By the fair bow’rs, and streams, that fill’d this plain,
Were wide-dispers’d the ancient bardic train:—
There (by a roaring cat’ract’s sweeping force,
That from Parnassus took its turbid course)
Tow’rd Homer’s form! in majesty sublime,
The living monument, of lasting time;
And near to him, beneath a spreading tree,
Stood thy wild Sire[17], imperial Tragedy!
And farther on, with eye, and stroke of fire,
High Pindar woke the transports of his lyre;50
While by a river, fann’d with Zephyr’s breeze,
Lay the mild shade of melting Sophocles;
There, many a form, in awful splendour bright,
Caught the wild, wondering raptures of my sight:—
Maro and Horace, godlike sons of Fame,
And am’rous Ovid’s ever-pleasing name;
While, through the air, that hush’d itself to hear,
Tibullus’ sweetness thrill’d the list’ning ear;
And mighty Lucan, with illustrious strain,
Told the dread scenes of fam’d Pharsalia’s plain:60
With gather’d arms, curl’d lip, and eye severe,
Stood Juvenal—alone, calm, stern, austere.
Methought the scene was changed!—a wider plain,
Spread with a gaudy, but a trifling train,
Before me lay!—--No more could I behold
The hallow’d mountain, or its fields of gold;
Till, as I strain’d mine eye, I view’d afar,
Its shrouded beams, like Herschel’s distant star.
Again I turn’d my eye upon the band,
Who pour’d their numbers o’er this humbler land;70
These were, I soon perceiv’d, the bards who smile,
In this fair era, o’er Britannia’s isle.
The first, was one, whom many-tongued Renown
Has deem’d the brightest gem that decks the Muse’s crown.
Apart from all he stood!—his burning eye
He strove to turn in rapture to the sky.
Upon his lyre he leant: and, as he sung,
His curling ringlets o’er his shoulders hung;
In ev’ry look the trifler gave, he sought
To shew how wisely, and how deep he thought;80
And to his flowing garb, and studied pace,
He strove, but strove in vain, to give a grace.
His first, his chiefest aim, his dearest pride,
To write!—how different from the world beside;
For this he rack’d his brain!—it would not do!
For every effort, more degen’rate grew.
At length he found a method to succeed,
’Twas this!—to celebrate each impious deed,
To Vice the charms of Virtue to impart,
To thrill the senses!—but corrupt the heart!90
While I gaz’d on this bard!—methought a sound,
Wild, sweet, but awful, swell’d along the ground;
I turn’d mine eye! and, by a mould’ring tow’r,
Espied a form of such high grace and pow’r,—
It seem’d as if Apollo from the skies
Had rov’d, and now had met my wond’ring eyes.
It was that bard, whose justly-lasting fame,
Illustrious Caledon is proud to claim!—
It was that bard, whose wild majestic lay,
The floods of time shall never sweep away!100
Fast by his side, soul-moving C . . . . .l stood—
C . . . . .l, the wise, the noble, and the good.
These two were in the open paths that led
To green Parnassus’ ever-radiant head.
Not far from them, in green, and vig’rous age,
Reclin’d at ease a venerable sage;
Like some calm stream his peaceful numbers flow,
Serenely soft, dispassionately slow;
Not his the genius that can soar sublime,
On wings of Glory, o’er the wrecks of time:110
Yet Fame’s fair pages shall record him long,
No humble vot’ry at the shrine of song.
Beneath the luxuries of a neighb’ring bow’r,
I view’d the figure of fantastic M . . . . .;
Around the poet’s myrtle-wreathed head,
A train of gaudy insects hovered;
Sudden he rises! and with haste pursues
The splendid fly, that boasts the richest hues;
And long upheld the chace! until it flew119
Within his grasp!—and then he straight withdrew.
It griev’d me to behold so vast a mind,
Ideas so grand, and talents so refin’d,
Desert Parnassus, to pursue a fly,
And change, for trifles, Immortality!
Two well-known sons of rapture-raising song,
Now slowly swept the radiant fields along.
Heroic S . . . . ., whose Parnassian lays
Richly deserve Britannia’s laureate bays.
With this great vot’ry of Apollo’s name,
The pensive shade of hallow’d R—— came;130
Each melting line, that this soft poet sung,
Flow’d from the heart, its richness to the tongue;
He, who has gain’d a fame for aye to last,
By singing of the Pleasures that are past.
While I did gaze on them, across the plain,
Like summer vapours, swept a jovial train,
Issuing from these, I caught th’ unmeaning note
Of senseless C . . . . .’s empty numbers float;
W . . . . . was there, who follow’d Homer’s rule,
In every line, to study Nature’s school;140
For as his heroes drive the waggon, so
Rustic and rude his humble verses flow.
Far to the hinder side, a mountain spread,
With shadowy clouds impervious, o’er its head,
Hiding whate’er beneath the veil might be,
With the dark mantle of futurity.
In vain, my searching eye-balls seek t’ explore
The hidden secrets of that mystic shore.
From time to time, a legion would emerge
From its dark region’s shade-encircled verge:150
But most, ere yet a few short stops were o’er,
Fell to the earth, and were beheld no more!
A few, indeed, a farther distance past;
But, though they sunk not first, they sunk at last.
Yet, as they fell, from forth the sable land,
All careless of their fate, another band
In swift succession issued forth, till they
Soon, in their turn, sunk down the dangerous way.
Methought my feet with rash, unhallow’d tread,
My longing eyes, to this dark region led;160
Methought my hand already seiz’d the shroud,
That o’er it hung its canopy of cloud;—
Methought, mid those just rushing on to light,
I view’d a form, with awful grandeur bright;
Upon his beaming brows, in leaves of gold,
“Britannia’s greatest glory” was enroll’d!
Scarce could I snatch a momentary trace
Of these high words, when, through the darksome place,
Burst forth these accents, awful, loud, and drear,
“Hold back, hold back, rash mortal, and forbear!”
Scarce was it utter’d, ere the wondrous scene,171
And those who fill’d it, were no longer seen;
And, in the stead of that remember’d dream,
I view’d the waves that swell Brent’s shallow stream;
And heard the tinkling from the distant fold,
Stead of the strains from many a lyre of gold,
That e’en but now, had bound the melting soul,
In thralls of heav’nly, but of vain control.
The grateful spell is broke!—the treasur’d tone—
The hallow’d visions—yes, alas!—are flown!180
And I must back to scenes of loathsome life,
Pregnant with sorrow, and profuse with strife.
Yes! though the hand of time has scarcely spread
His roseate wreath of youth around my head,
Yet I have felt, how keen the piercing dart,
That grief can give, to lacerate the heart.—
Yes, I have felt, how full of care, alas!
The thorny paths that man is doom’d to pass.
But for a bright, and ofttimes cheering ray,
Athwart my dark and melancholy way;190
For many a soothing, many a raptur’d hour,
I bless, my Muse, thy sweet celestial pow’r.
Oh, mayst thou still continue, o’er my soul,
To hold, for aye, thine heav’n-inspir’d control.
Oh, mayst thou still in many a dream like this,
Give thine unearthly purity of bliss!
Till snatch’d from life, from all its trammels free,
I lose its searing bitterness—in thee!