
That PHILOMEL incessant pours,
From solitary, lov'd retreat,
When STAR-LIGHT drops a tissued veil
O'er the clear brook, and moisten'd dale;—
Such sounds, were never half so sweet,
As when SHE told, of roseate blisses,
Tender smiles and vermil kisses,
Nor half so thrilling Battle's call
That sends defiance from th' assaulted wall,
As when she told of HONOR'S merit,
Glories that the BRAVE inherit,
How, th' exulting breast, disdains
Selfish pleasures—selfish pains!
From couch where downy Peace had spread
A jasmine pillow for his head,
Borne upon translucent wings,
LOVE, the wanton Cherub springs;
[Page 228] And flutters round in mazy play,
Enthusiastic at the lay!
But soon he hies him to the cypress grove,
Where JEALOUSY retires to rove,
And chase soft slumbers from the virgin's brow,
And tell her timid heart of many a broken vow,
Then the BENIGN CONSOLER leads
Her fearful steps o'er fringed meads,
Where HOPE indulgent freely throws
Fresh ether from enchanted rose!
He brings her to the tear-bath'd stone,
Where, all repentant and alone,
In settled anguish of despair,
Her Lover lies—he brings her there!
And on quick pinion brushing by,
Breathes the languor of a sigh:
The Youth revives,—with eager bound,
Clasps his speechless Fair-one round,
While from her eye the swift drop rushes,
In vain to quench her burning blushes!
O now the Goddess of the potent lyre,
Proves at her heart the sympathetic sire,
Invokes the DRYAD and the FAWN,
The fabled people of each wood and lawn,
And those that in the bright stream lave
Their glossy breasts, or skim the occean wave,
She wooes them to the scene, to show
How near allied are BLISS AND WOE,
[Page 229] How sweetly powerful to move,
The silent sentiment of LOVE!
But soon the measure chang'd, and slow she draws
Her elegiac trill, with doleful sweep,
And at each sadly-penetrating pause,
Teaches the meek morality to weep.
She sung of those, to happiest fortune born,
Whose downcast looks a dire reverse reveal,
Who long, too long neglected and forlorn,
Had known to suffer, and had learnt to feel;
By ling'ring sorrow soften'd to excess,
Of many a genial consolation flown,
Who still regretted most, the pow'r to bless,
And others' pangs lamented as their own.
Of those, who oft, when Day's proud torch was sped,
Held wayward converse with the wintry wind,
Who found on some cold rock their craggy bed,
And met a season suited to their mind.
They, like the plant with vegetative sense,
That silent droops when touches rude annoy,
Shrunk from the pressure of a World's offence,
Yet gain'd from Pity what they lost of Joy.
[Page 230]
Of such as school'd in Life's sad scene, too well,
Had cherish'd scorn amid the wilds of woe,
Or charm'd by SUICIDE'S
opprobrious spell,
Had bar'd their bosoms to his tempting blow.
"And where (she cried) does mild Compassion stray,
Must
that fell tyrant grant alone relief,
Drive the wet crystal from their lids away,
* And close the bleeding artery of grief?"
Now more subdued, she sunk—a keener pain
Stole to her inmost feeling, for she thought
Of all the sacred melancholy train,
That ever here her inspiration caught,
From rugged CHAUCER, with uncouthest phrase,
To the chaste clasic race of later days.
And when on AVON'S BARD her Fancy dwelt,
Her bosom 'gan to heave, and glow, and melt,
For he was of her offspring dearest far,
In her own hemisphere the solar star.
Whether some strange horrific tale he wove,
Or shew'd the pangs, the exstacies of love,
Or pierc'd with daring wing the heavenly height,
And soar'd beyond the Theban eagle's flight,
Most EXCELLENT WAS HE—then, too, a tear
Dropp'd for her hallow'd DRYDEN'S injur'd bier;
[Page 231] And OTWAY, luckless OTWAY! sad she view'd,
Wither'd by deep distress, in anguish go
To Death's dark cavern, through the gates of woe;
And POPE, his strong unrival'd sense renew'd,—
And SPENSER shook a magic banner bright,
And sainted COLLINS came in meekness due,
"With sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light."
Nor was not MILTON mourn'd, unmatch'd!—To pour
Magnificently wild, the seraph lay!—
GOLDSMITH, and GRAY she wept, and gentle GAY—
And THOMSON, potent in description's pride—
Light PRIOR—solemn YOUNG—inventive AKENSIDE:
And all who on the calm, autumnal heath,
Had ever listen'd to her tuneful breath,
And bade from silver lute responsive measures fly;
For these she gave a retrospective sigh;
Nor wert thou then forgotten, hapless MORE!
*
[Page 232] Her last-lost son, dead in thy very prime!
Yet sure among the friends who wish'd thee well,
Sure one remains to tell
That thou could'st sing, "and build the lofty rhyme."
And that, if fate had kindly spar'd thy days,
Few would kave match'd, and none excell'd thy lays.
Sure
He may speak, who oft in TAPLOW'S grove,
With thee was wont the Summer noon to rove,
Or aid thee with his feath'ring oar, to guide
Thy buoyant skiff on Thames' meand'ring tide;
Or at thy social board delighted sit,
And watch the animation of thy wit,
Pleas'd when he heard thee boast the valued name
Of ELLIS,
* then prophetic of his fame.
He, who yet ling'ring on this weary scene,
Has never found thy equal; never known
A heart so pure, so gen'rous as thy own!
Who, when he saw thee borne across the green
To the cold grave, a helpless statue stood,
While the deep murmur of each neighb'ring wood,
In desolating language join'd
Sad unison with his distracted mind.
O! do not then, DEAR SHADE! the grief disdain,
That constant flows, altho' it flows in vain.
Now the strong meridian beam
Downward pours a fiercer stream,
[Page 233] And bounding o'er each russet hill,
MIRTH with LAUGHTER at his side,
In jovial freak, and careless pride,
Comes of sport to take his fill.
With eager step he seeks to measure
Ev'ry labyrinth of PLEASURE,—
Who, coy Nymph! abash'd appears,
And hides her in a veil of tears,
Such tears as oft at morning speed
To call to life the languid mead,
Or on the teeming harvest roll'd,
With pearls bedeck its wavy gold.
Yet alluring glances fly
From her soft enamour'd eye,
That soon discover, tho' she shun,—
She'd fain to his embraces run!
But again his course he changes,
And each varying landscape ranges,
Till amidst a wild of sweets,
The mighty QUEEN OF SONG he greets.
Then lowly bows the suppliant knee,
In well dissembled mockery,
While shaking LAUGHTER offers up,
Sweet liquor of Circean cup.
The Goddess taste—a sportive ray
Drives ev'ry mournful thought away,
And as the sad reflections go,—
Thus, her livelier numbers flow.
[Page 234]
" No longer my vot'ries shall desolate rave,
In the depth of the forest, or gloom of the grave,
But far diff'rent cares shall they hasten to prove
And press the rich grapes of the vintage of love.
Then let us not languish, my friends! tho' tis true,
That when you want others, they never want you,
Though pleasures will pass, yet the short time they
To shun them is
error, 'tis
sense to be
gay.
Does the full-moon less sweetly enamel the plain, stay,
Because she's inconstant, and destin'd to wane,
Or do flowers, when gather'd, less odour bestow,
Than those that are suffer'd to fade as they grow?
In the calm of enjoyment then think not of sorrow,
Nor brood on the storm that may threaten to-morrow."
She paus'd, for Genius wav'd his head,
And straight the wild illusion fled,
The fev'rish vapours from her brain depart,
And sober reason settles at her heart.
'Twas then obedient to her sov'reign's will,
She finds obtrusive rage her bosom fill,
On Folly's monster offspring darts her gaze,
Lifts a SATIRIC SCOURGE, and thus indignant says:—
" BRITAIN! behold a Sourc'ress is come forth,
Child of the Tropic heat, and frozen North,
[Page 235]
In whose dull breast contrasted evils jar,
And wage with Common Sense perpetual war,
Out-smiling truth, and e'en out-blushing shame,
She reigns and AFFECTATION is her name!
Lo! now methinks on yonder porcelain throne,
Glaz'd o'er in France, but all the dirt your own,
With mimic mien of majesty she sits,
And smirks, and prattles, and looks grave by fits,
Then seems so destitute of hope and fear,
As life itself, were nothing but a sneer.
And mark what crowds advance to swell her state,
In pompous nonsense miserably great;
Grim Doctors, Men of study, Men of gold,
The Moralizing Young, and Vicious Old,
And stale Coquets, with ogles feebly sent,
And musing Members of the Parliament!
See, see, how quick, how numerous they glide,
All unsubstantial as the rainbow's pride!
Like Banquo's shades before the King that past,
And each fresh fool more solemn to the last;
In their dear Idol's honor they declaim,
Poets unknown, and idiots with a name,
Slow-lab'ring logick, and discussion bare,
And Mangled Metaphor, alas! is there.
Pert Pun, quaint Epigram, smart Repartee,
And weak Conundrum, and loose Ribaldry;
While Blockheads praise, what livelier Blockheads spoke,
And nodding Nabobs analyze each joke
[Page 236] O MODEST LIT'RATURE! must thou too feel
Th' assassin vengeance of this tyrant's steel,
Must thou no longer, liberal and free,
Lose all thy nature's genuine dignity?
Catch ev'ry gewgaw of the vulgar tribe,
Thy same a mumm'ry! and thy bays, a bribe?
Must vain pretenders throng thy fair abode,—
And simp'ring Smatt'rers pen the patchwork ode?
Who tho' unschool'd, yet eager to prevail,
Snatch the glib Eel of Learning by the tail,
And as their filthy fingers smeer the rhyme,
Admire the gloss and glitter of the slime.
O scorn'd be those who each emotion hide
In lordly littleness, and pamper'd pride,
To Affectation raise alone their eyes,
Contrive their smiles and fabricate their sighs.
O scorn'd be such! but may the
true combine
T' attack th' enchantress, and deface her shrine,
To dart their arrows at her tinsel brow,
And lay the Necromantic monster low.
Then shall SIMPLICITY, sweet Maid! appear
Fresh with the blushes of the vernal year,
Her gen'rous impulse to mankind impart,
And own no law but nature, and the heart.
Till ev'ry wish still verging to one end,
Each object, virtue, and each man, a friend,
TRIUMPHANT REASON, shed its potent ray,
To drive distorted Prejudice away,
[Page 237] Cheer the lone hamlet, the gay court illume,
And BLESSING LIFE, BEATIFY THE TOMB!
Peace, peace, (the GODHEAD cries) nor more
Dwell on failings of this HAPLESS SHORE,
Observe the VIRTUES! still they rise—
In meek expansion to the skies!
See CHASTITY, with purest mien,
That loves to bless the rural scene,
And in CONTENT'S domestic bow'r,
To guard AFFECTION'S modest flow'r!
Here soft-ey'd PITY duly sends
Her tenderest look to solace woe,
And as a balmy wreath she blends,
Her silent sacred sorrows flow.—
Nor think that thou, DEAR NYMPH! alone
Canst call my influence thy own,
Though full of me,—in madd'ning trance,
When early Twilight's streaks advance,
By the clear fount, or shelt'ring wood,
By the loud torrent's foamy flood,
Thou lov'st to stray—or when the night-blasts sweep,
With pilgrim footsteps, wind the dreary steep,
There near some bending beech reclin'd,
While moral musings fill thy mind,
The world's best joys like meteors seem,
And all its boast a fading dream.
[Page 238] Though at thy mandate Nature rears
A wizard wand of hopes and fears,
That as she waves amid the blaze of day,
Wakes into birth—the sad—the gay—
And ev'ry jocund Phantom fair,
And ev'ry Spectre of despair.
Tho' such my hallow'd boon to thee;
Unnumber'd, rival vot'ries see!
In SCULPTURE, PAINTING; ev'ry ART
That charms the senses, or the heart,
And those who
form each passing age,
The impressive Children of the Stage.
Ah! let me not too proud! explain
The triumph of th' exalted train—
Long were the task, the flaming orb
Again his rising course might run,
Again the West his beams absorb,
Nor would the length'ning tale be done.
To naught confin'd I ever range
In wild propensity of change,
When first CREATION fill'd the void,
I, was the minister employ'd,
'T was
I, that fix'd yon central light,
And, bless'd with all its gems the night!
But WHAT ART THOU, who loit'ring near,
Where these mysterious forests low'r,
Giv'st to my tongue a list'ning ear,
And steal'st upon this sacred hour?
[Page 239] PRESUMPTUOUS BARD! think not, from me,
T' attract the glowing spark of energy,
Or with frail touch, and imitative tone,
To draw sweet numbers from thy tuneless lyre;
'Tis darkness all, unless
I lend my fire!
And MUSICK wakes at
my command alone.
FOND CHILD OF DUST! thy hopes forego,
And reconcile thy soul to woe!
But ne'er imagine that I bear a part,
In the deep anguish of thy struggling heart;
Nor idly look for FAME—her breath
IS FOUND BUT IN THE GALES OF DEATH!
She seeks the slumb'rous Raven's gloom,
To whisper o'er the lonely tomb!—
Deigning, at last, that praise to give,
Which none might e'er receive, and live!
HARD IS THE POET'S LOT!—in vain
He pours an inoffensive strain,
To cheer the Woodlark brooding on her nest,
Or sooth the secret sorrows of his breast;
Tho' but a Shepherd's song it flow,
In ev'ry vale he meets a foe,
While e'en amid the peasant throng,
Shalt hiss pale Envy's viper tongue!
Or could his pen, with strength sublime,
To high perfection lift the rhyme;—
[Page 240] Or teach instructive truth to doubly please,
With
* HESTER'S brilliant wit, and learned ease;
Still would DUIL MALICE shout around,
Still fix th' inevitable wound.—
Still would DETRACTION point the lance,
And bid her harpy sons advance.—
Rather, with weeds thy temples bind;
And mourn thy faults,—thy follies, past,—
Mourn thy rash youth,—that fled so fast,
And mourn the fever of thy mind:—
SUBMISSIVE YIELD TO STEDFAST FATE'S DECREE,
AND LEARN TO PITY BASE MALIGNITY!—
So, when I view thee at declining eve
Bathe thy hot bosom in the lunar tide,
Or near yon cataract hear thee grieve,—
Down my sad cheek, perchance, a tear shall glide."
HE SPOKE—AND DARTING UPWARDS FROM THE SIGHT,
SAIL'D THRO' TH' IMMENSE ABYSS AND VANISH'D INTO LIGHT!
[Page]
GOD OF THE BOW! how
blind art thou
Surely the fillet on thy brow
Is coarser wove, than was the case
When Mortals view'd thee face to face.
For well we know thine Eyes celestial,
When seen of old by Belles terrestrial,
Were deck'd with bandeau light and airy,
As might become a Summer Fairy.
Their soft blue orbs so slight were bound,
Thy piercing glance no
hind'rance found;
The Gossamour's transparent skin
Reposing on the lucid air,
Appear'd no longer light or thin,
If with thy veil it should compare.
Then was thy sight like Eagles' keen!
Nor Gods nor Men escap'd thine eye,
Nor cavern dark, nor beamy sky—
Nay,
Thoughts, scarce born, by thee were seen.
But now—oh dull of eye and heart!
Thou know'st not WHENCE Love's ardours start;
[Page 262] And when stiff **'s lines appear,
Thou whisper'st in my HENRY'S ear
That they are EMMA'S!!
HENRY believes—HENRY admires;
He thinks he sees his EMMA'S fires
Dart vig'rous through each labour'd page—
He
knows, and
feels her tender rage;
Then asks—"
And can a Man like me,
Call forth such Poetry in thee?"
Believing that the pen is mine,
He faints with rapturous pause, on each delusive line.
Thou, HENRY, ne'er canst learn the wounds I felt,
Whilst you, unconscious, such barbed Satire dealt.
Midst your fond praise, my pierc'd heart inly bled,
And shame bow'd down your EMMA'S sorrowing head.
What! to be lov'd for Wit I never own'd!
And by a STRANGER'S Verse to be dethron'd!
How did I hate the graces of her song—
The cluster'd sweets that round her soft lute throng;
Which like the Bees of Hybla's yellow woods,
Appear'd to pour their wealth in golden floods.
My fancy pictur'd richer notes than fell
From him of old, who to the verge of hell
[Page 263] Led forth the wife he lov'd;—but ah! when read,
Mad jealousy, and childish envy fled;
The harmless lines I saw, without one sigh,
And SMILING WONDER flash'd across my eye.
Mistaking HENRY look once more;
Again read **'s Verses o'er!
Should
I complain of love betray'd?
I, write like some forsaken Maid—
Whilst the warm blood within thy veins
Flows but for ME? Whilst EMMA reigns
Supreme within thy inmost soul,
And
distant, yet can still controul
Its inmost movements, and desires,
And knows HERSELF sole object of its fires
Should
She in dismal ditties mourn,
Whilst Love and Truth so brightly burn?
Mistaking HENRY, look once more—
Again read **'s Verses o'er!
Were
I the Poet,
Thou the theme,
Think'st thou like her's my Verse would gleam,
With sunny rays, and misty hills,
Any myrtle groves, and foamy rills?
Oh no, THYSELF—HENRY, Thyself alone
Should stand confest on Love's ETERNAL THRONE;
Round THEE the brightness of my Verse should shine,
Round THEE my living Lays for ever, ever twine!
[Page 264]
If
Verse descriptive warms thy heart,
If
that, bids throbs of Passion start,
I could seize Fancy's various clue;
Untired, her shifting steps pursue.
I'd call Night's Lamp a Chrystal Bow—
Bid her, her silv'ry shafts bestow
Upon the tufted emerald plain,
Or shower them o'er the shining main:
Or when the full orb'd jolly Moon
Rode dull, and thoughtless to her noon,
I'd swear she dress'd her white-lock'd hours
In choicest hue;—and call'd forth flow'rs
Of softer tint, and mild perfume,
Wove in her own translucent loom,
To deck the world o'er which she hung—
An amorous, ray-crown'd, hov'ring Dove!
But when all this is said or sung,
It is not, foolish HENRY, LOVE.
I'd bear thee to the mountain's height,
Rear'd, midst the sparkling dome of night;
Observe the Court of Heaven hung round
With drops of flame on azure ground;
Shew where bright VENUS rolls her car,
And where chill SATURN—monstrous Star!
Through thirty years drives torpid on,
And all these Summers counts as ONE.
[Page 265] Bid Thee regard almost with scorn
Our
trifling System;—where is borne
In fond Attraction's airy chain
THE MIGHTY PLANETARY TRAIN.
For oh, beyond that System's bounds—
Where that, in all its various rounds
Ne'er shed the faintest ray—
Where the vast Sun's unmeasur'd light
In rushing floods, in boundless flight,
Ne'er
imitated Day;
Far, far beyond new orbits trace
In wider heavens, in grander space,
Their gorgeous way in flame!
And these, again, in turn shall shrink,
Abash'd, amidst CREATION sink,
And hardly own a name.
All these may ADORATION move—
With strong Devotion touch the soul,
Bid Piety her incense roll—
But still, my HENRY, 'tis not LOVE.
In future know, when vagrant Verse
Shall any
other strain rehearse,
Though the rapt Pen may nicely blend
All TRUTH or FICTION e'er could lend
To elevate the Lay.
[Page 266] Though all APOLLO'S fire should seem
T' illume the Page with sacred beam,
And bless the Bard with bayes—
Yet, if LOVE thrills not in each turn,
Nor seems along the line to burn,
Nor gives each verse the touch divine—
They are not wrote to THEE, nor are their glories MINE.
[Page]
TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.
THOU art no more my bosom's Friend;
Here must the sweet delusion end
That charm'd my Senses many a year,
Through smiling Summers—Winters drear.
O FRIENDSHIP! am I doom'd to find
Thou art a Phantom of the Mind—
A glitt'ring Shade, an empty Name,
An air-born Vision's vap'rish Flame?
And yet the
dear Deceit so long
Has wak'd to joy my Matin Song,
Has bid my tears forget to flow,
Chas'd ev'ry Pain, sooth'd every Woe;
That TRUTH, unwelcome to my ear,
Swells the deep sigh, recals the tear,
Gives to the sense the keenest smart,
Checks the warm pulses of the heart,
Darkens my fate, and steals away
Each gleam of joy through life's sad day.
[Page 288]
BRITAIN, farewel! I quit thy shore;
My Native Country charms no more;
No guide, to mark the toilsome road,
No destin'd clime, no fix'd abode,
Alone and sad, ordain'd to trace,
The vast expanse of endless space;
To view upon the mountain's height,
Thro' varied shade of glimm'ring light,
The distant landscape fade away
In the last gleam of parting day;
Or in the quiv'ring lucid stream,
To watch the pale Moon's silver beam;
Or, when in sad and plaintive strains
The Mournful PHILOMEL complains,
In dulcet notes bewails her fate,
Deserted by a FAITHLESS MATE;
Inspir'd by Sympathy divine,
I'll weep her Woes—FOR THEY ARE MINE.
Driven by my fate, where-e'er I go,
O'er burning sands, o'er hills of snow;
Or on the bosom of the wave,
The howling tempest doom'd to brave;
Where-e'er my lonely course I bend,
Thy image shall my steps attend;
Each object I am doom'd to see,
Shall bid remembrance PICTURE THEE.
[Page 289]
Yes, I shall VIEW THEE in each flow'r
That changes with the transient hour;
Thy wand'ring fancy I shall find
Borne on the wings of every wind;
Thy wild impetuous passions trace,
O'er the white wave's tempestuous space;
In every changing season prove,
An emblem of thy wav'ring Love.
Torn from my Country, Friends, and YOU,
The world lies open to my view;
New objects shall my mind engage,
I will explore th' HISTORIC PAGE;
Sweet POETRY shall sooth my soul,
PHILOSOPHY each pang control;
The MUSE I'll seek—her lambent fire
My soul's quick senses shall inspire!
With finer nerves my heart shall beat,
Touch'd by Heav'n's own Promethean heat;
ITALIA'S gales shall bear my song
In soft-link'd notes her woods among;
Upon the blue hill's misty side,
Thro' trackless deserts, waste and wide;
O'er craggy rocks, whose torrents flow;
Upon the silver sands below;
Sweet LAND of MELODY, 'tis thine
The softest passions to refine;
[Page 290] Thy myrtle groves thy melting strains,
Shall harmonize and sooth my pains.
Nor will I cast one thought behind,
On
Foes relentless—
Friends unkind;—
I feel, I feel their poison'd dart
Pierce the life nerve within my heart,
'Tis mingled with the vital heat
That bids my throbbing pulses beat;
Soon shall that vital heat be o'er,
Those throbbing pulses BEAT
no more—
No!—I will breathe the spicy gale,
Plunge the clear stream, new health exhale;
O'er my pale cheek diffuse the rose,
And DRINK OBLIVION TO MY WOES!
[Page]
And Time, and Youth, and LOVE, must pass away.
Creech.
WHILST I danced gaily in the round
Of Folly, on her fairy ground;
And play'd, and sung, and laugh'd away
The feath'ry hours of Life's short day,
Thy INVOCATION, like the flame
Which starts from the Electric frame,
Struck on my heart! I figh'd, I turn'd,
And ANN A yet for DELLA CRUSCA mourn'd.
When wounded PRIDE suffus'd its blush,
And o'er my nerves its tremors rush.
Ne'er will I "
leave my secret bow'r,
To cheer thy melancholy hour."
Secure
within I will remain,
And smile at thy factitious pain;
And when thy Poetry so sweet
Shall next my wand'ring glances meet,
[Page 295] I'll spare a sigh to moments fled—
But ANNA shall to thee be dead.
See—to my couch I laughing turn—
Poetic Passions vainly burn!
The freshest Rose-leaves for my head
Shall form a blushing scented bed;
The elastic Camomile unprest,
Invite the sick'ning heart to rest.
FLORA shall ev'ry gift show'r round,
And bid her bright gems deck the ground,
The MYRTLE only there
Shall ne'er unfold its od'rous boughs,
Ne'er flaunt its blossoms fair,
Frail, and alluring as thy vows!
'Tis Love's devoted tree—
Oh! bid it seek some other home,
Nor spread its sweets for me,
Nor shed its poison round my Dome!
Hah! didst thou hope I should not trace
The
mental features of thy face?
Didst thou believe the thickest veil
Could DELLA CRUSCA'S brow conceal?
Oh! how impossible a task
To hide thy radiance in a mask!
Thy living fires destroy the skreen.
Thou stand'st consest!—thy form is seen.
[Page 296]
Yes, write to LAURA! speed thy sighs,
Tell her, her DELLA CRUSCA dies;
In sweetest measures sing thy woes,
And speak thy hot LOVE'S ardent throes;—
And when it next shall please thy heart
Towards some other Fair to start,
The gentle Maiden's vers'd in cures
For ev'ry ill, fond Love endures.
She
"drinks Oblivion" to its pains—
And vows to stain her pallid cheek
With juices of
red Grapes so sleek,
And sings adieus in Bacchanalian strains.
FALSE
Lover! TRUEST
Poet! now farewel!
Hark! in yon
Curfews sound is toll'd the knell
Of our departed Loves. The pensive tale
The surging aether floats across the vale;
The Elegiac sound sooths my sad ear,
And the moist lid sustains a trembling tear.
The crimson veil which deck'd yon mountain's brow,
And glided into gentlest tints, but now,
Already blackens down its swelling side,
And soon the beauties of the plain will hide—
The outstretch'd beauties! where salubrious toil
Calls food, and riches from the sterile soil.
O! wondrous magic! shall great Labour's name,
Remain unhallow'd by the voice of Fame?
[Page 297] CREATIVE LABOUR! whose all-bounteous hand
Drops flow'rs, and fruits, and forests o'er the land;
Who bids th' indented river curving fly,
Or fix, a silv'ry lake beneath the eye!
But these all sink before the falling Night,
Who tries to sezie the flitting beams of light,
But the proud light its am'rous touch eludes,
And a dim shadow o'er the landscape broods.
Soft drizzling rain, the patter'd trees confess,
And chilling breezes on my bosom press.
My hair, whose curls, late floated o'er my breast,
Weighty with moisture, clings around my vest—
Where—where's the hand to press those tresses dry,
The fond encircling arm, the cheering eye?
Why sigh the winds tumultuous thro' the woods.
Why weeps the Night in such impetuous floods?
It is the loss of DELLA CRUSCA'S Muse,
Which thus with sorrow every plant imbues;
For never shall again his "
Golden Quill,"
With magic passion ev'ry bosom thrill.
He yet may write, but ANNA 'twas alone
Lured down his guardian Goddess from her throne;
Who whilst she pour'd the richest of her store,
And charm'd his heart with bright poetic lore,
Phophetic, thus his future hist'ry read,
And wreath'd it in the laurels for his head:
[Page 298] "If false, thou e'er MATILDA'S heart should'st wring,
And to another nymph presume to sing,
My inspiration thou no more shalt know,
My fire in thee, no more divinely flow."
The Goddess spoke, her words were mark'd by fate,
And DELLA CRUSCA mourns his ANNA'S wrongs, too late!
ANNA MATILDA.
Feb. 26, 1789.
[Page]
—At her footstool stands
An altar burning with eternal fire,
Unsullied, unconsumed.
Akenside.
HEAVEN OF MY HEART! again I hear
Thy long-lost voice, but ah! the tear
Steals from my lids, and deadly pain
Creeps in cold langour thro' each gasping vein.
And can that mind I love so well,
Thy Soul's deep tone, thy Thought's high swell,
The proud poetic fervour, known
But in thy breast's prolific zone,
Can these combine to curse me? can that gaze,
In whose rich orb the FAIRY FANCY plays,
Thro' which, the charms that ART and NATURE show,
Spring to the judgment, and there brighter glow;
Can
that be chang'd to anger? canst thou doom
My future wish to dwell upon the tomb?
[Page 304] Canst thou, SO KEEN OF FEELING! urge my fate
And bid me mourn thee, yes, and MOURN TOO LATE?
O rash severe decree! my madd'ning brain
Cannot the pond'rous agony sustain,
But forth I rush, as varying Frenzy leads,
To cavern'd lakes, or to the diamond meads,
O'er which the sultry noon-beams wide diffuse,
And slake their eager thirst with lingering dews;
Or to yon sullen slope that shuns the light,
Where the black forest weaves meridian night,
Disorder'd, lost, from hill to plain I run,
And with my Mind's thick gloom obscure the Sun!
For naught to me, alas! can now avail
The fresh'ning vapours of the perfum'd dale,
The distant sea-waves' variegated green
Or the soft anguish of Night's eye serene,
They cannot yield
me comfort, tho' the Spring
Should shake spontaneous beauty from her wing,
Or guide my footsteps to th' enchanted lawn,
Where blushing pleasure hymns the birth of dawn.
Still would I pause to weep, still would I turn
From scenes like these, to th' neglected Urn
That mid some grove in solemn ruin lies,
And tells, how th' forsaken Lover dies!
There would I fondly clasp the broken stone,
And whisper ev'ry mental pang I've known,
Repeat the dread inexorable word,
That stern MATILDA spoke—MATILDA! most ador'd!
[Page 305]
When at the last year's close of May,
From thy sweet chains I burst away,
And dash'd my woe-worn Harp upon the ground,
Still in my flight Love's rapt'rous hope was found.
But now all soothing Hope is past; in vain
I check'd my progress on the midland main,
In vain to EUROPE'S CONTINENT I came,
Lur'd by the light of thy poetic flame,
In vain I bade my wandring toil be o'er,
And on MATILDA call'd with trembling tongue ONCE MORE.
And think'st thou, ANNA! that
my love,
Like
thine, could ever faithless prove,
That in some female REUBEN'S praise,
I the impassion'd verse could raise;
That
I so quickly led astray,
Could wake the warm inconstant lay?
No—
tho' conceal'd, I struck my lyre,
When by dull EVENING'S fading fire
Pale ECHO sat; who as she caught the sound,
Gave the week murmur to the woods around;
Yet, 'twas
thy Image fill'd my mind—
I heard a tuneful Phantom in the wind,
I saw it watch the rising Moon afar,
Wet with the weepings of the twilight Star,
Assiduous Zephyr told me it was thou,
And wond'ring, NOT DECEIV'D, I breath'd the friendly vow.
[Page 306]
If I have wrong'd thee, my hot tears
Shall melt thy rage, or flow for years;
For oh! till then my days shall go
In deep regret, unalter'd woe,
In mute reflection, heavy care,
And SOLITUDE'S supreme despair!
But still for thee my breast shall beat
With the most faithful honest heat;
Then save me, save me, let thy radiant smile
Again restore me, or again beguile;
With melting music calm my bosom's groan,
O deign to pity him, who loves but thee alone!
And whither shall I turn from thee?
For in thy absense all things fade;
FRIENDSHIP, I know, is but a glitt'ring shade,
A sweet deception—strange uncertainty!
Nor could AMBITION'S busy rage
An anguish such as mine assuage,
Vain must the world's best glories prove,
To fill the vacuum in the heart of love.
How
brightly spreads the op'ning flow'r!
What
beauteous life informs the bow'r!
How
fair the streams of curling silver glide!
How
rich the harvest waves its golden pride!
'Tis LIGHT'S creation all—when
that retires,
The pictures perish, and the charm expires.
So the faint colours of my mimic lays,
Drew their false lustre from MATILDA'S blaze;
[Page 307] But soon the tints shall vanish—'tis decreed,
And endless darkness come, if SHE recede.
THEN HEAR MY WORD, by that fierce Orb,
Whose flame scarce all the skies absorb,
By ev'ry winged blast that goes
To its full banquet on the Rose;
By truth, eternal, undefil'd,
By gentlest Sorrow's warblings wild;
By the gay tresses of the morn;
By Earth, and Sea, and Heaven, 'tis sworn,
That ne'er again this hand shall fling
Its feeble tremors to the string,
Till thou, MATILDA! bidst the measure pour,
Till then, THY DELLA CRUSCA WRITES no MORE.
DELLA CRUSCA.
March 16, 1789.
[Page]
AMBIGUOUS NATURE form'd the
female heart
So proud, capricious, cold and warm,
That much she fear'd her FIRST COMMAND
Inert would prove, throughout the land;
So gave the counteracting charm—
On
favour'd Man bestow'd sagacious ART.
Thus whilst my keen resentment flow'd,
Thy Vow upon my bosom glow'd;
Sage anger instant took her flight,
And from
thy muse a joy so bright
Diffus'd itself through all my veins,
That hanging o'er thy charming strains,
My lips spontaneously unclose,
And thus the
proud petition rose:—
"O! MONARCH of the Heaven-given lyre!
Thou, who the
Theban Peasant didst inspire
With radiant knowledge, and poetic taste,
To spread thy numbers o'er the flinty waste—
In my yet darker mind thy beam infuse,
And let me feel the high-inspiring muse:
[Page 309] Give me one spark of DELLA CRUSCA'S light,
Teach me like him to
think—to paint—to write!
Pour on my pen his rich abounding lay,
Which EARTH and HEAVEN sublimely can display.
Mark! how his varying touch makes ever new
Objects grown slat, on long accustom'd view;—
E'en TRUTH itself his pencil can command—
IMMUTABLE! she bends beneath his hand;
In
diff'ring characters she starts from rust,
Deck'd in OPPOSING colours; yet opposing, JUST,"
Thus as I pray'd, unwelcome slumbers came,
But lively, wakeful thought remain'd the same—
And to APOLLO'S
Temple led my feet,
The same ambitious wishes to repeat.
With downcast eyes I near the Altar kneel,
And sacred fervours on my bosom steal;
My folded hair devoutly I unbound,
And dash'd my once-proud lauress on the ground.
My robes, more white than the soft down which flies
O'er
thistled deserts, thro' autumnal skies,
Wide, o'er the tesselated pavement flow'd;
And round, the everlasting tapers glow'd:
Again I utter forth my fond desire,
But 'midst the incense my proud hopes expire.
The
Poean'd GOD now shook his beamy throne,
And through the dome indignant radiance shone;
"
Presumptuous ANNA!" was the stern reply
From HIM, who rolls day's orbit through the sky,
[Page 310] "The mighty boon thou'st ask'd shall ne'er be thine;
PARNASSUS
hear! record the oath divine!
Yet more—to punish thy aspiriring hope
Which led thee with MY CHOSEN SON to cope,
The small—small portion of celestial flame
Thou stol'st from him of the immortal name,
Hence MOULDERS!—fades upon thy darken'd soul,
Nor leaves one spark, thro' the chill void to roll."
Shock'd at my fate, my ready lids unclose,
And the
harsh vision from my pillow rose!
Oh, barb'rous vision! which I live to rue—
For tho' a dream thou wert—my doom is true;
APOLLO'S just decree too sure I feel,
And on my spirit torpid languors steal.
Hah! what avails my DELLA CRUSCA'S vow?
Poetic ardors fly me now!
What! tho' the ROSE'S
morning blush
Rivals the Western clouds, which rush
To mix their crimson with the gold
That round the SINKING SUN
is roll'd;—
What! tho' MAY'S
Zephyrs in the groves,
Attentive to the harmonious loves
Of the bewitching feather'd race,
Forget to breathe on EARTH'S
moist face;—
What! tho' the blossoms in the mead,
Beneath the heifer's fragrant tread,
Exude soft balm upon the wind,
And all their mingled sweets unbind;
[Page 311] Yet shall
sad ANNA never know
The boundless sweets which round her flow.
Whether the MOUNTAIN'S
breath I drink,
Or midst the Vale's embroid'ry sink,—
FANCY no more will aid the scene,
Nor flutter o'er me on the Green.
With liquid step when the pure stream
Dancing, shall thro' its borders gleam;
When FLORA from her
rainbow wing
Shall shake the tints which from the spring,
When music wanders 'midst the shade,
When perfumes AIR'S
blue sea pervade,
A WINTER o'er my mind will spread,
Nor tints, nor scents, nor liquid streams be read.
HAPLESS MY FATE! unoccupy'd, unblest
Sick'ning with ease—
hating the tasteless rest—
Whilst LAURA still may dress the lay
In all the lustre of the day;
With such sweet pensiveness complain,
That mortals are in love with pain;
For, ah! it falls like APRIL'S
snow
Upon the Crocus' purple glow;
Soft, as the flutt'rings of the fainting gale,
Oppress'd by LEO, flaming o'er the vale!
But shall not DELLA CRUSCA sue
For her who to HIS MUSE is true?
[Page 312]
For ONE who round her heart hath wreath'd
All the rich strains he ever breath'd;—
Will HE not strive to break th' avenging rod?—
Oh fly,
thou Poet blest, AND STRUGGLE WITH THE GOD!
ANNA MATILDA.
PARIS,
March 29, 1789.
[Page]
O WE HAVE MET, and now I call
On yon dark clouds that as they fall,
Sweep their long show'rs across the plain,
Or mingle with the clam'rous main.
Alas! I call them here, to pour
Around my head that gather'd store,
While the loud gales which speed away
To the far edge of weeping day,
Mid the tumultuous gloom shall bear
On their wet wings my sigh'd despair.
OF LATE—where confluent torrens crash,
I paus'd to view the mazy dash
Of waters, shattering in the twilight beam;
While oft my wand'ring eye would trace
The distant forest's solemn grace.
As o'er its black robe hung the tawny gleam.
Nor
then on joys gone by, my Mem'ry dwelt,
Nor all the pangs which wounded Friendship felt;
[Page 314] But ANNA, tho'
unknown, usurp'd my mind,
Alone she claim'd the tributary tear,
For ev'ry solace, ev'ry charm combin'd
In the sweet madd'nings of her song sincere.
Sudden I turn—for from a young grove's shade,
Whose infant boughs but mock th' expecting glade,
Sweet sounds stole forth—upborne upon the gale,
Press'd thro' the air, and broke amidst the vale.
Then silent walk'd the breezes of the plain,
Or lightly wanton'd where the corn flow'r blows,
Or 'mongst the od'rous wild-thyme sought repose,
Or soar'd aloft and seiz'd the hov'ring strain.
As the fond Lark, whose clear and piercing shake
Bids Morning on her crimson bed awake,
Hears from the greensward seat his fav'rite's cry,
Drops thro' the heav'ns, and scorns the glowing sky:
So I,
soul-touch'd, th' impetuous Cat'ract leave,
And almost seem th' etherial waste to cleave,
Allur'd entranc'd, I rush amidst the wood,
AND THERE THE SOFT MUSICIAN CONSCIOUS STOOD:
Ah! 'twas no visionary Fair,
Imagination's bodied air
That now with strong illusion caught,
Mental
creations fled my thought,
A
living Angel bless'd my sight,
Strung ev'ry nerve to new delight,
[Page 315] With joy's full tide bedew'd my cheek,
'Twas ANNA'S self I saw, NOR HAD I POW'R TO SPEAK.
O then I led her to the woven bow'r,
Where slept the Woodbine's shelter'd flow'r,
Where bending o'er the Violet's bed
The Rose its liquid blushes shed;
While near the feather'd Mourner flung
Such plaints from his enamour'd tongue,
That all subdued at my MATILDA'S feet
I sunk, but with an agony more sweet,
Than favour'd mortal e'er before had proved,
Or ever yet
conceiv'd unless like
me he loved.
SHE SPOKE, but O! no sound was heard
Of the wanton, rapt'rous bird,
That climbs the morning's upmost sky,
When first the golden vapours fly;
But fainter was the moving measure,
Than the Linnet's noontide leisure
Lets the sultry breezes steal—
Dar'st thou, my tongue! the tale reveal?
"ILL-FATED BARD!" she cried, "whose length|'ning grief
Had won the pathos of my lyre's relief,
For whom, full oft, I've loiter'd to rehearse
In phrenzied mood the deep impassion'd verse,
[Page 316] Ill-fated Bard! from each frail hope remove,
And shun the certain Suicide of Love:
Lean not to me,
th' impassion'd verse is o'er,
Which chain'd thy heart, and forc'd thee to adore:
For O! observe where haughty Duty stands,
Her form in radiance drest, her eye severe,
Eternal Scorpions writhing in her hands
To urge th' offender's unavailng
tear!
Dread Goddess, I obey!
Ah! smooth thy awful terror-striking brow,
Hear and record MATILDA'S
sacred vow!
Ne'er will I quit th' undeviating LINE,
Whose SOURCE THOU
art, and THOU
the LAW DIVINE.
The Sun shall be subdued, his system fade,
Ere I forsake the path thy FIAT
made;
Yet grant one soft regretful tear to flow,
Prompted by pity for a Lover's woe,
O grant, without REVENGE,
one bursting sigh,
Ere from his desolating grief I fly.—
'Tis past,—Farewel! ANOTHER
claims my heart,
Then wing thy sinking steps, for here we part,
WE PART!
and listen, for the word is MINE,
ANNA MATILDA NEVER CAN BE THINE!"
She ceas'd, and sudden like an evening wind
Rushing, some prison'd tempest to unbind,
And all regardless of the scenes it leaves,
Skimming o'er bending blooms, and russet sheaves,
[Page 317] MATILDA
fled! the closing Night pursu'd,
And the cold INGRATE
scarce I longer view'd;
Her form grew indistinct—each step more dim,
And now a distant vapour seems to swim,
Her white robe glistens on my eye no more,
Its strainings are all in vain—THE FOND DELUSION'S O'ER.
*
MY SONG SUBSIDES, yet ere I close
The ling'ring lay that feeds my woes,
Ere yet forgotten DELLA CRUSCA runs
To torrid gales, or petrifying suns,
Ere bow'd to earth my latest feeling flies,
And the big passion settles on my eyes;
O may this sacred sentiment be known,
That my adoring heart is ANNA'S OWN;
YES, ALL HER OWN, and tho' ANOTHER claim
Her mind's rich treasure, still
I love the same;
And tho' ANOTHER, O how blest! has felt
Her soften'd soul in dear delirium melt,
While from her gaze the welcome meaning sprung,
As on her neck in frantic joy he hung,
Yet I
will bear it, and tho' Hell deride,
My pangs shall
sooth, my curse shall be my pride.
Nor can HE boast like me; O no, HE found
The tranquillizing balm that cures the wound;
HE never knew the loftier bliss, to rave,
Without a pow'r to aid, a chance to save;
[Page 318] HE never bath'd him in the Nightshade's dew,
Nor drank the pois'nous meteors as they flew,
Nor told his rending story to the Moon,
Link'd with the demons of her direst noon;
HE never
smil'd Distraction's ills to share,
Nor gain'd th' exalted glory of despair.
Then be it HIS, for many a year t' enfold
Those charms, and wanton in her curls of gold,
Drain the sweet fountain of her eye's fond stream,
And fancy suff'rance but the wretch's
dream;
While
I will prove that I deserve my fate,
Was born for anguish, and was form'd for hate.
With such transcendent woe will breathe my sigh,
That envying fiends shall think it ECSTACY,
And with fierce taunts my cherish'd griess invade,
Till on my pow'rless tongue the last "MATILDA" fade.
DELLA CRUSCA.
June 16, 1789.