TEARS
OF
SCOTLAND.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.
I.
Mourn, hapless caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more,
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoaky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
II.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime,
Thro' the wide spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.
IV.
The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more shall chear the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains, but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
V.
Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons, against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.
VII.
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Resentment of my country's fate,
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow,
"Mourn, hapless caledonia, mourn
"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."
AN ELEGY.
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.
The Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefather's of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joy, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory, lead but to the grave.
Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault,
If memory to these no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desart air.
Some village-hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood:
Some mute inglorious milton here may rest,
Some cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes
Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply,
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to dye.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Still in their ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
'Brushing with hasty dews away,
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
'His listless length at noontide wou'd he stretch,
'And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
'Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
'Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
'The next with dirges due in sad array,
'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
'Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
'There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,
'By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found;
'The red-breast loves to build and warble there,
'And little footsteps lightly print the ground.
THE EPITAPH.
"Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
"A youth to fortune and to fame unknown:
"Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
"And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
"Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
"Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:
"He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear;
"He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
"No farther seek his merits to disclose,
"Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
"(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
"The bosom of his father and his God.
ON THE DEATH OF
FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.
WRITTEN AT PARIS, BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNT
STORMONT, OF CH. CH. OXON.
Little I whilom deem'd my artless zeal
Should woo the British Muse in foreign land
To strains of bitter argument, and teach
The mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding verge
And oozy current of Parisian Seine,
To syllable new sounds in accents strange.
But sad occasion calls: who now forbears
The last kind office? who but consecrates
His off'ring at the shrine of fair Renown
To gracious frederic rais'd; tho' but compos'd
Of the waste flourets, whose neglected hues
Chequer the lonely hedge, or mountain slope?
Where are those hopes, where fled th' illusive scenes
That forgeful fancy plan'd, what time the bark
Stem'd the salt wave from Albion's chalky bourn?
Then filial Piety and parting Love
Pour'd the fond pray'r; "Farewell, ye less'ning cliffs,
"Fairer to me, than ought in fabled song
"Or mystic record told of shores Atlantic!
"Favour'd of heav'n, farewell! imperial isle,
"Native to noblest wits, and best approv'd
"In manly science, and advent'rous deed!
"Celestial Freedom, by rude hand estrang'd
"From regions once frequented, with Thee takes
"Her stedfast station, fast beside the throne
"Of scepter'd Rule, and there her state maintains
"In social concord, and harmonious love.
"These blessings still be thine, nor meddling fiend
"Stir in your busy streets foul Faction's roar;
"Still thrive your growing works, and gales propitious
"Visit your sons who ride the watry waste;
"And still be heard from forth your gladsome bow'rs
"Shrill tabor-pipes, and ev'ry peaceful sound.
"Nor vain the wish, while george the golden scale
"With steady prudence holds, and temp'rate sway.
"And when his course of earthly honours run,
"With lenient hand shall frederic sooth your care,
"Rich in each princely quality, mature
"In years, and happiest in nuptial choice.
"Thence too arise new hopes, a playful troop
"Circles his hearth, sweet pledges of that bed,
"Which Faith, and Joy, and thousand Virtues guard.
"His be the care t' inform their ductile minds
"With worthiest thoughts, and point the ways of honour.
"How often shall he hear with fresh delight
"Their earnest tales, or watch their rising passions
"With timorous attention; then shall tell
"Of justice, fortitude and public weal,
"And oft the while each rigid precept smooth
"With winning tokens of parental love!"
Thus my o'erweening heart the secret stores
Of Britain's hope explor'd, while my strain'd sight
Pursued her fading hills, till wrapt in mist
They gently sunk beneath the swelling tide.
Nor slept those thoughts, whene'er in other climes
I mark'd the cruel waste of foul oppression,
Saw noblest spirits, and goodliest faculties,
To vassalage and loathsome service bound.
Then conscious preference rose; then northward turn'd
My eye, to gratulate my natal soil.
How have I chid with froward eagerness
Each veering blast, that from my hand witheld
The well known characters of some lov'd friend,
Tho' distant, not unmindful? Still I learn'd
Delighted, what each patriot plan devis'd
Of arts, or glory, or diffusive commerce.
Nor wanted its endearment every tale
Of lightest import. But oh! heavy change,
What notices come now? Distracted scenes
Of helpless sorrow, solemn sad accounts;
How fair augusta watch'd the weary night
Tending the bed of anguish; how great george
Wept with his infant progeny around;
How heav'd the orphan's and the widow's sigh,
That follow'd frederic to the silent tomb.
For well was frederic lov'd; and well deserv'd:
His voice was ever sweet, and on his steps
Attended ever the alluring grace
Of gentle lowliness and social zeal.
Him shall remember oft the labour'd hind,
Relating to his mates each casual act
Of courteous bounty. Him th' artificer,
Plying the varied woof in sullen sadness,
Tho' wont to carrol many a ditty sweet.
Soon too the mariner, who many moons
Has counted, beating still the foamy surge,
And treads at last the wish'd-for beach, shall stand
Appall'd at the sad tale, and soon shall steal
Down his rough cheek th' involuntary tear.
Be this our solace yet, all is not dead;
The bright memorial lives: for his example
Shall Hymen trim his torch, domestic praise
Be countenanc'd, and virtue fairer shew.
In age succeeding, when another george,
To ratify some weighty ordinance
Of Britain's peers conven'd, shall pass beside
Those hallowed spires, whose gloomy vaults enclose,
Shrouded in sleep, pale rows of scepter'd kings,
Oft to his sense the sweet paternal voice
And long-remember'd features shall return;
Then shall his generous breast be new inflam'd
To acts of highest worth, and highest fame.
These plaintive strains from albion far away,
I lonely meditate at even-tide;
Nor skill'd nor studious of the raptur'd lay;
But still remembring oft the magic sounds,
Well-measur'd to the chime of Dorian lute,
Or past'ral stop, which erst I lov'd to hear
On Isis' broider'd mead, where dips by fits
The stooping osier in her hasty stream.
Hail wolsey's spacious dome! hail, ever fam'd
For faithful nurture, and truth's sacred lore,
Much honour'd parent! You my duteous zeal
Accept, if haply in thy laureat wreath
You deign to interweave this humble song.
ON THE SAME.
BY MR. JAMES CLITHEROW OF ALL SOULS COLL.
I.
'Twas on the evening of that gloomy day,
When frederic, ever lov'd, and ever mourn'd,
(Such heav'n's high will, and who shall disobey?)
To earth's cold womb in holy pomp return'd:
II.
With sullen sounds, the death-denouncing bell
Proclaim'd aloud the dismal tale of woe,
The pealing organ join'd the solemn knell,
In mournful notes, majestically slow.
III.
The full-voic'd choir, in stoles of purest white,
With frequent pause, the soul-felt anthem raise;
While o'er the walls in darkest sable dight,
A thousand tapers pour'd their holy blaze.
IV.
In high devotion wrapt, the mitred sage,
With energy sublime, the rites began;
While tears from every sex, and every age,
Bewail'd the prince, the father, and the man.
"Who, when our sov'reign liege to fate shall yield,
"Shall prop, like him, Britannia's falling state?
"Who now the vengeful sword of justice wield,
"Or ope, like him, sweet Mercy's golden gate?
VI.
"Who shall to Arts their pristine honours bring,
"Rear from the dust fair Learning's laurell'd head,
"Or bid rich commerce plume her daring wing?
"Arts, Learning, Commerce are in frederic dead.
VII.
"Who now shall tend, with fond, paternal care,
"The future guardians of our faith and laws?
"Who teach their breasts with patriot worth to dare,
"And die with ardour, in Britannia's cause?
VIII.
"And who, ah! who, with soft endearing lore,
"Shall sooth, like him, the royal mourner's breast?
"Her lord, her life, her frederic is no more."—
Deep groans and bitter wailings speak the rest.
IX.
Then, when at length the awful scene was clos'd,
And dust to dust in holy hope consign'd;
All to their silent homes their steps dispos'd,
To feed on solitary woe the mind;
All but Lorenzo;—he with grief dismay'd;
Nor heeding ought but frederic's hapless fate,
Musing along the cloyster'd temple stray'd,
Till lonely midnight clos'd th' impervious gate.
XI.
But when each lamp by slow degrees expir'd,
And total night assumes her silent reign,
Sudden he starts, with wild amazement fir'd,
And big with horror traverses the fane.
XII.
The vaulted mansions of th' illustrious dead
Inspire his shudd'ring soul with ghastly fears,
Dire shapes, and beck'ning shades around him tread,
And hollow voices murmur in his ears.
XIII.
There, as around the monumental maze
Darkling he wanders, a resplendent gleam
Shoots o'er th' illumin'd isle a distant blaze,
Pale as the glow-worm's fire, or Cynthia's beam.
XIV.
With glory clad, th' imperial shrines among,
Four royal shapes on iv'ry thrones were plac'd,
High o'er their heads four airy diadems hung,
Which never yet their maiden brows had grac'd.
The first was he, whom cressy's glorious plain
Has fam'd for martial deeds and bold emprize;
Nor less his praise in Virtue's milder strain,
Just, humble, learned, merciful and wise.
XVI.
Next arthur sat, at whose auspicious birth
In one sweet flower the blended roses join'd;
And henry next, fair plant of Scottish earth,
The hope, the joy of albion and mankind.
XVII.
Yet green in death, the last majestic shade
Wore gracious frederic's mild, endearing look;
To him the rest obeysance courteous paid,
And edward thus the princely form bespoke:
XVIII.
"All hail! illustrious partner of our fate,
"For whom, as once for us, Britannia bleeds;
"Hail! to the mansions of the good and great,
"Where crowns immortal wait on virtuous deeds.
XIX.
"The same our fortune, as our worth the same,
"(To worth like ours short date doth heav'n assign)
"As one our fortune, one shall be our fame,
"And long record our deathless names shall join.
"But oh! I tremble for Britannia's state,
"May guardian pow'rs avert the dire presage!
"For well she knows, at our untimely fate
"How heav'n's dread vengeance smote each sinful age.
XXI.
"The regal staff aspiring bolingbroke
"Snatch'd with rude grasp from richard's princely hand;
"Loos'd from hell's confines, civil Discord shook
"The dubious throne, and tore the bleeding land.
XXIII.
"When arthur died, imperious henry's thirst
"Of subject's blood, nor heeded sex nor age;
"His wives a sacrifice to vagrant lust,
"His nobles victims to tyrannic rage.
XXIV.
"When pious charles in right fraternal reign'd,
"Rebellion proudly stalk'd from shore to shore,
"Her laws, her rights, her holy faith profan'd,
"And dy'd the guilty land with royal gore.
XXV.
"Yet ah! may pity move relenting heav'n!
"Enough she groans beneath her present woe;
"Enough to vengeance is already given;
"Her frederic's dead;—there needs no other blow."
XXVI.
Scarce had he spoken, when the bird of day
'Gan morn's approach with clarion shrill declare,
At once th' unbodied phantoms fade away,
The fond illusion all dissolves in air.
ODE
ON THE
APPROACH OF SUMMER.
BY A GENTLEMAN FORMERLY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ABERDEEN.
Te dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila cœli,
Adventumque tuum; tibi suaveis dædala tellus
Submittit flores; tibi rident æquora ponti;
Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine cœlum. lucretius.
Hence, iron-scepter'd winter, haste
To bleak Siberian waste!
Haste to thy polar solitude;
Mid cataracts of ice,
Whose torrents dumb are stretch'd in fragments rude,
From many an airy precipice,
Where, ever beat by sleety show'rs,
Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs;
Amid whose howling iles and halls,
Where no gay sunbeam paints the walls,
On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud,
Thy brows in many a murky cloud.
E'en now, before the vernal heat,
Sullen I see thy train retreat:
Thy ruthless host stern Eurus guides,
That on a ravenous tiger rides,
Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shewn
Shipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown:
Grim auster, dropping all with dew,
In mantle clad of watchet hue:
And cold, like Zemblan savage seen,
Still threatening with his arrows keen;
And next, in furry coat embost
With icicles, his brother frost.
Winter farewell! thy forests hoar,
Thy frozen floods delight no more;
Farewell the fields, so bare and wild!
But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild,
Sweetest summer! haste thee here,
Once more to crown the gladden'd year.
Thee april blythe, as long of yore,
Bermudas' lawns he frolick'd o'er,
With muskie nectar-trickling wing,
(In the new world's first dawning spring,)
To gather balm of choicest dews,
And patterns fair of various hues,
With which to paint in changeful dye,
The youthful earth's embroidery;
To cull the essence of rich smells
In which to dip his new-born bells;
Thee, as he skim'd with pinions fleet,
He found an infant, smiling sweet;
Where a tall citron's shade imbrown'd
The soft lap of the fragrant ground.
There on an amaranthine bed,
Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed;
Till soon beneath his forming care,
You bloom'd a goddess debonnair;
And then he gave the blessed isle
Aye to be sway'd beneath thy smile:
There plac'd thy green and grassy shrine,
With myrtle bower'd and jessamine:
And to thy care the task assign'd
With quickening hand, and nurture kind,
His roseate infant-births to rear,
Till Autumn's mellowing reign appear.
Haste thee nymph! and hand in hand,
With thee lead a buxom band;
Bring fantastic-footed Joy,
With Sport that yellow-tressed boy.
Leisure, that through the balmy sky,
Chases a crimson butterfly.
Bring Health that loves in early dawn
To meet the milk-maid on the lawn;
Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace,
And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring,
Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess!
Light, and for ever on the wing.
Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean
On river-margins, mossy green.
But who is she, that bears thy train,
Pacing light the velvet plain?
The pale pink binds her auburn hair,
Her tresses flow with pastoral air;
'Tis May the Grace——confest she stands
By branch of hawthorn in her hands:
Lo! near her trip the lightsome Dews,
Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues;
With whom the pow'rs of Flora play,
And paint with pansies all the way.
Oft when thy season, sweetest Queen,
Has drest the groves in liv'ry green;
When in each fair and fertile field
Beauty begins her bow'r to build;
While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,
Puts her matron-mantle on,
And mists in spreading steams convey
More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay;
Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feet
Contemplation hoar to meet,
As slow he winds in museful mood,
Near the rush'd marge of cherwell's flood;
Or o'er old avon's magic edge,
Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge,
All playful yet, in years unripe,
To frame a shrill and simple pipe.
There thro' the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet ev'ning objects intervene:
His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants.
The woodman, speeding home, awhile
Rests him at a shady stile.
Nor wants there fragrance to dispense
Refreshment o'er my soothed sense;
Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom,
Nor grass besprent, to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cott:
Rustle the breezes lightly borne
Of deep-embattel'd ears of corn:
Round ancient elm, with humming noise,
Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.
Meantime, a thousand dies invest
The ruby chambers of the West!
That all aslant the village tow'r
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level-streaming rays
Far seen its arched windows blaze:
And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light;
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blythe heart in extasies;
And Fancy to my ravish'd sight
Pourtrays her kindred visions bright.
At length the parting-light subdues
My soften'd soul to calmer views,
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path I fondly stray
In musings lapt, nor heed the way;
Wandering thro' the landscape still,
Till Melancholy has her fill;
And on each moss-wove border damp,
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.
But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour,
Sits throned in his highest tow'r;
Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, lead
To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead:
To mix in rural mood among
The nymphs and swains, a busy throng;
Or, as the tepid odours breathe,
The russet piles to lean beneath:
There as my listless limbs are thrown
On couch more soft than palace down;
I listen to the busy sound
Of mirth and toil that hums around;
And see the team shrill-tinkling pass,
Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.
But ever, after summer show'r,
When the bright sun's returning pow'r,
With laughing beam has chas'd the storm,
And chear'd reviving nature's form;
By sweet-brier hedges, bathed in dew,
Let me my wholsome path pursue;
There issuing forth the frequent snail,
Wears the dank way with slimy trail,
While as I walk, from pearled bush;
The sunny-sparkling drop I brush;
And all the landscape fair I view
Clad in robe of fresher hue:
And so loud the blackbird singe,
That far and near the valley rings.
From shelter deep of shaggy rock
The shepherd drives his joyful flock;
From bowering beech the mower blythe
With new-born vigour grasps the scythe;
While o'er the smooth unbounded meads
His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.
But ever against restless heat,
Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat,
O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oak
Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock;
Haunted by that chaste nymph alone,
Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone,
Which, as they gush upon the ground,
Still scatter misty dews around:
A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove,
Its side with mantling woodbines wove;
Cool as the cave where Clio dwells,
Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells;
Or noon-tide grott where Sylvan sleeps
In hoar Lycæum's piny steeps.
Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay,
While all without is scorch'd in day;
Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath
His with'ring hawthorn on the heath;
The drooping hedger wishes eve,
In vain, of labour short reprieve!
Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands
Smote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands:
Low sinks his heart, while round his eye
Measures the scenes that boundless lie,
Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,
Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn.
How does he with some cooling wave
To slake his lips, or limbs to lave!
And thinks, in every whisper low,
He hears a bursting fountain flow.
Or bear me to yon antique wood,
Dim temple of sage Solitude!
But still in fancy's mirror seen
Some more romantic scene would please,
There within a nook most dark,
Where none my musing mood may mark;
Let me in many a whisper'd rite
The Genius old of Greece invite,
With that fair wreath my brows to bind,
Which for his chosen imps he twin'd,
Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore,
On clear Ilissus' laureat shore.——
Till high on waving nest reclin'd,
The raven wakes my tranced mind!
Or to the forest-fringed vale
Where widow'd turtles love to wail,
Where cowslips clad in mantle meek,
Nod their tall heads to breezes weak:
In the midst, with sedges grey
Crown'd, a scant riv'let winds its way,
And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths,
Around an oozy freshness breathes.
O'er the solitary green,
Nor cott, nor loitering hind is seen:
Nor aught alarms the mute repose,
Save that by fits an heifer lows:
A scene might tempt some peaceful sage
To rear him a lone hermitage;
Fit place his pensive eld might chuse
On virtue's holy lore to muse.
Yet still the sultry noon t' appease
Some more romantic scene might please;
Or fairy bank, or magic lawn,
By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn.
Or bow'r in Vallambrosa's shade,
By legendary pens pourtray'd.
Haste let me shroud from painful light,
On that hoar hill's aereal height,
In solemn state, where waving wide,
Thick pines with darkening umbrage hide
The rugged vaults, and riven tow'rs
Of that proud castle's painted bow'rs,
Whence hardyknute, a baron bold,
In Scotland's martial days of old,
Descended from the stately feast,
Begirt with many a warrior-guest,
To quell the pride of Norway's king,
With quiv'ring lance and twanging string.
As thro' the caverns dim I wind,
Might I that holy legend find,
By fairies spelt in mystic rhimes,
To teach enquiring later times,
What open force, or secret guile,
Dash'd into dust the solemn pile.
But when mild Morn in saffron stole
First issues from her eastern goal;
Let not my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy summit's brow sublime,
Whence nature's universal face,
Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace;
The misty streams that wind below,
With silver-sparkling lustre glow;
The groves, and castled cliffs appear
Invested all in radiance clear;
O! every village-charm beneath!
The smoke that mounts in azure wreath!
O beauteous, rural interchange!
The simple spire, and elmy grange!
Content, indulging blissful hours,
Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,
And cattle rouz'd to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their sides the dew.
'Tis thou, alone, O summer mild,
Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild:
Whene'er I view thy genial scenes:
Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens;
What fires within my bosom wake,
How glows my mind the reed to take!
What charms like thine the muse can call,
With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;
With whom each field's a paradise,
And all the globe a Bow'r of bliss!
With thee conversing, all the day,
I meditate my lightsome lay.
These pedant cloisters let me leave,
To breathe my votive song at eve,
In valleys where mild whispers use;
Of shade and stream, to court the muse;
While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge,
I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge.
But when life's busier scene is o'er,
And Age shall give the tresses hoar,
I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome,
And make an humble thatch my home,
Which sloaping hills around enclose,
Where many a beech and brown oak grows;
Beneath whose dark and branching bow'rs
It's tides a far-fam'd river pours:
By nature's beauties taught to please,
Sweet Tusculane of rural ease!
Still grot of Peace! in lowly shed
Who loves to rest her gentle head.
For not the scenes of Attic art
Can comfort care, or sooth the heart:
Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye,
For gold, and Tyrian purple fly.
Thither, kind heav'n, in pity lent,
Send me a little, and content;
The faithful friend, and chearful night,
The social scene of dear delight:
The conscience pure, the temper gay,
The musing eve, and idle day.
Give me beneath cool shades to sit,
Rapt with the charms of classic wit:
To catch the bold heroic flame,
That built immortal Græcia's fame.
Nor let me fail, meantime, to raise
The solemn song to Britain's praise:
To spurn the shepherd's simple reeds
And paint heroic ancient deeds:
To chaunt fam'd arthur's magic tale,
And edward, stern in fable mail.
Or wand'ring brutus' lawless doom,
Or brave bonduca, scourge of Rome;
O ever to sweet Poesie,
Let me live true votary!
She shall lead me by the hand,
Queen of sweet smiles, and solace bland!
She from her precious stores shall shed
Ambrosial flow'rets o'er my head:
She, from my tender youthful cheek,
Can wipe, with lenient finger meek,
The secret and unpitied tear,
Which still I drop in darkness drear.
She shall be my blooming bride,
With her, as years successive glide,
I'll hold divinest dalliance,
For ever held in holy trance.