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!