Stanza VII.—Line 358.
“The hollow blast of Süankos’ shell.”
The Süankos cannot properly be called a war instrument, although in the earlier ages of Persia, and even perhaps in Ismael’s time, it was made use of for that purpose. It is at present often used as a trumpet, for sounding an alarm, or a signal. Its tones are deep and hollow.
TO
LADY C . . . . . L . . .,
Who, at the Private Races given by Lord D——, set a noble example of humanity and feeling; when a poor man being much hurt, she had him conveyed to her carriage, and interested herself most anxiously in his recovery.
Written at Fifteen.
Daughter of Feeling, Queen of Love,
’Tis to thee these lines are due,
With all the beauty of the dove,
Hast thou then her nature too!
Though formed in Woman’s purest mould;
Though form’d ’mid crowds and courts to shine;
Though in thy pow’r to stand enroll’d,
The boast of M . . . . .’s favour’d line:
Yet has that hand which kings might prize,
Deign’d to relieve the poor man’s wo,10
Yet have those all-subduing eyes,
With Pity’s dew-drop deign’d to flow.
Thy guardian angel hov’ring near,
Soar’d upwards with that deed of thine,
And as he dropt the applauding tear,
Wrote down the name of C . . . . ..
TO LADY W . . .,
PLAYING ON THE HARP, ACCOMPANIED BY HER VOICE.
Written Extempore, at the Age of Fifteen.
Cease, cease, in pity cease your lay;
Would you melt the soul away?
And, while such rapture you impart,
Thrill the ear, but steal the heart?
Must every Godhead bring some grace,
To aid th’ enchantment of your face?
Must Venus give the beauty warm?
Must Pallas mould the radiant form?
Must Jove his lightnings yield, and sigh
To see them melting in your eye?10
But not, alas! with these content,
To make us all your vot’ries bent,
Oh, must Apollo too inspire,
To burn our bosoms, all his fire?
AN ODE
TO THE MUSE OF VERSE.
Irregular,
Written at Fourteen.
O come, thou Goddess ever fair,
Who lov’st to braid thy golden hair
With many a wreath of laurel bright,
From old Parnassus’ sacred height!
Whither, beneath some time-devoted tow’r,
Thou lov’st to pass the solitary hour;
And slowly-solemn pour along the pensive verse,
Or the bright deeds of chivalry rehearse;
And view by fairy Fancy’s magic sway,
Old deeds long done, and years long past away.10
Or, if beneath some spreading tree,
Thou lov’st the sounds of jollity;
And, with thy laughing song, to raise
The rural dance’s sportive maze;
While, oft attracted by thy song,
Nymphs and satyrs join the throng,
And interweaving at the sound,
Lightly skim the verdant ground;
While every bird, on every tree,
Is lull’d to catch the melody:20
And e’en the zephyr’s wanton gale,
Moves not a leaf amid the dale,
But folds his wings, and creeping near,
Imbibes the notes with ravish’d ear;
And when is broke the silver tone,
When Rapture’s fled, and thou art gone,
Still, still, he linger’s o’er the scene
Where Poesy divine has been,
And strives again, though vainly, to rehearse
The fire of Music, and the soul of Verse.30
Or by rose-embalm’d bow’r, or murmuring stream,
If Love, king of passions, inspires thy theme;
That blessing the purest, to man, from above,
They gave us all, all, in that blessing of love.
Oh still let me hov’ring nigh,
Strive to catch the heav’nly fire,
When with wildly-beaming eye,
Glancing upward to the sky,
As if to seize the spirit there,
Thy tresses streaming to the air,40
Thou strik’st the hallow’d lyre.
Oh who can tell the heart’s ecstatic play,
So sweetly pensive, so sublimely pure,
When wand’ring far from world’s disgusting lure,
The Muse bewitching wafts the soul away.
In sickness, pain, or care, or strife,
In all the woes that wait on life,
Thy pow’r can soothing balm impart,
And lull to sleep the breaking heart.
Come then, Goddess, if from high,50
E’er thou’st heard thy vot’ry sigh,
Come, and o’er my ravish’d soul
Hold thy soft, thy sweet control!
O let me soar on Fancy’s wing,
Where Piërus pours his sacred spring,
And while such joys divine thy pow’r can give,
Beneath thy reign, O ever let me live!
ODE TO A POKER.
Written at Thirteen Years Old.
Hail, blithsome wand, and bring with thee,
Dancing mirth, and airy glee!
When the laughing jest goes round,
And sparkling wit’s enliv’ning sound;
By the fire, thy cheerful mien
On winter’s dark’ning eve is seen.
Oft thy gladsome stirs inspire
Strains from Bard’s poetic lyre;
Of winning love, or times of old;
Of courtly dames, and barons bold;10
Or some high deed of ancient knight,
Achiev’d in tournament, or fight.
Oft, when ’gainst the echoing shore,
The hail-drops beat, the tempests roar,
Shelter’d from the raging storm,
The trav’ller warms his cold-pinch’d form.
With thee in hand, derides the rain,
Beating down the glassy pane.
Oft when, at some ghostly tale,
With fear, each ruddy cheek is pale;20
And half-asham’d, and half-dismay’d,
They startle at each other’s shade;
And fancying, that the ghost they saw,
Around the fire they nearer draw;
Then, perhaps, some hoary sire
Stirs, with thee, the waning fire;
And every eye, now grown more bold,
Explores the curtain’s mystic fold,
Where just before, by terror’s aid,
They saw the spectre’s gliding shade;30
And laughing at each other’s fears,
Again the wonted blush appears.
And oft, when talk has ebb’d apace,
And melancholy shewed her face;
Thy spirit-rousing aid once more,
Renew’d the pleasure lost before.
Friendship, love, and all that life
Yields to cheer this scene of strife,
Courting oft thy fairy pow’r,
Gaily pass the jovial hour,40
While joy and mirth new blessings bring,
And care, awhile, forgets her sting.
TO K . . . .
THE SEAT OF MRS. ——
Written at Fifteen Years Old.
Hail, lofty domes, hail, venerable place,
The noble dwelling of a nobler race.
High on an hill, thy stately fabric rears
Its ancient summit, mark’d by rolling years;
By woods surrounded, and by fertile fields,
Thy cultur’d soil abundant plenty yields.
Here, giant groves in sweeping grandeur rise,
There, lengthen’d prospects meet th’ admiring eyes.
But thou, who gazest on yon graceful dome,
That seems to rival e’en the works of Rome,10
Where blooms life’s fading emblem, yonder rose,
’Tis there, the ashes of the dead repose!
Oh pause thou there, this awful lesson learn,
“That dust thou art, to dust shalt thou return.”
Now from the heav’ns, the queen of twilight grey,
Mellows each object with her silvery ray.
’Tis silence all!—’tis that lone pensive hour,
When Fancy reigns in all her magic pow’r,
When o’er the poet’s lull’d, enraptur’d soul,
She holds her sweet, her undefin’d control!20
K . . . ., how chang’d from those old feudal hours,
When minstrel’s music echoed through thy tow’rs;
When steel-clad knights rode forth in glorious pride,
And led their troops to combat by their side.
Or at their castles tournaments proclaim,
And enter lists, to gain the wreath of fame.
From beauty’s hand receive the valued meed,
While plauding shouts approve the martial deed.
And when the gath’ring shades of eve would call
Our great forefathers to the festive hall,30
There, in vast bowls, the grape’s rich liquor pour’d,
And wholesome viands smok’d along the board;
Such as were wont an hero’s hall to grace,
Ere yet, refinement reach’d our hardy race;—
Ere yet, we learn’d, from nations we subdued,
To spurn at Freedom’s hospitable food.
To every lip the joyous toast went round,
And frolic laughter gambol’d o’er the ground;
While from the lofty gallery swell’d the lays,
Of some past deed of old heroic days;40
Perhaps of Britain’s sable chief, who bore
His conq’ring standard to the Gallic shore.
Perhaps of R . . . . .[9], gallant knight! who led
His country’s warriors to his country’s aid!
Perhaps they sung the softest, brightest fire,
That ever yet has burst from minstrel’s lyre.
Almighty love, whose sigh-inflated sail
Wafts, more than bliss, on ev’ry halcyon gale.
How warlike Henry[10] joy’d to lay aside
The glare of rank, the pageantry of pride:50
At beauty’s feet, he cast his regal pow’r,
And sought for smiles at Rosamond’s lov’d bow’r:
Ah! hapless Rosamond, condemn’d to prove
The penalty, that waits on lawless love!
But now, “the bashful virgin’s sidelong” glance
Delights her partner in the mazy dance.
And he, who foremost in the lists that day,
Bore the rich prize of martial fame away;—
Whose crest shone proudest of the youthful band,
With joy, receives the fairest lady’s hand.60
The old look on, and seem again to share
In each light movement of the graceful pair;
Or talk of deeds long done, of years gone by;
Of many an ancient feat of chivalry.
While each proud banner, won in glory’s cause,
The spoils of conquest, seem’d to wave applause.
See, in yon nook, retir’d, the love-sick youth
Pays his fond vows of ever-lasting truth;
While the soft maiden’s blushing looks reveal
A tale so dear, that love alone can feel!70
K . . . ., ere yet the hand of taste around,
Display’d the charms with which thy scenes are crown’d,
The drooping dryads of thy proud domain,
Of cold neglect, proclaim’d the ruin’d reign.
Thy falling fabric seem’d in vain to moan,
Its glories tarnish’d, and its beauties gone:
The weed’s rank verdure overspread the hearth,
So late the scene of hospitable mirth;—
The moss’s velvet, and the violet’s blue,
In wild luxuriance o’er the pavements grew;—80
Here bloom’d each flowret which the fields impart,
The charms of Nature o’er the wrecks of art.
Then, then, arose the last of all her race,
To join each pow’r, her native house to grace;—
Again to raise the beauties of thy pile,
With added lustre, make her K . . . . smile;—
Again thy halls, the graceful dance shall bear,
And heav’nly music charm the thrilling ear;—
Again thy doors shall open to receive
The lordly noble, and the poor relieve;—90
Again shall taste and elegance impart
Each varied scene, to charm the captive heart.
Mayst thou, the lov’d possessor, find repaid,
By Friendship’s smile, the works thy hand has made;
And mayst thou long live happy, to retrace
The faded honours of thy ancient race;
May virtue still her fairest flow’rs entwine,
To form a wreath to grace the . . . . . line.
ON FRIENDSHIP.
Written at Fourteen Years Old.
Hail, star of love, hail, offspring of the skies!
That gilds our day, when darken’d storms arise;—
’Tis thou that blunts affliction’s bitter dart,
And turns the wound, averted from the heart.
In all the changes that await mankind,
In all the woes we here are doom’d to find,—
Thy hand, amid a world of care and strife,
Scatters fresh roses o’er the paths of life.
’Tis not the fawning flatt’rer’s ready praise,
Whose word is honey, but whose word betrays.10
For, ah! while happiness yet gilds each hour,
Ere yet adversity’s dark tempests low’r,
Like flies in summer, basking in the ray
Of prosp’rous sunshine, in thy golden day:
Many thy followers, who pollute the name,
With sordid lips, of hallow’d Friendship’s flame:
But if thy sun, by gath’ring clouds o’erspread,
Retract its beams—those followers all are fled,—
Not one remains of that late num’rous horde,19
Who swore thee friendship, round thy genial board.
From scenes like this, with stern indignant eye,
True Friendship wings her rapid flight:—on high
She views the venal slaves of guilt and gold,
Purchas’d by int’rest, and by int’rest sold;
Whom dark Dishonour, by the Stygian shore,
An hideous progeny, to Mammon bore;
Hypocrisy receiv’d them at their birth,
And, nurs’d by her, they issued into earth.
Friendship’s soft pow’r, mild as the vernal gale
That floats at eve o’er Tempè’s peaceful vale;30
Holds her vast rule, unbounded by control,
O’er the wide realms of the capacious soul;
And spurns the limits of the little mind,
To narrow thoughts, and mean ideas confin’d.
For he, alone, can taste her purest streams—
He, he, alone, can feel her warmest beams,
Whose breast ennobled, and whose soul refin’d,
Display the treasures of an heav’n-taught mind;
Enrich’d with every virtue, that can lend
Her pow’rful aid, to form a perfect friend;40
Proud in the pride which dignifies the heart,
That scorns deceit, and spurns each baser art;
In whose high front, and spirit-rousing eye,
Bright honour beams in all her majesty;—
Sublimely humble, virtuously bold,
Unmov’d by flatt’ry, and unbrib’d by gold.
Vot’ries like this, can feel her pow’r sublime,
Begun by virtue, and matur’d by time;—
Vot’ries like this, once reverenced her laws,
And prov’d them worthy of so great a cause.50
Oh! ye twin stars[11], who grace the spangled sphere,
When night’s dark shadows o’er the heav’ns appear;
And ye, bright patterns of her sacred reign[12],
Who bound the tyrant in her silver chain!
And thou, O Salem’s king[13], whose heav’n-taught lyre,
In sacred strains, Jehovah deign’d t’ inspire;
And all ye ancient vot’ries of her name,
Be ye the mighty witness of the same!
Ah! now how changed!—for scarce one ling’ring trace
Proves us descendants of our former race;60
All things degen’rate! e’en the present times
Shall seem ennobled, by our future crimes.
True Friendship, now, appears but as a dream,—
Th’ historian’s subject, or the muse’s theme.
Long might we search, and long might search in vain,
Him, who, to save his friend a moment’s pain,
Would set the world and all its charms, at nought;
And think, e’en life was far too dearly bought.
What venal lips now utter Friendship’s name,
And strive to counterfeit her heav’nly flame;70
How few the souls, o’er whom she deigns to reign;
And, ah! how few would bear her silver chain!
For her swift wing, like Love’s, disdains all ties,
O’er boundless seas and trackless deserts flies;
And scorns those barriers, which th’ ignoble prize.
Oh! thou soft soother of our earthly wo,
Grant, from my heart thy precious streams to flow!
For what is grief, or pain, or cank’ring care,
When ev’ry pang, another seeks to share.
And when our night of sorrow glides away,80
And joy, returning, gilds the opening day;
Ah! what avails it, if no friendly heart
Bears, in that joy, a sympathizing part:—
For, as the laurel, (through the winter’s gloom,
When all her leafy rivals cease to bloom,
And when each drooping tree, by nature bound,
No longer waves its foliage o’er the ground,)
Maintains her verdure unimpair’d, and green,
And shines conspicuous mid the icy scene:
So does true Friendship, in misfortune’s hour,90
When wint’ry storms o’er life’s gay sunshine low’r;—
When false pretenders, base, and servile band,
Chill at the touch of fortune’s alter’d wand;
So does she cheer the solitary scene,
Glows ever-warm, and blossoms ever-green.
IRREGULAR LINES.
Written at Fifteen Years Old.
There’s not a heart, whose inward shrine
Reflects one throb that rouses mine!
That when young Pleasure rises high,
Can give the smile to Friendship dear;
When Sorrow prompts the speaking sigh,
Can waft its answer,—on the tear.
And yet the world can freely share,
In boist’rous mirth, in vulgar care:—
Albeit it marvels, when the soul
Escapes its tinsell’d, vain control,10
To joy, or weep alone.
For, ah! how few, alas! can find
One dear, one sympathizing mind,
In un’son with their own.
I’ve stood in crowds, where all was gay,
Where Pleasure held her roseate sway;
And there, mid hundreds met to show’r
Fresh flowrets o’er the laughing hour;
I’ve stood, and felt that lonely feel,
As keen, as cold, as piercing steel,20
Which whispers,—What to thee, this crowd?
The vulgar great, the reckless proud?—
On whose unvaried, smiling face,
Not one congenial thought you trace.
There, nought but pleasure seems to shine,
Like o’er the snow, the sun of spring,
There ev’ry heart seems glad;—but thine
Is cold, and sear’d, and withering.
Oh, yes! unknowing, and unknown,
Mid circling throngs—thou art alone!30
But why, oh, why! should I complain?
Before me life extends her plain,
Which Hope, and Fancy lend their pow’rs,
To gild with gold, or deck with flow’rs.
What! though mid all the crowds of state,
My wayward heart is desolate;
Yet oft, I’ve felt the spirit’s play,
That wafts from earth the soul away;
When the calm eye, or musing ear,
Gives nought of life, or motion near;40
To gaze upon the heav’ns, so still, so fair,
(Oh, who can feel a grief, while gazing there?)
To mark, when night extends her sable reign,
Th’ unnumber’d worlds of that ethereal plain,
Till snatch’d from earth, the soul appears to spring
To those high realms, on Rapture’s hallow’d wing.
To change the view!—To note the spreading scene,
The mountain’s grandeur, or the valley’s green;
Or mark the murm’ring riv’let’s wavy blue
Catch, from the skies, their own harmonious hue;50
And (as the moonlight o’er the water throws,
The light that, like the virgin, trembling glows,)
To hear, in thought, th’ aërial Sylphids sweep
Their wings of sapphire o’er the beaming deep:
While the old oak-tree, blasted by the storm,
Spreads o’er the waves its venerable form;
And the hoarse breeze, that, whisp’ring, rushes near,
Gives wild, unearthly music to the ear,
Till Fancy shews the Druids’ ancient train,
Strike their bold harps, and slowly sweep the plain.
Or, if the roaring tempest courts the sight;—61
For scene or dread, or gentle, can delight
The lofty soul;—how sweet, on some sear’d rock,
To mark the warring element’s rough shock;
To smile unmov’d, while bursting thunders roll,
And the red flames of lightning flash the pole;
And calm, uninjur’d, mid the blazing storm,
Like some proud tow’r, to rear the godlike form.
Then, while the conflict fierce he joys to scan,
Man well can feel the majesty of man.70
Yet this, when all the spirits beam,
In loveliest, loftiest, holiest mood,
The world’s vain, heartless vot’ries deem,
The cheerless gloom of solitude.
What! is it Solitude to hold
Rich commune with the soul’s high pow’r?
To mark its various buds unfold,
The bloom, the beauty of the flow’r?
What! is it Solitude to trace,
The hand of heav’n in Nature’s face?80
’Tis then the rising breast can throw
Its deathless essence, far from aught
That savours of the world below;
And, with the beings rear’d by thought,
Can oft converse in Fancy’s shrine,
Until it feels an heav’n-born ray,
Around in mystic beamings play,
And mix a something half-divine.
Oh! ’tis not Solitude!—’tis more
Than life—than earth—than all can give;90
’Tis on the wings of heav’n to soar—
’Tis in the land of bliss to live.
STANZAS TO LYRA.
Written at Fifteen Years Old.
The hour for love, in all its bliss,
In all its purity of truth,
Is, when time prints his earliest kiss
Upon the open brow of youth;—
When all the heart is on the sigh,
That love has never heav’d before;
When the soft language of the eye
Tells all the rising bosom’s core.
Yes, yes, my Lyra, love like mine,
Form’d in the orient dawn of day,10
That spark of ecstasy divine,
Time never, never can decay.
Yes, I may rove from flow’r to flow’r,
Yes, I may sip the roseate dew,
But still, believe me, ev’ry hour,
The heart will turn to love, and you!
Whene’er you mark man’s darken’d hue,—
Whene’er you hear him swear to prove,
For ever, to your beauties, true,
Believe him not!—he cannot love!20
But, when yon view the glance of shame,
But, when you catch the falt’ring tone
Of youth, first warm’d to passion’s flame,
Oh! that is love,—and love alone!