Poems

by Samuel Rogers

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY

Sweet MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail,
To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours.
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.
Ages and climes remote to Thee impart
What charms in Genius, and refines in Art;
Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell,
The pensive portress of her holy cell;
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.
The friends of Reason, and the guides of Youth,
Whose language breath’d the eloquence of Truth;
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught
The great in conduct, and the pure in thought;
These still exist, by Thee to Fame consign’d,[^[21]]
Still speak and act, the models of mankind.
From Thee sweet Hope her airy colouring draws;
And Fancy’s flights are subject to thy laws.
From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows,
Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows.
When Joy’s bright sun has shed his evening ray,
And Hope’s delusive meteors cease to play;
When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close,
Still thro’ the gloom thy star serenely glows;
Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night
With the mild magic of reflected light.
The beauteous maid, that bids the world adieu,
Oft of that world will snatch a fond review;
Oft at the shrine neglect her beads,
to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face,
Forgot, when first a father’s stern controul
Chas’d the gay visions of her opening soul:
And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell
Bursts thro’ the cypress-walk, the convent-cell,
Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive,
To love and joy still tremblingly alive;
The whisper’d vow, the chaste caress prolong,
Weave the light dance and swell the choral song;
With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade,
And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade,
To each soft note return as soft a sigh,
And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly.
But not till Time has calm’d the ruffled breast,
Are these fond dreams of happiness confest.
Not till the rushing winds forget to rave,
Is Heav’n’s sweet smile reflected on the wave.

From Guinea’s coast pursue the lessening sail,
And catch the sounds that sadden every gale.
Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there;
Mark the fixt gaze, the wild and frenzied glare,
The racks of thought, and freezings of despair!
But pause not then—beyond the western wave,
Go, view the captive barter’d as a slave!
Crush’d till his high, heroic spirit bleeds,
And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes.
Yet here, ev’n here, with pleasures long resign’d,
Lo! MEMORY bursts the twilight of the mind:
Her dear delusions sooth his sinking soul,
When the rude scourge presumes its base controul;
And o’er Futurity’s blank page diffuse
The full reflection of her vivid hues.
’Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more,
Then will he wake on Congo’s distant shore;
Beneath his plantain’s antient shade, renew
The simple transports that with freedom flew;
Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows,
And quaff the palm’s rich nectar as it glows;
The oral tale of elder time rehearse,
And chant the rude, traditionary verse;
With those, the lov’d companions of his youth,
When life was luxury, and friendship truth.
Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate?
Hers what no wealth can win, no power create!
A little world of clear and cloudless day,
Nor wreck’d by storms, nor moulder’d by decay;
A world, with MEMORY’S ceaseless sun-shine blest,
The home of Happiness, an honest breast.
But most we mark the wonders of her reign,
When Sleep has lock’d the senses in her chain.
When sober Judgment has his throne resign’d,
She smiles away the chaos of the mind;
And, as warm Fancy’s bright Elysium glows,
From Her each image springs, each colour flows.
She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend!
Oft seen o’er sleeping Innocence to bend,
In that dead hour of night to Silence giv’n,
Whispering seraphic visions of her heav’n.
When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round
With humble wares and pipe of merry sound,
From his green vale and shelter’d cabin hies,
And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies;
Tho’ far below the forked lightnings play,
And at his feet the thunder dies away,
Oft, in the saddle rudely rock’d to sleep,
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep,
With MEMORY’S aid, he sits at home, and sees
His children sport beneath their native trees,
And bends, to hear their cherub-voices call,
O’er the loud fury of the torrent’s fall.
But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell?
Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell?
Each fiery flight on Frenzy’s wing restrain,
And mould the coinage of the fever’d brain?
Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies,
There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies!
He, whose arresting hand sublimely wrought
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought;
And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw
Forms ever fair, creations ever new!
But, as he fondly snatch’d the wreath of Fame,
The spectre Poverty unnerv’d his frame.
Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore;
And Hope’s soft energies were felt no more.
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art![^[22]]
From the rude wall what bright ideas start!
Ev’n now he claims the amaranthine wreath,
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe!
And whence these scenes, these images, declare.
Whence but from Her who triumphs o’er despair?

Awake, arise! with grateful fervor fraught,
Go, spring the mine of elevating thought.
He, who, thro’ Nature’s various walk, surveys
The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays;
Whose mind, prophan’d by no unhallow’d guest,
Culls from the crowd the purest and the best;
May range, at will, bright Fancy’s golden clime,
Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime,
Or wake the spirit of departed Time.
Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral muse,
A blooming Eden in his life reviews!
So rich the culture, tho’ so small the space,
Its scanty limits he forgets to trace.
But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky,
Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh![^[23]]
The weary waste, that lengthen’d as he ran,
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span!
Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind,
By truth illumin’d, and by taste refin’d?
When Age has quench’d the eye and clos’d the ear,
Still nerv’d for action in her native sphere,
Oft will she rise—with searching glance pursue
Some long-lov’d image vanish’d from her view;
Dart thro’ the deep recesses of the past,
O’er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast;
With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.
So thro’ the grove the impatient mother flies.
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries;
Till the light leaves the truant boy disclose,
Long on the wood-moss stretch’d in sweet repose.
Nor yet to pleasing objects are confin’d
The silent feasts of the reflecting mind.
Danger and death a dread delight inspire;
And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire,
When, richly bronz’d by many a summer-sun,
He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done.
Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea’s glorious pile;
And ask the shatter’d hero, whence his smile?
Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich—Go,
And own what raptures from Reflection flow.
Hail, noblest structures imag’d in the wave!
A nation’s grateful tribute to the brave.
Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail!
That oft arrest the wondering stranger’s sail.
Long have ye heard the narratives of age,
The battle’s havoc, and the tempest’s rage;
Long have ye known Reflection’s genial ray
Gild the calm close of Valour’s various day.
Time’s sombrous touches soon correct the piece,
Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease:
A softer tone of light pervades the whole,
And steals a pensive languor o’er the soul.
Hast thou thro’ Eden’s wild-wood vales pursued[^[24]]
Each mountain-scene, majestically rude;
To note the sweet simplicity of life,
Far from the din of Folly’s idle strife:
Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, rever’d
That modest stone which pious PEMBROKE rear’d;
Which still records, beyond the pencil’s power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour;
Still to the musing pilgrim points the place,
Her sainted spirit most delights to trace?
Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride,
O’er his dead son the gallant ORMOND sigh’d.[^[25]]
Thus, thro’ the gloom of SHENSTONE’S fairy grove,
MARIA’S urn still breathes the voice of love.
As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower
Awes us less deeply in its morning hour,
Than when the shades of Time serenely fall
On every broken arch and ivy’d wall;
The tender images we love to trace,
Steal from each year a melancholy grace!
And as the sparks of social love expand,
As the heart opens in a foreign land;
And, with a brother’s warmth, a brother’s smile,
The stranger greets each native of his isle;
So scenes of life, when present and confest,
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast;
Yet not an image, when remotely view’d,
However trivial, and however rude,
But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh,
With every claim of close affinity!
But these pure joys the world can never know;
In gentler climes their silver currents flow.
Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day,
When the hush’d grove has sung its parting lay;
When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car,
Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star;
Above, below, aerial murmurs swell,
From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell!
A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light.
Stealing soft music on the ear of night.
So oft the finer movements of the soul,
That shun the sphere of Pleasure’s gay controul,
In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise,
And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies!

Once, and domestic annals tell the time,
(Preserv’d in Cumbria’s rude, romantic clime)
When nature smil’d, and o’er the landscape threw
Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue,
A blithe and blooming Forester explor’d
Those loftier scenes SALVATOR’S soul ador’d;
The rocky pass half hung with shaggy wood,
And the cleft oak flung boldly o’er the flood;
Nor shunn’d the path, unknown to human tread,
That downward to the night of caverns led;
Some antient cataract’s deserted bed.
High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose,[^[26]]
And blew his shrill blast o’er perennial snows
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar,
Gaz’d on the tumbling tide of dread Lodoar;
And thro’ the rifted cliffs, that scal’d the sky,
Derwent’s clear mirror charm’d his dazzled eye.[^[27]]
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,
Thro’ morn’s gray mist its melting colours gave;
And, o’er the cygnet’s haunt, the mantling grove
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove.
Light as the breeze that brush’d the orient dew:
From rock to rock the young adventurer flew;
And day’s last sunshine slept along the shore,
When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore.
Imbowering shrubs with verdure veil’d the sky,
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye;
Save when a bright and momentary gleam
Glanc’d from the white foam of some shelter’d stream.
O’er the still lake the bell of evening toll’d,
And on the moor the shepherd penn’d his fold;
And on the green hill’s side the meteor play’d;
When, hark! a voice sung sweetly thro’ the shade.
It ceas’d—yet still in FLORIO’S fancy sung,
Still on each note his captive spirit hung;
Till o’er the mead a cool, sequester’d grot
From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot.
A crystal water cross’d the pebbled floor,
And on the front these simple lines it bore:

Hence away, nor dare intrude!
In this secret, shadowy cell
Musing MEMORY loves to dwell,
With her sister Solitude.
Far from the busy world she flies,
To taste that peace the world denies.
Entranc’d she sits; from youth to age,
Reviewing Life’s eventful page;
And noting, ere they fade away,
The little lines of yesterday.

FLORIO had gain’d a rude and rocky seat,
When lo, the Genius of this still retreat!
Fair was her form—but who can hope to trace
The pensive softness of her angel-face?
Can VIRGIL’S verse, can RAPHAEL’S touch impart
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tend’rer tints that shun the careless eye,
And in the world’s contagious climate die?
She left the cave, nor mark’d the stranger there;
Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air
Had breath’d a soft enchantment o’er his soul!
In every nerve he felt her blest controul!
What pure and white-wing’d agents of the sky,
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy,
Inform congenial spirits when they meet?
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet!
FLORIO, with fearful joy, pursued the maid,
Till thro’ a vista’s moonlight-checquer’d shade,
Where the bat circled, and the rooks repos’d,
(Their wars suspended, and their councils clos’d)
An antique mansion burst in awful state,
A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate.
Nor paus’d he there. The master of the scene
Saw his light step imprint the dewy green;
And, slow-advancing, hail’d him as his guest,
Won by the honest warmth his looks express’d,
He wore the rustic manners of a ’Squire;
Age had not quench’d one spark of manly fire;
But giant Gout had bound him in her chain,
And his heart panted for the chase in vain.
Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing power!
Wing’d with delight Confinement’s lingering hour.
The fox’s brush still emulous to wear,
He scour’d the county in his elbow-chair;
And, with view-halloo, rous’d the dreaming hound,
That rung, by starts, his deep-ton’d music round.
Long by the paddock’s humble pale confin’d,
His aged hunters cours’d the viewless wind:
And each, with glowing energy pourtray’d,
The far-fam’d triumphs of the field display’d:
Usurp’d the canvas of the crowded hall,
And chas’d a line of heroes from the wall.
There slept the horn each jocund echo knew.
And many a smile and many a story drew!
High o’er the hearth his forest-trophies hung,
And their fantastic branches wildly flung.
How would he dwell on the vast antlers there!
These dash’d the wave, those fann’d the mountain-air.
All, as they frown’d, unwritten records bore,
Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.

But why the tale prolong?—His only child,
His darling JULIA on the stranger smil’d.
Her little arts a fretful sire to please,
Her gentle gaiety, and native ease
Had won his soul; and rapturous Fancy shed
Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red.
But ah! few days had pass’d, ere the bright vision fled!
When evening ting’d the lake’s ethereal blue,
And her deep shades irregularly threw;
Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove,
Down by St. Herbert’s consecrated grove;[^[28]]
Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper’d rite
Amus’d the fisher’s solitary night:
And still the mitred window, richly wreath’d,
A sacred calm thro’ the brown foliage breath’d.
The wild deer, starting thro’ the silent glade,
With fearful gaze their various course survey’d.
High hung in air the hoary goat reclin’d,
His streaming beard the sport of every wind;
And, while the coot her jet-wing lov’d to lave,
Rock’d on the bosom of the sleepless wave;
The eagle rush’d from Skiddaw’s purple crest,
A cloud still brooding o’er her giant-nest.
And now the moon had dimm’d, with dewy ray.
The few fine flushes of departing day;
O’er the wide water’s deep serene she hung,
And her broad lights on every mountain flung;
When lo! a sudden blast the vessel blew,[^[29]]
And to the surge consign’d the little crew.
All, all escap’d—but ere the lover bore
His faint and faded JULIA, to the shore,
Her sense had fled!—Exhausted by the storm,
A fatal trance hang o’er her pallid form;
Her closing eye a trembling lustre fir’d;
’Twas life’s last spark—it flutter’d and expir’d!
The father strew’d his white hairs in the wind,
Call’d on his child—nor linger’d long behind:
And FLORIO liv’d to see the willow wave,
With many an evening-whisper, o’er their grave.
Yes, FLORIO liv’d—and, still of each possest,
The father cherish’d, and the maid caress’d!
For ever would the fond enthusiast rove,
With JULIA’S spirit, thro’ the shadowy grove;
Gaze with delight on every scene she plann’d,
Kiss every flowret planted by her hand.
Ah! still he trac’d her steps along the glade,
When hazy hues and glimmering lights betray’d
Half-viewless forms; still listen’d as the breeze
Heav’d its deep sobs among the aged trees;
And at each pause her melting accents caught,
In sweet delirium of romantic thought!
Dear was the grot that shunn’d the blaze of day;
She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray.
The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell,
Murmur’d of JULIA’S virtues as it fell;
And o’er the dripping moss, the fretted stone,
In FLORIO’S ear breath’d language not its own.
Her charm around the enchantress MEMORY threw,
A charm that sooths the mind, and sweetens too!
But is Her magic only felt below?
Say, thro’ what brighter realms she bids it flow;
To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere,[^[30]]
She yields delight but faintly imag’d here:
All that till now their rapt researches knew,
Not call’d in slow succession to review;
But, as a landscape meets the eye of day,
At once presented to their glad survey!
Each scene of bliss reveal’d, since chaos fled,
And dawning light its dazzling glories spread;
Each chain of wonders that sublimely glow’d,
Since first Creation’s choral anthem flow’d;
Each ready flight, at Mercy’s smile divine,
To distant worlds that undiscover’d shine;
Full on her tablet flings its living rays,
And all, combin’d, with blest effulgence blaze.
There thy bright train, immortal Friendship, soar;
No more to part, to mingle tears no more!
And, as the softening hand of Time endears
The joys and sorrows of our infant-years,
So there the soul, releas’d from human strife,
Smiles at the little cares and ills of life;
Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its showers;
As at a dream that charm’d her vacant hours!
Oft may the spirits of the dead descend
To watch the silent slumbers of a friend;
To hover round his evening-walk unseen,
And hold sweet converse on the dusky green;
To hail the spot where first their friendship grew,
And heav’n and nature open’d to their view!
Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees
A smiling circle emulous to please;
There may these gentle guests delight to dwell,
And bless the scene they lov’d in life so well!
Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share
From Reason’s dawn each pleasure and each care;
With whom, alas! I fondly hop’d to know
The humble walks of happiness below;
If thy blest nature now unites above
An angel’s pity with a brother’s love,
Still o’er my life preserve thy mild controul,
Correct my views, and elevate my soul;
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind,
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resign’d;
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise,
Whose blameless wishes never aim’d to rise,
To meet the changes Time and Chance present,
With modest dignity and calm content.
When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest,
Thy meek submission to thy God express’d;
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave,
Its hope in death, its triumph o’er the grave?
The sweet Remembrance of unblemish’d youth,
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth!
Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumber’d treasures shine!
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway!
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope’s summer-visions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,
Lo, Fancy’s fairy frost-work melts away!
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light;
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!

NOTES ON THE FIRST PART.

[1] Up springs at every step to claim a tear,
I came to the place of my birth, and cried, “The friends of my Youth, where are they?”—And an echo answered, “Where are they?” From an Arabic MS.

[2] Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
When a traveller, who was surveying the ruins of Rome, expressed a desire to possess some relic of its antient grandeur, Poussin, who attended him, stooped down, and, gathering up a handful of earth shining with small grains of porphyry, “Take this home,” said he, “for your cabinet; and say boldly, Questa è Roma Antica.”

[3] The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep;
Every man, like Gulliver in Lilliput, is fastened to some spot of earth, by the thousand small threads which habit and association are continually stealing over him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is here alluded to.
When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to emigrate, “What!” they replied, “shall we say to the bones of our fathers, Arise, and go with us into a foreign land?”—Hist. des Indes, par Raynal, vi. 21.

[4] So, when he breath’d his firm yet fond adieu,
See COOK’S first voyage, book i. chap. 16.
Another very affecting instance of local attachment is related of his fellow-countryman Potaveri, who came to Europe with M. de Bougainville.—See LES JARDINS, chant, ii.

[5] So Scotia’s Queen, &c.
Elle se leve sur son lict, et se met a contempler la France encore, et tant qu’elle peut. BRANTÔME, i. 140.

[6] Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire.
To an accidental association may be ascribed some of the noblest efforts of human genius. The Historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire first conceived his design among the ruins of the Capitol; and to the tones of a Welsh harp are we indebted for the Bard of Gray.—GIBBON’S Hist. xii. 432.—Mem. of Gray, sect. iv. let. 25.

[7] Hence home-felt pleasure, &c.
Who can sufficiently admire the affectionate attachment of Plutarch, who thus concludes his enumeration of the advantages of a great city to men of letters; “As to myself, I live in a little town; and I choose to live there, lest it should become still less,”—Vit. Demosth.

[8] For this young FOSCARI, &c.
He was suspected of murder, and at Venice suspicion is good evidence. Neither the interest of the Doge, his father, nor the intrepidity of conscious innocence, which he exhibited in the dungeon and on the rack, could procure his acquittal. He was banished to the island of Candia for life.
But here his resolution failed him. At such a distance from home he could not live; and, as it was a criminal offence to solicit the intercession of any foreign prince, in a fit of despair he addressed a letter to the Duke of Milan, and intrusted it to a wretch whose perfidy, he knew, would occasion his being remanded a prisoner to Venice.

[9] And watch and weep in ELOISA’S cell.
The Paraclete, founded by Abelard, in Champagne.

[10] ’Twas ever thus. As now at VIRGIL’S tomb
Vows and pilgrimages are not peculiar to the religious enthusiast. Silius Italicus performed annual ceremonies on the mountain of Posilippo; and it was there that Boccaccio, quasi da un divino estro inspirato, re-solved to dedicate his life to the muses.

[11] So TULLY paus’d amid the wrecks of Time.
When Cicero was quæstor in Sicily, he discovered the tomb of Archimedes by its mathematical inscription.
Tusc. Quæst. v. 3.

[12] Say why the pensive widow loves to weep.
The influence of the associating principle is finely exemplified in the faithful Penelope, when she sheds tears over the bow of Ulysses. Od. xxi. 55.

[13] If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild
The celebrated Ranz des Vaches; cet air si chéri des Suisses qu’il fut défendu sous peine de mort de la jouer dans leurs troupes, parce qu’il faisoit fondre en larmes, deserter Ou mourir ceux qui l’entendoient, tant il excitoit en eux l’ardent désir de revoir leur pays. ROUSSEAU.
The maladie de pays is as old as the human heart. JUVENAL’S little cup-bearer,

Suspirat longo non visam tempore matrem,
Et casulam, et notes tristis desiderat hædos.

And the Argive, in the heat of battle,

Dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.

[14] Say why VESPASIAN lov’d his Saline farm.
This emperor, according to Suetonius, constantly passed the summer in a small villa near Reate, where he was born, and to which he would never add any embellishment; ne quid scilicet oculorum consuetudini deperiret. SUET. in Vit. Vesp. cap. ii.
A similar instance occurs in the life of the venerable Pertinax, as related by J. Capitolinus. Posteaquam in Liguriam venit, multis agris coemptis, tabernam pater-nam, manente formâ priore, infinitis ædificiis circun-dedit.—Hist. August. 54.
And it is said of Cardinal Richelieu, that, when he built his magnificent palace on the site of the old family chateau at Richelieu, he sacrificed its symmetry to preserve the room in which he was born.
Mém. de Mlle, de Montpensier, i. 27. An attachment of this nature is generally the characteristic of a benevolent mind; and a long acquaintance with the world cannot always extinguish it.
“To a friend,” says John Duke of Buckingham, “I will expose my weakness: I am oftener missing a pretty gallery in the old house I pulled down, than pleased with a saloon which I built in its stead, though a thousand times better in all respects.” See his Letter to the D. of Sh.
Such were Diderot’s Regrets sur sa vieille Robe de Chambre. “Pourquoi ne avoir pas gardée? Elle étoit faite a moi; j’etois fait a elle.—Mes amis, gardez vos vieux amis.”
This is the language of the heart; and will remind the reader of that good-humoured remark in one of Pope’s letters—“I should hardly care to have an old post pulled up, that I remembered ever since I was a child.” POPE’S Works, viii. 151.
Nor did the Poet feel the charm more forcibly than his Editor.
See HURD’S Life of Warburton, 51, 99.
The elegant author of Telemachus has illustrated this subject, with equal fancy and feeling, in the story of Alibée, Persan.

[15] Why great NAVARRE, &c.
That amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry the Fourth of France, made an excursion from his camp, during the long siege of Laon, to dine at a house in the forest of Folambray; where he had often been regaled, when a boy, with fruit, milk, and new cheese; and in revisiting which he promised himself great pleasure. Mém. de SULLY, ii. 381.

[16] When DIOCLETIAN’S self-corrected mind
Diocletian retired into his native province, and there amused himself with building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is deservedly celebrated. He was solicited by that restless old man to re-assume the reins of government, and the Imperial purple. He rejected the temptation with a smile of pity, calmly observing, “that if he could shew Maximian the cabbages which he had planted with his own hands at Salona, he should no longer be urged to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for the pursuit of power.” GIBBON, ii. 175.

[17] Say, when contentious CHARLES renounc’d a throne,
When the emperor Charles V. had executed his memorable resolution, and had set out for the monastery of St. Justus, he stopped a few days at Ghent, says his historian, to indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visiting the place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and objects familiar to him in his early youth. ROBERTSON, iv. 256.

[18] Then did his horse the homeward track descry.
The memory of the horse forms the ground-work of a pleasing little romance of the twelfth century, entitled, “Lai du Palefroi vair.” See Fabliaux du XII Siecle.
Ariosto likewise introduces it in a passage full of truth and nature.
When Bayardo meets Angelica in the forest,
……..Va mansueto a la Donzella,
…………………………….
Ch’in Albracca il servìa già di sua mano.
ORLANDO FURIOSO, canto i. 75.

[19] Sweet bird! thy truth shall HARLEM’S walls attest.
During the siege of Harlem, when that city was reduced to the last extremity, and on the point of opening its gates to a base and barbarous enemy, a design was formed to relieve it; and the intelligence was conveyed to the citizens by a letter which was tied under the wing of a pigeon. THUANUS, lib. lv, c. 5.
The same messenger was employed at the siege of Mutina, as we are informed by the elder Pliny. Hist. Nat. x. 37.

[20] Hark! the bee, &c.
This little animal, from the extreme convexity of her eye, cannot see many inches before her.

NOTES ON THE SECOND PART.

[21] These still exist, &c.
There is a future Existence even in this world; an Existence in the hearts and minds of those who shall live after us. It is in reserve for every man, however obscure; and his portion, if he be diligent, must be equal to his desires. For in whose remembrance can we wish to hold a place, but such as know, and are known by us? These are within the sphere of our influence, and among these and their descendants we may live evermore.
It is a state of rewards and punishments; and, like that revealed to us in the Gospel, has the happiest influence on our lives. The latter excites us to gain the favour of GOD; the former to gain the love and esteem of wise and good men; and both lead to the same end; for, in framing our conceptions of the DEITY, we only ascribe to Him exalted degrees of Wisdom and Goodness.

[22] Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art!
The astronomer chalking his figures on the wall, in Hogarth’s view of Bedlam, is an admirable exemplification of this idea. See the RAKE’S PROGRESS, plate 8.

[23] Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh! The following stanzas are said to have been written on a blank leaf of this Poem. They present so affecting a reverse of the picture, that I cannot resist the opportunity of introducing them here.

Pleasures of Memory!—oh supremely blest,
And justly proud beyond a Poet’s praise;
If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast
Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays!
By me how envied!—for to me,
The herald still of misery,
Memory makes her influence known
By sighs, and tears, and grief alone:
I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong
The vulture’s ravening beak, the raven’s funeral song.
She tells of time mispent, of comfort lost,
Of fair occasions gone for ever by;
Of hopes too fondly nurs’d, too rudely cross’d,
Of many a cause to wish, yet fear to die;
For what, except th’ instinctive fear
Lest she survive, detains me here,
When “all the life of life” is fled?—
What, but the deep inherent dread,
Lest she beyond the grave resume her reign,
And realize the hell that priests and beldams feign?

[24] Hast thou thro’ Eden’s wild-wood vales pursued
On the road-side between Penrith and Appelby there stands a small pillar with this inscription:
“This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2nd of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 4£. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2nd day of April for ever, upon the stone-table placed hard by. Laus Deo!”
The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland, and rises in the wildest part of Westmoreland.

[25] O’er his dead son the gallant ORMOND sigh’d.
Ormond bore the loss with patience and dignity: though he ever retained a pleasing, however melancholy, sense of the signal merit of Ossory. “I would not exchange my dead son,” said he, “for any living son in Christendom.” HUME, vi. 340. The same sentiment is inscribed on Miss Dolman’s urn at the Leasowes.
Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari, quam tui meminisse!

[26] High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose.
This bird is remarkable for his exultation during the spring.
Brit, Zoology, 266.

[27] Derwent’s clear mirror
Keswick Lake in Cumberland.

[28] Down by St Herbert’s consecrated grove.
A small island covered with trees, among which were formerly the ruins of a religious house.

[29] When lo! a sudden blast the vessel blew.
In a lake surrounded with mountains, the agitations are often violent and momentary. The winds blow in gusts and eddies; and the water no sooner swells, than it subsides. See BOURN’S Hist, of Westmorland.

[30] To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere,
The several degrees of angels may probably have larger views, and some of them he endowed with capacities able to retain together, and constantly set before them, as in one picture, all their past knowledge at once. LOCKE on Human Understanding, b. ii, c. x. g.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

Villula,……….et pauper agelle,
Me tibi, et hos unâ mecum, et quos semper amavi,
Commendo.